“Huh?”
“I’m ‘bout to go earn me a date,” he says, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
Why on earth did I agree to do this?
I’m beginning to question my own sanity while I follow Mrs. Marie’s instructions and pull around to the rear entrance of Moss Pointe Retirement Community.
“Just back the van up to those doors.”
“You got it.” A cool sweat breaks out over my forehead and the nape of my neck as I maneuver the white stalker van under the covered parking and the reality of what I’m doing here begins to sink in.
“I really appreciate you helping us out like this, Wyatt.” Her smile conveys her gratitude while her eyes hold the sincerest of apologies.
“No problem.” And it’s not—so long as I ignore the fact that my esophagus is collapsing in on itself and I’m beginning to feel a bit woozy.
I meet up with her at the double doors at the rear of the van, where she’s already sliding the gurney out of its slot. “Come with me,” she says heading for the entrance. When the automatic doors slide open, I’m hit with the scent of antiseptic and coffee, a smell that triggers memories of late-night emergency room visits with Mimi and Pop as a child.
It’s my first time in a retirement home, and I find myself stunned by how clinical of an environment it is. I guess I expected that since it serves as a residence, it would be a little homier—warm and inviting. This place is neither of those, although I’m sure my purpose for being here is clouding my judgment.
We’re met inside by a few staff members who are obviously quite familiar with Marie Daigle. She talks in hushed tones with the head doctor while they lead us back to the patient’s room. We’re told he died peacefully in his sleep. The family has already come and said their goodbyes, and they’ve been instructed to contact the funeral home to make the arrangements. The body has been cleaned and prepared for transport.
“These are the easy ones. Sometimes,” she whispers as she lowers the cot, positioning it beside the bed, “we have to bag ’em ourselves.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to the dead body that’s already nicely zipped for us. “Can’t imagine that’s very pleasant.” I shudder at the thought.
“Oh, darlin’, nothing about this profession ever is.”
“Then why do you do it?” I ask, stationing myself at the foot of the bed while she takes the head.
“You know, oftentimes I ask myself that same question, and it always boils down to, if not us, who?” She shrugs her shoulders, and that’s the end of that. “Make sure you get a good grip on his ankles, and when I count to three, we’re gonna lift and move him over to the gurney.”
Somehow, despite feeling like I’m going to hurl, I muster the wherewithal to follow her orders.
“You done good,” she says, brushing a tuft of hair from in front of her face with the same hand she just used to move a dead body.
“Thanks,” I rasp, internally cringing while rushing to the sink at the far end of the room. I rip my gloves off and fling them into the bin before scrubbing my skin raw.
“You had gloves on,” she huffs, shaking her head while busying herself with fastening the straps. I’m amazed by how comfortable she seems—how this is all second nature to her, while I have never been more freaked out in my life.
“You ’bout done?”
“Almost,” I say, passing my hand under the automatic sanitizer dispenser a few times and slathering it all the way up to my elbows.
Her eyes widen.
“I’m good,” I say, waving my hands through the air to dry them off.
“You sure?” Marie chuckles. “Cuz there’s a shower behind that door.” She dips her head to the right. “I’ll wait…”
How can she have a sense of humor at a time like this? “Let’s just get this over with,” I say, my voice flat. I’m too disturbed to even smile at her attempt to lighten the mood.
In what feels like slow motion we wheel him out the way we came, while I try desperately not to make eye contact with the patients lingering along our path. I can’t help but assume they’re all wondering how much longer until they’re the ones under the sheet, making their final procession through these sterile halls.
Once outside, we hoist the cot up and slide it into the slot. When those twin doors slam shut, I fold in half, resting my hands on my knees and drawing in a few deep cleansing breaths.
I did it.
“That was a whole lot to put yourself through just for a date,” Marie muses, patting me on the back.
“Ah,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “I’d have helped y’all out, regardless. I just saw my opening and took it.”
“My Whitney-girl’s a tough egg to crack…be patient. I promise, she’s worth it.” With that she leaves me to collect myself.
As soon as I start the van, Marie reaches for the radio dial, switching it off out of respect for our passenger. She’s not so chatty on the ride back, I’d imagine for the same reason. There’s a somber cloud that seems to have fallen over us—a quiet that’s giving me way too much time to reflect on what just happened.
I’m so preoccupied that I hit a pothole straight on, giving us a good jolt. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” she replies, right as a loud brrrt fills the cab.
I side-eye the petite spitfire of a woman next to me, but I’m too much of a gentleman to comment on the fact that she just passed gas. Noticing my gaze, she sucks in her lips, trying not to laugh.
A polite pardon you is on the tip of my tongue, but then it happens again and, call me crazy, but I swear to the Lord it’s coming from behind me.
I sneak another glance at the woman beside me, who’s trying like heck not to burst into hysterics.
Maybe it was her? It had to have been. Surely the dead guy ain’t back there lettin’ ’em rip.
It’s all I can do to keep a straight face once the stench reaches my nose. I try holding my breath, but the odor doesn’t fade. I’m starting to think this sweet, Southern grandma might’ve gone off and shit herself.
I’m so focused on maintaining my composure that I drive us right into another pothole—this one the size of a damn crater. And that’s when I hear it, the groaning coming from behind my head.
“Holy fuck!” I shout, jerking the wheel to the right. “He’s alive! Why? How?”
Before Marie can reply, I plow us right into a neat row of mailboxes.
Wyatt insists on picking me up and driving, not buying into my argument that it would save him time and hassle if I went in my own car and took myself home after dinner.
I think he knows I’m just trying to put an added barrier in place, and he’s not having it. That boy is determined to get the most out of this sham of a date.
He rushes ahead of me to open my door and helps me up into the cab, every bit the gentleman. When he reaches across my body to fasten my seatbelt, my heart takes off at a canter. His attentiveness doesn’t go unnoticed and neither does my attraction, if that cocky grin of his is anything to go by.
“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?” Wow. Isn’t he just laying it on extra thick? The guy’s a real charmer, I’ll give him that.