The Bad Boys Are Back

5

From a very young age, I was taught the dangers of peer pressure, the dangers of merely interacting with the wrong crowd.

When I got home to the sight of my mom fast asleep to the droning of a sit-com on TV, an indescribable ache reverberated through my chest. I switched the TV off and covered her with a blanket. Sleep was the only time her forehead didn't crease with worry.

She's always been worried, since the day my father left on a 'business trip' and never came back. Nothing sinister, but nothing natural either. He was in a plane crash.

Flight LH4243. It took off at 9:15pm.

As if sensing my sadness, my cat approached me.

I picked the feline creature up, rubbing her forehead with my knuckles. Pinhead liked it a lot when I did that.

-

Saturdays were special, because Francesca joined me at the hospice on Saturdays. Where I volunteered out of passion, I had a feeling Fran was only doing it to enhance her portfolio.

She was already there when I arrived. But I brought coffee for her, so our arrival times weren't a competition today. She embraced me in a tight hug, a gesture of affection ingrained in our typical greeting.

"You're early today," I commented.

"No, you're late."

We chatted for a bit, before approaching the lockers to keep our belongings away. Brian, the guy at the reception grinned as I walked past.

"No honks today?"

"You just won't drop it huh?" I joked. "Who's here today?"

"The usual," he replied. "Oh, right, Greta was asking for you."

Greta? Greta Greta?

"How did you know it was me? She doesn't even know my name."

Brian shrugged. "She was asking for the brown haired girl who came in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Bless her heart."

My heart swelled with something as I made my way upstairs to her room.

She was awake when I entered. The only noise came from the mechanical ventilator which helped Greta breathe.

"Come here, dear," she rasped out.

I gingerly approached the woman, crouching beside her. "You look great today, Greta," I told her even though it pained my heart to see that her time here was drawing to an end.

She forced a smile through cracked lips. With difficulty, she managed to say, "Thank you. Do you like reading books, Adeline?"

I nodded. "I love reading."

"I do, too." She rasped out. "Please... have my books."

I followed her gaze to table at the corner of her room, where a stack of storybooks were arranged. Something swelled in my throat as I took in the appearance of Greta's books. They were old, but I just knew Greta loved them dearly. Each one of them.

"Greta..." my voice trailed off. I grabbed her hands in mine.

She squeezed back. "I don't have anyone else, love."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Okay, I'll take them. Thank you." I said earnestly.

Greta was a great listener sometimes. She couldn't talk much, but it was the subtle upward twists in her chapped lips that told me she liked listening to my stories.

So I told her about my week. I told her about the art exhibition I might attend, I told her about the way the leaves outside are turning brown, I told her about the migratory birds, the bulbs I planted for next spring, the ever ubiquitous pumpkin flavored items in town.