From Air (Wildfire)

Chapter Thirty

JAYMES

“You look just like your mom. I knew you would,” Dwight says after beckoning me into his room to show me he ate his breakfast and took his meds.

“Funny. I never thought I looked like her. She said I looked like my dad. But he died when I was five. He worked for NASA. That’s pretty cool, huh?”

Dwight chuckles. It doesn’t matter how often I try to bring him into reality; he laughs it off. Today’s the first day I’ve been his daughter, not his wife. Maybe that’s progress.

“I was a park ranger, not a NASA scientist.” He slips on his cardigan.

“I know this.” I help him get his other arm threaded through the sweater.

A park ranger who started a massive fire. The irony.

He slumps on the edge of the bed, head bowed. “I told her to stay close or take the bear spray. Always have bear spray.”

I listen. What else can I say or do? His wife’s dead. That’s why I don’t mind the days he thinks I’m her. She’s not dead on those days.

“A nurse.” He glances up at me. “She’d be proud, Barbara.”

I smile.

“Do you miss her as much as I do?” he asks.

I nod. “I miss my mom so much.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, trying to pull off his cardigan.

“Aren’t you going outside?”

“I’m tired. Those pills make me ...” He gives up on taking off his cardigan, lying on his side with his cheek resting on his folded hands. “They make me tired. So I”—he closes his eyes—“stay out of trouble,” he mumbles.

I frown. He doesn’t need to be on such strong medications. He’ll never get better if he’s never given a chance to be himself again. No one in this ward is given the opportunity to be themselves or perhaps find themselves.

Midday, I take a lunch break and check my messages.

Evette: Laney had a little girl. Riley. 7 lbs, 4 oz. Both are doing great! I’ll send pics when I have some

Jaymes: Great news!

It’s unlikely that Fitz is on another fire so quickly, so I text him by copying and pasting Evette’s message.

Jaymes: Laney had a little girl. Riley. 7 lbs, 4 oz. Both are doing great! I’ll send pics when I have some

Fitz: Don’t be like that. I’m embarrassed for u

He sends a photo of Travis, Laney, and Riley.

“Oh my gosh.” I cover my mouth.

Jaymes: I’m proud of u

Fitz: I did nothing. I wasn’t there

I giggle.

Jaymes: I’m proud of u for having friends who send u pictures of their baby

Fitz: I have friends

Jaymes: Yes. But ur friend is in San Bernardino

He doesn’t respond. Either he’s legitimately busy, or he’s contemplating how to reply. I don’t give him a chance.

Jaymes: Have to go. One of us has a real job

Fitz: Thx for letting me get back to it

I nearly spit out my water. Calvin Fitzgerald makes me laugh. He makes me cry. He makes me swoon. He makes me blush. He makes me feel .

On my next day off, I visit Edith, bringing her flowers and a charcuterie box to share for lunch.

She lights up after taking forever to open her door. “What a surprise!”

“Hope I’m not interrupting you.”

“Of course not. Come in.”

“I brought flowers and food.” I set them both on her kitchen table.

“The men in my life could learn a few things from you. Thank you, Jamie. What’s the occasion?”

I remove the charcuterie-box lid. “No occasion. Well, I mean, it’s my day off. That’s always a reason to celebrate.”

“That boy of mine is thirty-five, and you’re the first girl he’s introduced to me.” She hands me a glass of lemonade and sits across from me. “That might not be true.” With a tiny laugh, she shakes her head. “You’re the first girl I remember. So if I met someone before my stroke, I either don’t remember, or it didn’t happen.”

“If I were a betting person, I’d say it never happened. Fitz is content being single.”

“Nobody’s content being single. Are you?” She pops an olive into her mouth.

“For now, yes. But it’s not part of my long-term goal like it is for Fitz.”

Her lips twist, and she hums. “Why do you suppose that is?”

I open the sleeve of crackers. “I’m not sure. I think it’s his job. He’s worried about something happening to him and leaving a family behind. Honestly, I think it’s more than that. Perhaps something that happened to him when he was younger.” My gaze lifts to gauge her reaction, to see if I’ve crossed a line.

She has none. “I can’t imagine what that would be. His parents died in a car accident. Sure, it was tragic, but that’s life.”

“What about his sister? Was she in the car too?”

Edith shoots me a funny look. “What do you mean? He doesn’t have a sister.”

“Oh.” I focus on the cheese, carefully placing a square onto the cracker. “Sorry. I must have misunderstood him.”

“He was thirteen when his parents were in a car accident. I raised him.”

“In San Bernardino?”

“Yes.” Her face tenses before she bites into a piece of sausage. “I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I get confused by what I think I know and what Calvin has told me.”

“What do you think you know?” I’m crossing a line, but in my defense, Fitz agreed I should visit Edith, and he didn’t specify which topics I should avoid.

“Well”—she squints at the box of food—“it’s hard to explain. This doesn’t feel like home.”

“I’m sure you probably lived in a house or apartment, not in assisted living.”

“No,” she says. “I mean San Bernardino. It doesn’t feel like home. And I can’t say why; it’s just a feeling. You know?”

I’m at a huge disadvantage. It’s like I’m talking to a patient giving me bits and pieces of their past, but I don’t know if what they’re telling me is true or an illusion.

And why is a car accident so off limits? Did he lie to me about his sister? That doesn’t make sense. Did he lie to Edith? Was Fitz’s sister in the car, and he didn’t want to upset Edith more than necessary if she didn’t remember his sister?

“Yes,” I say. “I think I know what you mean. Home is a feeling. And I don’t mean a house as much as a community. But I know that a stroke can leave you feeling lost and disconnected both physically and mentally. Perhaps it took away that feeling of home.”

“Perhaps.” She eyes me for a long moment. “When I met you at the restaurant, I thought you looked familiar. Maybe you’ve been my nurse.”

“That’s not possible. Sorry.”

“Have you worked in the ER or the intensive care unit?”

“I worked in the ER in Miami. Have you been to Miami?”

She chuckles. “Not that I remember. But I’m old, and I’ve suffered a stroke, so it’s possible. Do you like your job?”

“I do.”

“I bet patients love you. You have a calmness about you. And a kind smile. I can see why my Calvin is so taken with you.”

“Aw, thank you, Edith.”

Again, her gaze lingers on me. “But it’s going to bug me. I know I’ve seen you before.”

I rarely forget a face, but I don’t like being the reason for her distress. So I’m taking a page from Fitz’s book and opting for a white lie. “You should talk to Calvin. Maybe you have been to Miami. Maybe there was a minor incident that required a trip to the ER. I feel like I would remember you, but I’ve seen a lot of patients, so I may be the one who is not making the connection.”

“I’ll do that,” she says, outwardly content to relax and try to figure it out later.