My back feels the pressure of a gaze. I turn expecting to see Elmo perched on top of the bookshelf, but it is the suggestion box that wants to be noticed. Lysa smuggled it out for me so I could read the fruit of my labor from the party.
A childhood memory flashes in my mind. I hold a red construction paper heart folder close to my own and rush home after our Valentine’s Day party at school. Unlike my friends who tore into theirs between suckers and chocolate kisses, I wait until I am alone to open each small envelope and read notes of friendship, hoping to find hidden references to a crush.
Now, I reach into my box with similar anticipation. Small, crisp pieces of linen paper with gold embossing that I had placed by the display are now filled with short, sweet thoughts and memories. Many family members recall the difficulty of bringing their loved one to live in a facility, but their sentiments express gratitude for those who made that difficult transition easier. A mental checklist reminds me that I was the one to initially welcome many of the people who enjoyed the dance floor the other night. One by one, their childlike expressions of fear, worry, and even abandonment fill the space of my mind. It felt good to ease their concerns each time.
Sinking down into the sofa cushions, I unfold the last note. At first glance, I don’t match the slanted cursive with writing that I should know. “Mari, In case I do not tell you this more than a dozen times, tonight is spectacular and you, my dear, are divine in that dress. All my love and admiration, Tess.”
It’s sweet. But it’s not…
I realize that I was hoping to have word from him. Mine enemy.
Just as I am about to revisit the disappointment from days in that overstuffed lobby chair twenty years ago, I see my handkerchief through the slit in the box.
The handkerchief that I forgot to get back from Beau.
Though I am sad he did not feel comfortable returning it to me in person, it does provide me with a chance to thank him for his thoughtfulness. I reach in and grab the embroidered, wrinkled fabric. I take care of people every day. But when I stood on tiptoe and blotted his tie, I realized, for the first time, how great it could be to take care of one special person.
Lifting the handkerchief to my nose, I inhale the scent of his cologne. I smooth out the wrinkles and know this square piece of fabric won’t be washed for a while. This is a bit pathetic, but I am learning to be honest with myself. As I press down and eliminate the creases, I see a bit of blue. Slowly, I unfold the white cotton and discover a message scrawled in crayon just for me.
“When you are ready for our second dance, call me. 602-555-4325—Beau. P.S. I got this idea from Haley. Watch out for her!”
I outline his phone number over and over until my fingertips store it in memory. Could this new life I have been forced into include the courage to call a guy like Beau? Angelica wouldn’t hesitate for a second…unless she liked the guy. Is that what will keep me from dialing this number? I hold a blatant invitation in my hands and still assume he is merely being courteous.
Before the night is over and exhaustion consumes me, I have written Beau’s number down in five different places, just in case I lose the handkerchief, or toss the address book, or crash my hard drive (known to happen), or forget where the yellow piece of legal pad paper is tucked in my Bible. But it is while I am engraving the ten digits into my toaster that it hits me…I don’t want to risk losing this number because, for the first time, I might be willing to risk my pride for a boy.
Correction, this boy.
For five years I have built up such a defense to the name Beau that I shudder when the name comes to mind. Anything I have done, from organizing bingo tournaments to teaching residents how to knit, has been compared to his abilities. And I never measure up. How could I ever feel anything except small and useless in his presence?
Yet I did feel something else. I felt safe and strong and able to express myself around him. This perfect person who set the bar so ridiculously high for my glamourless job did not come across as judgmental even when I stood pouting.
While getting ready for bed, I notice my briefcase has fallen over during one of Elmo’s pursuits of imaginary bugs. I’m restuffing the leather with random notes, a crossword puzzle, issues of Lucky, Self, and Contemporary Woman from my recent effort to understand my age group, and then I see what I have forgotten all about.
Beau’s file.
His face comes to mind instantly. And because of our encounter, my possession of this personnel file is even more invasive and wrong and—let’s face it—incredibly lucky. Without calling him, without swallowing my pride, I can get to know Beau. I clap to turn on my bedside lamp, and for the next hour my thoughts are all of him. I read every review (all excellent), every recipe (Rae wasn’t kidding; the guy did win local cook-offs), every comment submitted by residents and coworkers (he’s a god). By the time I have read it all, I am more relieved than disappointed. I didn’t really want to find dirt on him.
Not now.
But just so I can make peace with this picture-perfect file, I add one small blemish. On his last review I add the notation, “Seems too good to be true. Someone should look into this further.”
Before I drift off, a question enters my mind. If I have faced the enemy, and he has kind eyes and a squeaky-clean record and doesn’t seem to be an enemy at all…who have I really been battling all these years at Golden Horizons?