Page 49 of The Bodyguard Affair
“It’s less ideal. She’d be on a dementia floor with mostly men. And there’s less one-on-one care and activities. It is cheaper, though, so I understand if that’s something you’re concerned about.”
I stare down at my feet, taking it all in. “Holy shit.”
“It’s good news, Nolan,” she says.
“Does Mom know?”
“Yeah. I talked to her this morning. She really preferred this place, so it’s a done deal.”
“Wow,” I say. “That escalated quickly.”
“We’ll need to put the house up for sale, go through everything and figure out what to keep, what to get rid of.” As much as none of us want to sell, we need the house money to pay for the facility.
Em goes on about how she has a friend who’s a Realtor whocan get us on the market quick. Frankly, I’m still overwhelmed by the prospect of clearing out the house, let alone listing it.
We chat a bit about the kids and work before she’s due to get to the salon. When Em leaves, Mom suggests we take a walk.
“You look like you could use the distraction,” she says, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. I think about what Emma said about forgiveness. Mom is definitely trying; there’s no doubt about that. Me giving her attitude like I’m an angsty sixteen-year-old isn’t helping matters. Besides, I could definitely use a distraction, so I take her hand.
“Theresa will be coming over tonight to keep you company while I’m at the football game with Andi,” I remind her as we make our way down the street, which is shaded by mature oaks lining the sidewalks. It’s an old street, filled with old homes on large lots that are in high demand with upper-middle-class professionals due to its proximity to downtown. We moved into this house when I was in high school. Back then, the neighborhood was sketchy. Undesirable. But it was a big deal, because it was the first place we ever lived in that wasn’t an apartment. Emma used to call it a mansion, despite it being a small two-bedroom bungalow. Back then, it was by far the most run-down one on the block. But Mom’s done a lot of work on it since then, because it looks as well-kept as the rest.
Mom nods, seemingly remembering our conversation this morning at breakfast. I always spell things out now, because as the day wears on, her memory worsens. “Are you two football fans?”
“Not really.” When she swings me a curious look, I add, “But her boss gave us the tickets for free.”
“Is this your first formal date?”
I shrug. “Technically. We had lunch together the other day at work, if that counts.”
“Do you want some advice?” she asks. Her question shocks me, because she’s never been the kind of mom who doles out advice. Before I get the chance to say yes or no, she leans in. “When you go out to eat, sit on the same side of the table.”
I flash her a puzzled look. “On the same side? Why?”
“Sitting across the table is so…formal. Like a business meeting. Whereas sitting on the same side is romantic,” she tells me, a glint in her eye. “You can cuddle, touch, read the menu together, share each other’s food, whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears.”
I can’t help but smile. “I never knew you were such a romantic.”
“Me serial dating your entire childhood wasn’t your first clue?” she replies, a wry grin spreading across her face. It occurs to me that she’s poking fun at herself.
A laugh bursts out of me. “You did have a lot of boyfriends. I wouldn’t consider any of them romantic, from what I remember.” And that’s putting it nicely.
She nods in hearty agreement. “Remember Vic?”
“The one with the tribal tattoos?” I confirm. Vic wasn’t terrible, compared to the rest. And by that, I mean he never yelled or hit her (that I know of). He was a quiet guy, uninterested in Emma and me. But he seemed to hold down a job at a mechanic shop down the street, which was a plus.
“That’s the one. I don’t think I ever told you, but he proposed. With a ring from Walmart.”
I snort. “Did he tell you it was from Walmart?”
“He didn’t have to. He got down on one knee right there in the Walmart jewelry aisle before he even paid for it.” She starts full-on belly-laughing in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s contagious, to the point where I’m laughing with her. I’ve noticed she enjoys talking about the past, even if it’s not entirely rosy. Maybe because those older, core memories are the clearest, compared to recent memories.
“And what did you say?”
“I said yes, of course. We broke up the next week. Anyway, all that to say, Vic was the one who taught me about sitting on the same side of the table. I’ve done it with every boyfriend since.”
I consider that, swinging her a curious glance. “You haven’t dated in a while, have you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve only had one relationship since I got sober.”
