felicity
We spendthe entire afternoon at Elmwood with Gran. She may not remember me, but her memories of the glory days are still intact and she’s got stories to spare. A crowd gathers around her as she tells about the time she and several other fledgling stars in the early 1950s broke down on the interstate between shows and hitchhiked all the way from Tulsa to Tallahassee, trading songs for meals and lodgings; about the way Johnny looked at June backstage, long before they ever got together; about the aftermath of losing Patsy in a plane crash.
I glance over at Ryder every now and then to make sure he’s not bored, but he seems just as engaged as everyone else in the room as she tells story after story. There’s plenty of laughter and more than a few tears. Evidence of a life well lived.
Before it all fell apart.
In a way, I’m glad for the dementia. It’s stolen away the pain along with her memories. Of course I’m sad that she’s forgotten me… but I can’t be upset that she’s also erased quite a few years of suffering at the hands of my mother and father. All the legal battles and restraining orders… all the fights and lawyers and court rooms…
If Bethany Hayes has to forget any chapter of her colorful existence, I’m happy it’s the last one. The saddest one. The one that broke her heart.
And mine.
The hours fly by so fast, I hardly notice how late it’s gotten until the nurses start wheeling in dinner trays. I get to my feet, searching the room for Ryder, and see he’s on his cellphone in the corner. I’m not sure who he’s talking to but it looks like a tense discussion, judging by the stony expression on his face. Some of the light has faded from his eyes when he makes his way over to me, shoving his phone into his back pocket like it’s poisonous to the touch.
“Everything okay?”
“Just dealing with some band drama.”
Translation: Lacey drama.
He doesn’t elaborate and, much as I’d like to know what’s going on, it’s not exactly my place to push him for details. I glance down at my watch, startled to see it’s nearly six.
“Oh, jeez, I’ve monopolized your entire day. You probably need to get home.” I reach down and scoop my purse off the floor. “Let’s get going.”
His eyes are on Gran and her friends, clustered around the raised dinner table with their wheelchairs and walkers. The nurses set plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes down in front of them, and I feel my stomach growl. It’s been so long since I had a home-cooked meal, even beef puree and mushy peas sound heavenly.
“We can stay for a while longer, if you want,” he murmurs. “I’m not exactly in a rush to go back and deal with this Lacey shit, and I’ve got nowhere else to be. ”
“You’re telling meRyder Woodshas nothing better to do on a Tuesday night than hang out with me at a nursing home?”
He pretends to mull it over for a second, rubbing at his beard with a look of deep concentration. “Hmmm… Nope. Can’t think of a thing.”
I gasp. “I don’t think your street cred will ever recover from this blow.”
“Sweetheart, don’t you worry your pretty little head about my street cred. You play the guitar like I do, you can get away with murder.”
“Let’s hear it then,” Gran yells, shamelessly eavesdropping on our conversation.
Ryder’s head whips around to her. “What’s that, now?”
“How about a little entertainment with our meal?”
One of the nurses purses her lips. “It’s late, Mrs. Hayes. Nearly time for bed. Don’t you think—”
“I think we’re old, not dead. And if we’d like some music to make this slop you feed us more palatable, we should have it.” She winks at me. “Now, how about you convince that boyfriend of yours to play something for us, honey?”
“Oh, he’s not—” I start.
“I’ll play.” Ryder agrees, cutting me off. His eyes slide to mine. “But only if she sings with me.”
“What?” I blanche. “Me?”
“You.”
“You know I don’t play in public,” I hiss through a frozen smile.
“Tonight, you do.”