Wide Open

f i f t y t w o

When I was maybe five or six, my mom started taking me to visit a nursing home with her once a week. I didn't understand why. It wasn't like we had a family member there to visit. The fluorescent lit halls were dinghy and smelled of antiseptic and rotten food, but like clockwork every Thursday we would walk down them. On those days, my mom would drop Cal off at practice for whatever sports season it was at the time, then the two of us would drive to the nursing home a few streets away from our school. She and I would walk through the automatic double doors hand in hand, only briefly stopping at the nurse's station to sign our names in the little white visitors book before making our way to the dining room.

It was in the dining room that we would make the rounds. Greeting a man sitting on his own or helping a couple of ladies at a nearby table fill in a few pieces of their puzzle. My favorite days were the ones when my mom helped lead bingo and I got to spin the machine and choose a ball for her to call out. No matter the content of the visit, each one would end the same. Before we would leave, we would always stop by one specific resident's room.

One time I asked my mom why we had to go into her room, curious as to why she was never in the dining room with the others. She never even went for meals. I remember my mother vividly, explaining how some people weren't as lucky as others, that they couldn't get around as well or didn't like the company. It made sense because at that point, I had seen lots of other visitors coming in and out of rooms saying greetings or goodbyes, but never to this lady. She never had anyone calling her mom or grandma, only Ms. Smith or Daisy, mostly by the nurses or my mom. What still didn't make sense though, was why if some people didn't enjoy company I still had to go see her.

I never heard Ms. Smith complained about our visits. Every time we walked in she would smile softly at us from her bed or the chair in the corner of her room. My mom would collect the stack of books on her bedside table and replace it with a fresh one, all while chatting about which were their favorites. Other things came up too, like the weather or news stories. It was small talk that went on for what felt like an eternity back then, but couldn't have been more than thirty minutes or so.

As our visit wrapped up, my mom would make me give her a hug and we would leave. Ms. Smith never said much to me, but she did always thank me for the hug and tell me it made her day. I always felt silly, not understanding how something so small could make her day, especially when she had to know I was being forced to do it. But every single time for nearly two years straight, she would respond the exact same way.

Her funeral was the first one I ever attended. I was probably around eight by then. My mom walked me up to the casket where an older woman and two men were standing next to it. I remember the way they held hands, all four of them and they cried in unison. It didn't make me nervous that Ms. Smith's empty shell was a few feet away even though it was the first dead body I had seen. My mom had prepared me by comparing it to a deep sleep, but it was the emotion in the air like a thick fog that made me queasy. 

It was with that pit in my stomach that I watched Ms. Smith's daughter talked with my mom. She told her about how she lived in Colorado and couldn't visit as much as she knew she should, but was thankful to my mom for donating her time. My mom had given her mom something to look forward to. Ms. Smith's daughter was just another person who confirmed what I already knew. My mom was a saint disguised as a housewife. 

I've only ever smelled it one other time. When my mom died, the same eerie thickness floated through the air. A sick type of nostalgia hit me, making me feel as vacant as the corpse in the casket rather than with a sense of peace. But it's the memories of who my mom was that leaves me more grateful for knowing her rather than empty because she's gone. 

My mom was known for her generosity, her ability to find simple ways to give to others. My conversation with Alyssa made me realize that it was a way that my mom spoke her love to others. The similarity in Taylor is uncanny. Now that I can see it, it makes sense why I've been drawn to his gravitational field. He gives so much of himself to the people around him. Sure, I wish he communicated it in other ways, but the way he pushes me to explore myself has been the code to the cryptic message I've been desperate to crack. It makes the need to pull off this surprise for him feel like a matter of life or death. My chance to been in his life, and to keep him in mine, teeters on my ability to pull this off. 

🏈🏈🏈

I skipped both of my classes this morning. If my dad does in fact, have tabs on me, I'm practically begging him to call me and gloat with disappointment. But I still have a few last minute errands to set up the final pieces of my surprise for Taylor. 

Taylor knows nothing except to meet me at the hotel after he checks in with the team. I used the ruse that I agreed to stay at the hotel with my dad to kick off the family weekend. Taylor of course, didn't believe me at first. I really sold it to him by claiming to want to attend the team dinner as an attempt to reconcile with my father. 

It wasn't a hard sell. Taylor himself has urged me to reach out to my dad, to give him some indication of the improvements I've made this semester. He was more than thrilled to hear I was ready to execute the final phase of the plan, he practically exhaled in relief when I told him.  Although that part isn't entirely true, I did have to enlist my dad for part of my plan. I mainly just needed him to make sure I would indeed have a hotel room and access to necessary accommodations this weekend. In return I did agree to attend the team dinner with him and Katie, but the relationship mending part will have to wait. I have a situationship to figure out first.

I check in at the front desk and immediately head to my room to drop off my things. I fluff the flowers in the vase I bought before hanging a handmade sign across the walls of the entryway. I check over everything once more before feeling satisfied with my work. My hands shake as I read Alyssa's text, letting me know phase two is waiting for me.

I request an Uber and head to collect it. I was nervous before, but with each mile traveled back towards the hotel my heart beats in double-time. Just as the car pulls back into the entrance of the building, Taylor texts to say he's on his way. The flutters begin deep in my belly, but quickly spread throughout my entire body. Just a few more minutes until I can be sure, but I think I've pulled off the best surprise ever.