“Harvey, you old coot. Together at last.” Owen clasped the hand Harvey reached toward him.
“Who’s old?” Harvey slurred, boney fingers tight on Owen’s. “You are, that’s who.”
“Let’s get out of the doorway, gentlemen,” I suggested as the outer door tried to close and rebounded off my hip.
Owen backed his walker out of the entry and I pushed Harvey after him. As we reached the open lobby, Owen did a “ta-dah” sweep of his arm. “And look who’s here to welcome you.”
Griffin had acquired a guitar from someone, the instrument old and a bit battered, but true to pitch as he strummed a few chords and sang, “All I need’s, A pocket space, A crack in time, A private place…”
“Holy shit.” Harvey waved his good arm wildly. “That’s Griffin Marsh!”
“Yep.” Owen grinned.
Griffin said, “Welcome to Wellhaven. Sorry your private place is waiting on some room reassignments, but I hope you two will be happy here.”
“You fucker,” Harvey said to Owen. “You didn’t warn me. I want a selfie with Griffin and my hair’s a mess.”
“No rush,” Griffin told him. “Why don’t you let Lee get you settled in your room and you can rest and freshen up? I’ll be by before noon.”
“With the guitar?” Harvey sounded wistful.
“It’s not mine, but I’ll see if I can keep it for the morning. Maybe this is my day for a wandering troubadour impression.”He strolled over to where Lisa sat knitting. “Any requests, ma’am?”
She tilted her head. “Do you know ‘Scarborough Fair’?”
“Yes, indeed.” Griffin perched on the arm of the empty chair across from her, tuned a string, then launched into the familiar folksong.
A couple of residents chatting across the room paused to turn his way and listen. Harvey fixed his attention on Griffin, a smile on his face. I saw Owen was watching Harvey. He must’ve felt my gaze, because he glanced my way and we exchanged wry nods. An impromptu Griffin Marsh concert wasn’t a shared room with the man you loved, but it wasn’t chopped liver either.
Griffin finished the second chorus and turned to Harvey. “You have any requests?”
“Kite String?”
I winced and Griffin laughed, glancing around the lobby lounge half full of white-haired folks. “Glad you like that one but maybe I’ll play it for you in your room. Might be a bit profane for some of the folks out here.”
“Old does not mean prude,” Harvey said.
“No sir, I’d never make that mistake.” Griffin pushed to his feet. “Why don’t we let Lee get you settled, and then I’ll come by and take requests.”
Harvey grinned, his expression lopsided. “I won’t argue with that.”
I wheeled Harvey to his room with Owen trailing us. Pushing the door open, I said, “Hey, Prescott, brought you a new roommate. This is Harvey.”
Prescott gave us a thumb’s up from where he lounged in bed, leaning against the head end propped at sixty degrees. I automatically checked his color which looked good. He didn’t have his nasal cannula in, so today must be a good day.
“Prescott doesn’t speak,” I told Harvey, “But he’ll give you thumbs-up or -down for yes and no, and he can write on a white board. Don’t underestimate how sharp he is by the lack of words.”
That got me another thumbs-up.
“Bed or chair right now, Harvey?”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit of a lie down,” Harvey admitted.
“You got it,” I told him. “Let me get the lift in here and we’ll transfer you and get you comfortable.”
I had an aide assist with the transfer, then left her to help put away Harvey’s belongings, guided by Owen, with Harvey calling instructions from his bed. I was glad they seemed to be in good spirits. I passed Phoebe in the hall, bringing the new resident welcome kit, and hoped she would be kind— she listened to Zhukov all too often. At least, I wasn’t worried about Prescott’s acceptance since his beloved sister was a lesbian.
My regular tasks hadn’t disappeared while I was greeting Harvey. I dug into my work, only taking a break when Vicki’s O2-sat was low and the aide came to me to check her trach tube. She looked crappy, her color pale, her eyes drifting shut, but she squeezed my hand when I bent to tell her what we were doing. I suctioned the tube well, listened to her chest, checked her temp, and put her back on oxygen, waiting to make sure she pinked up. Nothing new, but she’d begun needing oxygen more and more often. Poor woman had generalized paresis on top of her lung issues, and the last stroke had erased most of her awareness. Shecould’ve stood being another care level higher, but a combo of no family to advocate for her, and no money, kept her here with us. At least after three years, we were familiar to her.
