Page 2 of Finding Romance
“Tuesday,” my great-aunt replies. I pause and try to remember what day it is. I’ve been sleeping in my old bedroom at my mother’s house since I graduated from art school six months ago. My mom is an ultra-marathoner. She’s always running in a race or organizing one. This week, she’s in the Florida Keys which is probably why my great-aunt is calling me to come help her after her surgery. Her sister, my grandmother, wouldn’t be much help. She walks with a cane now and doesn’t climb stairs any longer.
I must pause for too long because she adds, “You can stay as long as you want. I should be recovered in a month.”
“Uh, sure. I can be there. How’s Margie?” I ask, inquiring about her roommate. The two of them are thick as thieves. Margie might as well be another great-aunt to me at this point. I think the two of them have lived there together for almost ten years since both of their husbands passed away.
“Oh, she’s good. Her gout is acting up again, but otherwise, she’s busy knitting a new sweater. I bet she’d make you one,” Aunt Cornelia says.
“Shall I pick us up some of that green tea you liked?” I say as I pull my suitcase from the closet and start tossing things into it. My great-aunt lives about an hour and a half away, so I could come and go, but it would be easier to just stay there for a few weeks, especially if she needs help at night. If she’s calling me, then she must really need the help. My great-aunt is a stubborn woman and I’m one hundred percent sure she turned down professional help because that is something she would totally do. But since I’m not working, I guess it’s the least I can do to help a woman who means so much to me.
“That would be lovely, dear. Feel free to come over whenever. I have to be at the hospital at six in the morning for the surgery. They wrapped up my ankle real well last night, but I can’t put any pressure on it,” Aunt Cornelia explains.
For fuck’s sake, I need to be there today. There’s no way Margie can help her get to the bathroom. I’d never forgive myself if both of them ended up injured. My aunt apparently tripped over a basket of her crocheting yarn and somehow managed to break her ankle. They splinted it and sent her home. Fortunately, her friend from bingo is an orthopedic surgeon and already got her scheduled for surgery.
“I’m packing up now and will be there in about two hours, OK?” I reply as I grab my toiletries and throw them in a bag. I have no idea what to bring. I’m currently an unemployed artist with a degree and zero job prospects. It’d probably be a good thing to get out of Mom’s house for a few weeks. I’m sure she misses her solitary life. My mom is great, but she’s also not super social. Maybe that’s why she loves running by herself for insanely long distances as if she can run from having to speak to people.
I smile as I zip my suitcase. It will be nice to spend time with Margie and Aunt Cornelia. They are hilarious and give the best advice. Hell, maybe they can help me find a job.
“You are the best. Poor Margie is having a tough time helping me move around. We’ll see you soon,” she says.
“Bye,” I reply as I hang up and finish packing.
It doesn’t take me long to get my things together, mostly because I don’t have many things. I get in my car, a high school graduation gift from my father who lives in another state and only talks to me on holidays and birthdays. He mostly spends his free time with his girlfriend, traveling the world. Last week, I got a postcard from Bali. I guess I should be happy that I get the two-line cards when he visits destinations that he’d never take me to. Heck, I’d be happy if he showed up and took me to a ballgame like he used to when I was a kid. But those outings died with the divorce.
Divorced parents as a solo kid is a lonely place to be. Especially when your parents went out and found lives without you. In high school, I liked being independent and enjoyed the alone time, but now, I could use some parental advice.
I press the call button on my steering wheel as I drive out of the neighborhood and onto the nearby interstate.
“What’s wrong?” Mom answers.
“Nothing, well, sort of nothing. Aunt Cornelia fell and broke her ankle,” I explain.
I hear Mom sigh. “Is she alright?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. I’m going to stay with her and Margie to help out for a few weeks,” I state as I merge into traffic, heading towards the city and leaving the leafy suburbs behind. It’s sort of exciting. I love going to the city.
“Well, that’s nice of you, sweetheart. Give her my best. I’ll be back next Saturday and then the following Thursday I leave for that conference in Las Vegas,” she says.
“Good luck with the race tomorrow,” I say. Mom has a whole team of runner friends and they support each other in these crazy races. I’ve gone several times, but I always found I was more in the way than assisting.
“Thank you. I’ll have Denise text you throughout it and then I’ll call when I’m rested afterward,” she says.
“OK, love ya,” I say.
“Love you too,” she replies, and I know she means it, but also I feel like she says it out of obligation. We have a strange relationship, but at least she’s there for me when I really need her and not just for graduations and award ceremonies like my father is.
I look up at the six-story brick building and then back down, noticing a bookstore that has opened in the small commercial space on the ground floor. I’ll have to check that out.
Aunt Cornelia and Margie live on the fourth floor. There’s no way she’s getting up and down if the elevator breaks.
I haven’t hung out here in a long time. I used to come visit when I was a teenager but that was years ago. I know Al who owns the building still lives on the top floor and I’m pretty sure Troy and Jessa still live here and help out with the building maintenance and administration stuff, but I don’t really know any of the other tenants. I think there was a doctor here when I stayed for a weekend in high school, but I was too busy on my phone to pay much attention at the time. And I’ve only popped by twice while in college. Cornelia usually comes to visit my grandmother and that’s where I’ve seen her lately.
I shut my car door and grab my backpack and suitcase. As I go to press the buzzer, a man comes up behind me.
“You visiting someone?” he asks as he uses a key to get inside the small lobby.
“Oh, yep, my aunt Cornelia,” I say.
He holds out a hand as we wait in front of the lobby. “I’m Brayden. I think I remember you from a long time ago. You were in high school.”
