Page 32 of Call Out
I terminate the call immediately and blink wildly as hot sorrow dampens the pillow. It’s happened again. I’ve lost her too. I’m the common dominator here. Everyone leaves me. I remember the bleakness in Nonna’s far off gaze and her bloodless skin so immortally cold to my lips. I’m strangely relieved Dot found Wini this time around. It means I can think fondly of my friend in life, not death. Even at that, I’m irked by it too. Winfred became family. We bonded. Our friendship crossed the boundaries of a paying resident and a nursing home manager. She was both my responsibility and my side kick.
The featherlight sheet traps muted whimpers from leaving my hideout of heartache. Loose cotton pajamas tighten and choke as I struggle to catch a breath.
Instead of driving to Blossom Grove to sit with her, I wasted the evening taking hundreds of dumb pictures. I was wrapped up in silly man troubles. What’s a measly vanilla bean cheesecake with extra chocolate shavings going to do for my darling friend now? The woman deserved comfort and attention in her final hours. And what was I doing—concocting a childish list. Letting my mind chase after Danny. Obsessing over a guy who fled my life like a guilty heart stealer. I bet he’s bagged mine up, labeled it as naïve and hidden the darn thing with all the other hearts he’s snagged.
That same man hasn’t acknowledged my flirty text message, or called to say he’s arrived safely at his parents’ house in Texas. Jeez, Texas is a mighty big place. He should have told me he lived in America and left it at that.
The numbness of loss levels out anger.
I ignored my instincts. The excessive tiredness wasn’t right. It would have taken one internet search to look up her symptoms.
I’m a crap manager, and an even worse friend.
And now she’s gone.
* * *
The next fewdays are strategically organized, with every i dotted and t crossed. I slip into manager mode with spreadsheets and schedules. This is how I dull the pain. No distractions. A stiff upper lip on the outside and a devastated mess behind closed doors.
Every detail of Wini’s funeral has been meticulously outlined and carried through with precision. From a zillion chrysanthemums decorating the nursing home in her honor, to a lined casket in her favorite color.
This afternoon, I’ve set my focus on surviving the grueling ceremony without breaking. I gave Dot a packet of tissues, forgetting to bring extra for myself. That minor detail failure nearly tipped my wavering composure. No one likes funerals. Thankfully, I prepared a list the length of her coffin that needs my full attention.
I’ve smoothed over Danny’s silence with thorough planning and denial. It’s been days since he bolted and blew tumbled weeds between us. I’m not a wilting flower waiting for a downpour to drench my roots. If he wants to talk, he knows where I am.
The truth is, I neglected a good friend because of an infatuation. Which means I went against the fiber of my existence. I ignored Nonna’s best efforts to steer me towards the right path, and guess what? This silly know-it-all went against her worldly wisdom and chose the lusty left lane out of pure pig headedness.
A string quartet sets up by the coffin. Dot dabs a handkerchief to her nose and Louise ushers mourners to their seats.
Music—check.
Seating with cream covers—check.
Floral arrangements—check.
Tears—nope.
Ache in my chest––unbearable.
When the violinist plucks the first string, chills sprinkle my spine. With a quick glance at my watch, I time the service. It runs like clockwork, just like Wini would’ve wanted. She’d be extremely impressed with my choice of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake for the closing sentiments.
Once the casket is lowered into the earth, I turn away with morbid acceptance, desensitizing the reality of what just happened. My shoulders slump, and I scan all the items on my list. They’re all done. I’ve got spare time to mull over pointless conversations that should’ve taken place but didn’t. Free ticks and tocks. Vacant moments. Unwanted downtime.
Since the news broke, the silence at home suffocates me. I’m destined to become a lonely old spinster who chokes on a fishbone and dies in an ugly nightdress. Even GG deserted me. She’s currently sitting at Mr. Roberts’s feet, patiently waiting for him to slip her a savory nugget.
Freshly mowed grass springs under my heavy steps back to the car. I trail a hopeful gaze over the to-do list one last time, wishing for a forgotten task or miscellaneous unfulfilled errand. My heart pinches. I’ve finished all the chores. I’m chore-less. Off the clock. Abandoned. All alone.
Aside from the all-consuming grief, my warped mind invites thoughts of Danny Rocco to return. I justify the inappropriate sauciness as a distraction gambit. A method of ignoring the gloom weighing me down. If only he’d ride in on his motorcycle like a hero, scoop me up and whisk me away from all the hurt.
My head shakes side to side. I mutter inwardly, scolding myself for being so witless. If he showed up on my porch, I’d tell him to head out to the highway and keep on driving. Last night, in a lonely hour of desperation, I speed read a craft book on relationships for millennials. Apparently, I should stand my ground and seek positive communication with my other half. Most of the chapters used psychotherapy buzz words and reams of text. I woke up this morning with the last pages tented over my face.
As a result, I’m channeling the power player vibe with grit and backbone. I’m a strong-minded woman. I’ve secured a good job, have a roof over my head, stocked cupboards of tea and an abundance of fine hosiery. He’s simply a well-designed man with a glorious love dart and note-perfect manners—large skillful hands and a dreamy handsome smile.
Danny Rocco isn’t serious about me, which makes him an unsuitable candidate for a future husband. As the book would phrase it; he’s a dirty weekend with secrets.
I’m a total screwup. A rule bender. A hopeless romantic.
I exhale loudly.
