“Goodmorning, Mr. Marino!” I entered the room with a cheerful smile. “What can I getfor you?”
Thebalding man on the bed was only seventy-five, but he looked about ninety. Hisfailing health was not treating him kindly. From what I could tell, in myexperience, it usually never does.
Heflapped a hand, smacking the pillow behind his head. “You call these pillows?It’s like sleepin’ on a plastic bag.”
Ifought back a laugh as I moved toward the head of the bed. “You know why thatis?”
“Ican’t imagine,” he muttered dryly.
“Because,”I smiled, gently fluffing the flimsy thing behind his head, “itisa plasticbag.”
“Humph.”His scowl deepened. “Some accommodations you’s got over here.”
Theold are generally bitter. They hate that their time is so limited. They hatethat they wasted so much of it, they hate that they took so much of it forgranted, and they hate how there was never going to be enough, even if they’dlived to see their one-hundredth birthday. Vincent Marino was no exception. Icould see the brewing despair in his eyes, the frantic need to hold on whilealso knowing his grip was slipping.
“Notexactly the Ritz,” I agreed. “But the food isn’t terrible.” I eyed the trayhovering over his bed.
“Pfft,”Vincent spat, waving a hand toward the scrambled eggs and toast. “This crap isbarely passable as food. You want food? You go to my pizzeria.That’sfood.”
Theold woman standing in the corner of the room rolled her eyes in a silentdisplay of intolerance. She shook her head, crossed her arms, and moved tostare out the window.
“Well,I have a couple minutes,” I said, pulling up a chair to the side of the bed.“Tell me about it.”
“Notmuch to tell.”
“Oh,come on!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air. “You can’t tell me youhave this amazing pizza and then say there isn’t much to tell.”
Vincentsighed and rubbed his fingertips against the lines between his brows. “Ah, well…” He hesitated, dropping his hand down to the mattress, before continuing, “Iopened her up years ago with my wife. We poured everything into the joint, allour money and time, and it wasn’t until just a few years ago that the placereally took off.”
Theold woman scoffed without a sound, shaking her head and rolling her eyes again,and I smiled gently.
“Betterlate than never though, right?”
“Yeah,well, if it hadn’t been for my son’s husband, it never would’ve happened atall.”
Son’shusband?The thought of Vinnie being taken sparked an aggravatinghint of jealousy, while the idea of him not even batting for the same team leftme with a shameful despair. But I knew Mr. Marino had two sons. Maybe thehusband was that of Vinnie’s brother.
“Soundslike he came into your lives for a reason, then,” I said, keeping theconversation going without asking any questions, despite my itching curiosity.
“He’sa good kid,” Vincent answered astutely.
Itseemed like a door had creaked open, beckoning me to just take a peek inside. Igrasped at the opportunity and said, “I guess he’d have to be. All of yourchildren seem really nice.”
Vincent’schest puffed with just a tinge of pride. “We’ve had our ups and downs, but allthings considered, they turned out all right.”
“Youand your wife must be proud.” I shot a quick glance toward the old woman, justin time for her to cast her gaze downward and turn her back to the room.
“Well,I can’t speak much for my wife, but I know I am.”
***
When Iwas six, my parents moved my sisters and me to Long Island. They had bought anold house down by the bay, in a town called Islip, and that was where I met myimaginary friend, Jamie.
Jamienever spoke, and that had struck me as strange initially, but after a while, Iwelcomed her silence and learned to communicate in spite of it. At the time, mysisters were mean teenagers, and the kids at school had been even meaner, so toface Jamie with nothing but a smile on her sweet face was a nice change from mynorm. She’d offered a kind, listening ear, and kept me company on lonelySaturdays spent in my room. And although I think I had always expected her todisappear when I no longer needed her around, I enjoyed our time together andnever took a second of it for granted.
ButJamie never disappeared.
AsI grew in years and height, Jamie stayed young and small, and it wasn’t until Iknew of the passing of a little girl in my parents’ house that I understoodwhy. And with Jamie, came others, old and young. In the grocery store. At themall. At school. I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing the dead, and I learnedvery quickly how distracting they can be, once they knew of my ability to seethem. Dates were ruined, relationships failed, and I entered adulthood underthe resignation that, if I couldn’t turn my sixth sense off, I’d have toaccommodate it, with zero room for anything else.
