Wait for Me (13 page)

“These foreign dictionaries?” There was a whole shelf on foreign languages alone. A few on the next shelf about customs and religious practices in different countries.

“Poverty doesn’t have any trouble crossing language barriers,” she said, appearing above him with two steaming mugs of coffee, one light with sugar. “Only people do. Would you like fruit or cereal? It’s your lucky day. I have both.”

“Cereal’s fine,” he said, sitting up and taking both cups from her. He set hers on the bookshelf and sipped at his own. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Only Italian and Spanish really well,” she said from the kitchen. “You can’t grow up in L.A. in a house full of Spoletos without speaking both of those fluently. You wouldn’t believe how many times I had to volunteer to clean the bathroom at home until I caught on to enough Italian to claim some other chore.” She returned to the bed with two bowls of cereal and a carton of milk. “One bathroom and all those boys.” She grimaced and shuddered with disgust. He chuckled. “And then the short time I spent in the city, when I first came up here, I felt like I needed to learn Chinese. At least enough to ask the questions I wanted to ask and to know what they were saying about me when I walked away. Do you want sugar on that too?” she asked, nodding at his bowl.

“I’ll get it,” he said, standing. “And don’t look at me like that. I’m more afraid of being shot in the head than I am of eating too much sugar.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You didn’t have to. So, who do you know that speaks Vietnamese?”

“There’s a whole Vietnamese community here. Most of them speak English, of course, and French, and we don’t see all that many of them, but we get a few. Some of the older ones bring their children with them to interpret. I’d rather speak to them directly.”

“Why? What difference will it make?” he asked with no prejudice, simply curious. He came back to sit beside her on the bed, his flakes sugared indulgently.

“It’s more polite for one thing, and it shows a genuine interest for another, and it’s important to learn because the more you know about the language, the more you learn about the people.” She took a spoonful of cereal into her mouth, chewed, and then added, “About their customs and the way they live and what they need to survive here.”

She continued to eat as if they were talking about something as plain and mundane as a television commercial, not the keys to international peace. And yet, for Holly, it was just that much of a routine; that ordinary to treat everyone with polite and equal kindness, to know and understand them, to give what she could.

And who gave to Holly? he wondered, watching her eat. She didn’t live much better than those she helped, and he knew it was a calculated choice on her part. There were better jobs, more money, nicer apartments. Could job satisfaction compensate for having so little to call her own?

He wanted to drench her in silk and jewels—fake furs, because she wouldn’t tolerate the real thing—and cars, a dozen cars, and a big fancy home with bodyguards. He wanted to give her everything before she even knew she wanted it, anticipate her every wish, fulfill her every need. Keep her safe, shield her from all unhappiness. He sighed. Most of all, he wanted not to be angry or impatient or critical of her when she turned her nose up at it all.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, glancing up to catch his love-lights on. “I told you in the shower it was the last time. I have to go.”

“Don’t you ever have a day off?”

“Today is my day off.”

“Then where are you going? You said work.”

“I said go. Every Thursday I
go
to St. Augustine’s. I do hair there.”

“You do what?”

“Hair,” she said, smiling. She took his empty bowl and placed it with hers on a table, then turned to her chest of drawers to gather clothes for the day. “I used to visit at St. Augustine’s. Just go in and talk, you know? But it got harder and harder to sit and watch the nurses and attendants working and—” she shrugged, “—one day I picked up a brush and went to the next bed and brushed the lady’s hair. Then I went next door and got the two men in that room and then two more ladies and then I hit the wards. I was crazy that day. I went from bed to bed making the men handsome and the women look beautiful... sort of. Then one of them said there was no sense brushing dirty hair, so I washed his hair, and one lady wanted to know if I knew how to give perms and I said that I would know how by the time I came back, and, well, things sort of snowballed after that.” She laughed. She lifted her hand in a high-class fashion. “The residents make appointments now at Cheveux de Holly. They come in hours too early and sit and talk and wait for their turn.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, trying to open his mind to the life she led, then stopped mid-motion.

“This is volunteer work, isn’t it?”

