BY ELLEN DAVIS SULLIVAN
Lying in bed in the nursing home as the rising sun cut a hole in the clouds, Sylvia realized she needed to tell her boss the truth about how she felt. Yesterday, the doctor made it clear Sylvia would not recover from this stroke. At best, she’d graduate to assisted living. Working, even one day a week, as the bookkeeper at Miriam’s law firm was out of the question.
Since Miriam could show up at any time, Sylvia had to prepare. There were limits to what she could say once the right side of her face collapsed. During her two months in rehab, Miriam stopped by every week or so, bringing a Dunkin’ latte when she came before the office opened, flowers a couple noontimes and last Wednesday evening a book of poetry. She told Sylvia her book group loved this nature poet. Sylvia was delighted. It was almost like being included in the group. One poem struck her as a sign when she read: “There’s nothing more pathetic than caution.”
In the eight years she’d worked for Miriam, Sylvia had mined their brief conversations for details about her boss, who was usually under too much pressure to do more than ask about Sylvia’s cat or her arthritic fingers. What she’d gleaned about Miriam were the basics: divorced, a daughter, a passion for ocean swimming. The most personal thing Miriam confided in her was: “My book group’s lasted longer than my marriage.”
The chance Miriam would show up with coffee this morning lessened with each tick of Sylvia’s Bakelite alarm clock. Still, when Alma, the aide with the biggest smile and a gentle touch, came in to dress her, Sylvia sniffed Alma’s fresh, limey scent and felt hopeful. She knew the source of the fragrance from the day she caught Alma ripping a frilled citronella leaf off the plant on the patio and crushing it between her fingers.
Alma switched the TV to TCM, which proved lucky when Astaire and Rodgers -- whose dancing lifted Sylvia out of herself -- spun across the screen. Ginger’s feathered skirt whirled, flinging stray darts into the air. As Sylvia watched white plumes waft to the polished floor, her eyes filled with tears. Since the stroke, the depth of her feelings surprised her, along with how quickly they welled to the surface often over an odd thing, like the short life of a stitched feather.
“Arms up, Mami,” Alma instructed.
Sylvia tried to raise her hands but her right barely moved. Alma guided Sylvia’s fingers into the sleeve of the pink fleece. She’d been grateful “pink” came out clearly enough, despite her drooping lips, when Alma asked what she wanted to wear or she might be stuck in the faded denim shirt that would be embarrassing if Miriam did show up today.
Alma bent to zip the fleece revealing Miriam in the doorway wearing a persimmon sweater vest over black tights and a grey tunic -- like a flare against the beige walls and linoleum. She gave a throaty, “Good morning!”
“Goo see you,“ Sylvia replied.
Alma waved as she left.
Miriam set the Dunkin’ bag in Sylvia’s lap then she wheeled her into the hall. Sylvia kept her head as high as she could, pride fighting the limits of her condition. Few of the residents they passed had regular visitors, and those who came were mostly blood relatives duty-bound to show up. None of them had the chutzpah to dress like Miriam.
Outside, a spritz of rain doused them in the gap between the doorway and the tent roof covering the patio. Sylvia liked sitting out here protected from the elements and from the building’s rows of windows, many speckled with curious faces. Focusing on the trees beyond the white fence, dim green against the cloud-blurred sky, she could believe they were in the yard of a private home, the way she pictured Miriam’s.
“Too cool out here for you?” Miriam hesitated, her hand on the wheelchair’s brake.
“S’fine.”
“Are you enjoying the book?” Miriam asked as she opened the flap of the latte’s lid and set the coffee in Sylvia’s cup holder.
Sylvia nodded as vigorously as she could. Without the poem to point to, she didn’t have the words to ask Miriam about the caution line.
The rain licked the canvas tent top with regular beats soft as Astaire dancing in sand.
Miriam sipped her coffee. “The latest divorce client’s a screamer.”
“You candle them.”
Miriam grinned. “It’s a gift. Like you with numbers.”
The compliment and the impish smile disarmed Sylvia, removing her last scruple.
She reached out and grasped Miriam’s hand. With as much feeling as her wobbling vocal cords allowed, she said, “Glove you.”
“And I you.” Miriam’s smile grew awkward; her eyes sympathetic and confused.
Still, Sylvia had heard what she wanted to hear. She raised their joined hands and pressed her sagging lips into Miriam’s palm, drool leaking onto her cool skin.
Miriam’s gaze met Sylvia’s for a moment then she extracted her hand in a slow, smooth motion. She curled Sylvia’s fingers into a fist and set her hand on the wheelchair’s armrest. “I’ve got to go.” She rose and went to the door, opened it and disappeared.
As the door’s air lock wheezed, Sylvia knew she’d never see Miriam again. Crushed and stuck here, her only hope was that Alma would notice she was missing – which she would. Alma always looked out for her. With that, she took heart. She’d said what she had to. She wouldn’t spend her remaining time watching TV and listening to others talk as if it didn’t matter that she was still around. With her good hand, she lifted the latte and flung the lidded cup outward in a sweeping arc. Milky coffee drops cascaded onto the patio; tiny brown splotches in a pattern of footprints, the steps to a liquid dance.
Ellen Davis Sullivan's stories have appeared in print and online in journals including Cherry Tree, Moment Magazine and Stonecoast Review. Her essay “The Perfect Height for Kissing” won the 2014 Columbia University Non-Fiction Prize and was published in Issue 53 of Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art. Her story What’s Left will be in print in Bridge House’s fall 2023 anthology Gifted.