“Of course. They couldn’t possibly afford a real hairdresser,” she said, shaking out a pair of jeans. “Although I did go to beauty school for a while, after I fried a poor old lady’s hair to nearly nothing. What a mess. But I learned to give perms and simple haircuts, and I’m cheap.”

“How cheap are the supplies you use?” he asked, puzzle pieces falling from the sky and fitting perfectly. “You buy everything yourself and donate it to St. Augustine’s, don’t you? You pay for the permanents, the shampoos, the conditioners, the—”

“For crying out loud, Oliver. It isn’t that much. We’re talking about short, thin gray hair here. I can color three heads with one bottle of dye and give two perms with one kit. It’s not that big a deal.”

It was that big of a deal when her bed folded out in a shoebox in a run-down neighborhood! But for some reason, he couldn’t make his tongue move to tell her how crazy she was to be so unselfish. It was too much Holly. It was the way she did things. It was also an answer to one of the many questions he had about the way she lived. He was going to have to be satisfied with that.

She stopped and looked across the room at Oliver. His resigned expression pulled at her heart. He was trying so hard to be an open-minded modern man and not follow his cave-man instincts. Her steps were slow as she approached him. She bent at the waist to kiss his uplifted face.

“Oliver, I love you. I have everything I need. And now I have everything I’ve ever wanted. There’s time enough for us. I promise.” She kissed him once more. “They look forward to Thursdays. I look forward to Thursdays. I’ll be done by five, and if you come back here at seven, I’ll have dinner and music and soft lights ready for you.”

He smiled at her, and she blatantly batted her eyes at him. He laughed. Grabbing the front of her robe, he pulled her to stand between his legs, his hands sneaking inside to run up the back of her thighs to her softly rounded backside.

She caressed his face—such a wonderful face—and fingered a few strands of dark damp hair off his forehead. His hands were warm and sensuous on her buttocks. Tender and gentle and soothing. There was so much love in him, and all he wanted was the time to give it.

“You’ll be exhausted by seven,” he said. “I’ll take you out.”

Her smile turned sly. “If you pick up Chinese, we could eat it in bed.”

“Hello, dear. Am I disturbing you?” his aunt asked over the phone. But before he could answer, she went on, “I’ve been so worried about you since yesterday. You stayed away last night, and there was no answer at the apartment downtown... Are you still angry with me?”

“No.” How could he be angry and in love at the same time?

“Well, my goodness, you were so upset, I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me.”

“You are forgiven.” But the incident wasn’t forgotten. “However, I prefer to sort out my own messages from here on. All right?”

“Yes, dear.” She sounded pensive.

“What else can I do for you?”

“Nothing, dear. I merely wanted to remind you about dinner tomorrow night. You’ve been so busy, you’ve forgotten to call Barbara and invite her.”

“Invite her to what?”

“Dinner, dear. It’s Christmas Eve. You always call and invite her to have family dinner with us.”

“No. You always call and remind me to invite her.”

“All part of the tradition,” she said, laughing gaily.

“Well, why don’t you invite her this year, Elizabeth. I’m not sure I can make it.”

“Not make it? But, Oliver, it’s Christmas Eve...”

She went on talking about family and holidays and traditions, and all he could think of was Holly. Christmas with Holly. His first Christmas with Holly—the first of many. He wanted it to be special, one they’d never forget.

“Elizabeth, I have to go,” he said, breaking in on the importance of celebrating with loved ones and the uncertainty of life and whether or not certain older relatives would be alive for the next holiday. “Invite whoever you like, and I’ll try to come. And set an extra place, because I might bring a guest.”

“But what about Barbara?”

“She can bring her own guest.”

What a day. What a day. Oliver was well pleased with himself by the time he pulled into the parking lot at St. Augustine’s. He’d been a very busy boy and had still managed to arrive in time to pick Holly up. He told himself it was to save her a bus ride, but in truth, the sooner to see her, the better. It was his new motto.

He hadn’t been in many convalescent centers... well, never had been, actually, but St. Augustine’s didn’t look much different from a hospital. The smell was certainly the same, and the long halls with doors and the infirmary-green paint and the eerie silence that covered distant, unfamiliar noises and the overwhelming aura of pain and disease.

Hospitals were hospitals, in his book, and St. Augustine’s was sure as hell a hospital, he decided, feeling immediately uncomfortable.

“May I help you?” asked a young woman in a medical uniform of white pants and a blue-and-white-striped top. She zoomed past him in the lobby, through a doorway, and out again. “Not that I can help you much,” she went on as if she’d been standing still. “I’m still in orientation and I can’t even find the bathrooms in this place, much less anyone to help me change the sheets in two-thirteen, but... I’ll try. I hope you’re not selling anything.”

“No, I’m looking for someone,” he said, smiling at the frazzled woman.

“Thank heavens. I’m pretty good at finding the patients.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and opened it. “Who is it?”

“Ms. Loftin?”

“Loftin. Loftin.” She ran a finger down the list. “Room 307. Take that elevator up two floors and then you’re on your own. Sorry. It’s not always like this, and I hope I’m not always like this, but we’re short-staffed today and I’m watching the desk and the phones and helping with the residents and... well, as soon as flu season is over...” She bustled away muttering. “Flu season, my butt. I bet it’s always like this around here. They’re just afraid to tell me, afraid I’ll quit, and I should...”

Frowning and uneasy, he walked to the elevator. There were long corridors on either side where there seemed to be more activity and a little less confusion than in the lobby. Light streamed in from huge windows on both ends, dispelling some of the gloominess. There were Christmas decorations everywhere—some looked to be older than the building. An elderly man in a wheelchair waved to him and, feeling foolish, he sent a small wave back.

There was a nurses’ station directly in front of the elevators on the third floor, but it was as empty as the reception desk in the lobby.

However, he was far from alone. People with walkers, wheelchairs, and canes where shuffling and limping in the halls. Some were tied into wheelchairs with harnesses and appeared to be parked in the hallway.

“Are you the magician?” He spun on his heel to see another blue-clad attendant. “You don’t look like a magician.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh. Well then, what can we do for you?”

“I’m looking for room 307.”

“It’s right down the hall here, I’ll show you.” She turned to a man with a walker and said, “Mr. Pope? The dayroom is that way, remember? Why don’t you follow this man and Mr. Stevens and me? I swear I can’t tell one end of this place from the other myself today. Say, would you mind helping Mrs. Quinn there?” she asked, directing Oliver’s attention to a smiling old woman in the tinsel-trimmed wheelchair beside him.

“Alls I need is a little push to get me started, dear,” she said, pointing down the hall. “That way. That way. That’s it. Now just give me a good shove.”

Oliver looked to the attendant for help, and she grinned at him, nodding. “She likes to feel the wind in her hair.”

When in the Twilight Zone, do as the Zonies do, he thought, grimacing as he gave the wheelchair a little push. It was an incredible relief to see that he could have shot the old lady from a catapult and her wheelchair wouldn’t have gone any faster than if he’d been pushing it slowly.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist that,” the grinning aide said, motioning to the left with her head. “Three-oh-seven.”

“Is it always like this around here?” he couldn’t help asking.

“No,” she said, maneuvering them around a man sitting trancelike in the middle of the floor. “But with the magician coming and Christmas and the carolers from the elementary school tonight, we’re all a little excited.”

“I see,” he said, looking back at the man.

“You know, you look familiar. Have we met?”

She didn’t look familiar, but... “We could have. I was at your fund-raising party last week.”

“That’s right. The serial killer. Are you looking for Holly?”

“Yes. I thought I’d give her a lift home.”

“I’ll tell her you’re here, then.”

“Thanks,” he said, stepping out of the parade to the dayroom. “I’ll wait here for her.”

“Sure you don’t want to come see the magician with us?”

He was positive. “Maybe next time.”

Oliver was stunned. How could Holly live like this? he wondered, turning back to room 307. She worked in poverty and spent her days off in bedlam.

The woman he’d declared to be pregnant at the party passed by with another group of fun seekers. He smiled at her and received a stiff, polite nod in return. Her followers were somewhat younger than the first bunch, but all appeared to be equally infirm or impaired. Farther down the hall were some still younger.