No Better Day

PROLOGUE

The splashdown occurred around sunset. The brilliance refracted in the beads arcing from the impact, then settled to a calm in the ocean. Various times of the day had been tested. The procedures were new. This time proved best—when wavelength and photochemical properties transitioned daylight to twilight. There were many unfolding mysteries in the universe, revealing how things really worked. Light was a marvelous tool when used adroitly.

The one about to become female considered a lot all at once: the number of souls scattered across the lands here, personalities she’d be meeting, their various moods and unique behaviors. Best of all was the tantalizing concept of how many memories she’d be collecting. That’s what really got her excited about the mission. There were going to be so many.

As the last freckle formed on her skin, she saw the evening’s first star—in the eastern sky, away from the sunset.

Gorgeous, she thought. Fitting.

There was beauty here. Also darkness. The sight may have been her personal welcoming gift.

She couldn’t dawdle. She’d received the first instructions already. She was to make her way to the designated location for the chance encounter. That would take a while.

Five small children happened to be playing together on the beach when this all transpired. They were unaware anything peculiar was taking place at first, attention fixed instead on constructing sand castles along the lapping shore. That changed. The quintet felt a psychic tickling of sorts, as if feather dusters were reaching into the deepness of their minds and brushing around, searching for what couldn’t possibly be mined yet.

The children stopped, setting aside their plastic trowels and buckets, and came together, standing shoulder to shoulder to stare out at the sea, facing the sunset. That was the direction they were drawn to, the western light.

Up on the dune, their parents also paused. Paused because they were watching their children, who were inextricably staring out to the ocean’s horizon, as if in a trance. This caused the adults some degree of concern. They had no idea what their little dears were doing. This ended their discussion of the latest bad news from around the globe, ended comparisons of personal hardships they’d been enduring recently. They thought: What was holding their kids’ attention? Nothing was out there.

Except an exquisite sunset. A sunset like no one had ever seen.

Then, something even stranger occurred. At once, their children lifted their arms to the glorious panorama, as if trying to touch its beauty. After another minute, the children all began turning their hands at the wrists, in circles—around and around and around.

Human pinwheels… honoring the splendor.

Back in the tots’ souls, their spirits were soaring, happier than they had ever been. Happier than learning they were coming to the beach in the first place. The children laughed with joy at the sunset, sated by a super-love flowing into and out of them, celebrating as if there was going to be no tomorrow.

They weren’t far off the truth.

Their first abilities to store lasting memories bloomed into existence. Something of great significance had arrived. And it was past due.

CHAPTER 1

Trevin Lambrose went slack-jawed before the Internet, scrolling through the terrible headlines, recoiling as each horror hit his senses like a hammer. He’d wandered off the Photoshop assignment, wanting to see what was going on in the real world, once again drawn into the dread of what was happening out there. The story chronicling the 45 shootings and 9 murders in the city over the weekend almost gave him a stomach ache.

With the exception of the constant drama in a deteriorating society, life in here—in the office—had become a drag. He craved more from his vocation, from his own life. Plain and simple, he needed a change, and he wanted to take those he cared most about with him. Maybe his new girlfriend (Could he call her that yet? Was it too premature?), would help calm his growing unease. She’d been his shining light since they’d met at the book store a couple of months ago, the one thing keeping him on track. When he got depressed, like now, he thought of her smile, her unbelievable smile, her truly, uniquely captivating smile. Truly, there was something almost magical about it, the way it entranced him. He couldn’t wait to behold it again, churning up those alluring freckles, so countless on her face, so incredibly enticing.

Look! an intern called excitedly, snapping his reverie. The colors are even weirder today.

Trevin knew what was in the sky, everyone did. The weather had become very unusual lately, light, color and diffusion so strange it took one’s breath away, especially toward the end of the day. The intern was expressing how bizarre things had become—again. No meteorologist had yet sufficiently explained the phenomenon.

His mind still foggy, Trevin reflected on the particularly spiritually uplifting sunset the evening before. The effect on him had made it tough to come into work this morning, the anticlimax of a new, boring day positively hum-drum. The effect had triggered so many wonderful memories from his youth that he’d become completely lost in them, almost spilling his drink off the balcony.

Sweet memories from his youth …

The riotous interns were once more gathered at the agency’s largest window overlooking the city of Chicago, gawking at the vivid display like children. Trevin became too distracted to work any longer. He put his computer to sleep and disappeared into the men’s room for a reality check. There, in the mirror, he saw in his angular face a betrayal of unexpected wear and tear for a man of only 36.

To himself, he flatly said, Three years. Three years I’ve been here already. An eternity. But… I should be grateful to have a job. This recession’s a freakin’ killer.

There was a newspaper on the counter, the front page reading: How Long Will It Last?—a blatant reference to the eroding state of the economy. With the ongoing wars, violence and despair spreading around the globe, Trevin couldn’t answer that question to save his life.

Never quit a job without one lined up, he heard in his mind, a mantra recited to him from various colleagues throughout his adult life over and over. Maybe joining the interns at the window would have done him good. Man, he was in a foul mood today …

Somebody tried the door and gave up. Good thing he’d locked it. After splashing cold water on his face, Trevin rightly returned to his boring cubicle, slipping on the iPod and immersing himself in Beethoven and work. Art had to get done. Commerce had to be made.

A few minutes later, when he was almost in an Alpha state, someone approached from behind and rudely plucked the earpiece from his head, causing him to first flinch, then whirl in his swivel chair angrily. The fantastic art he was generating for a logo design dropped from thought.

Glen! Trevin barked. Didn’t I tell you never to do that again? What the—?

A cloying smirk greeted him. Take it easy, Tarzan, Glen said, motioning with his hands for Trevin to relax. I’m just messing with ya …

Exactly! said Trevin.

Ignoring the jab, Glen asked, Got here early again today, huh? Trying to suck up to Solorio? Someone said you got here by seven.

Trevin considered the imposition of the remarks. He was always a nice guy. Firstly. Glen, he said smoothly. I don’t suck up to Solorio.

Why not? said Glen. He’s the boss.

Trevin braced himself, staring at his peer’s fleshy fat face. Glen, if anyone’s sucking up to the boss… Not that I care, but we’ve all noticed you spending a lot of time in his office recently.

Just keeping in the loop, Glen said, then sideswiped an argument by changing the subject. He decided on no layoffs, for now at least. Hopefully that luck keeps up.

Trevin changed the subject also, keeping his voice low. Interns didn’t finish anything. Again.

Glen looked at the gaggle at the window, drawing a guess. They’re mesmerized. Do you blame them? The skies are eerie, man.

How’s the copy coming along, Glen? Solorio needs this mock-up ASAP. We need more accounts, money’s drying up.

The pudgy 35-year old took a step back, assessing his colleague. I’m on top of it, he answered. Saw you surfing the net, looking at the shitty headlines again. You gotta take your mind off that crap, guy, you’ll drive yourself crazy.

And you’re watching what I’m doing on my computer. Thank you, Glen; I’ll consider your advice.

Someone woke up cranky. If you were a woman, I’d say it’s that time of the month.

Glen …

It’s humor, Trev, humor. Laugh a little. Try some, you’ve lost it.

I… better get back to work. Trevin half turned back to his screen.

The copy editor backed off, disengaging. Suddenly, he raised his voice at the interns and starting clapping his hands together. Okay, everyone, you don’t get paid to gawk at the clouds! This isn’t a nursery school!

They scattered. One of the brash youngsters muttered, Interns don’t get paid at all …

Before vanishing into his own office, located at the corner, Glen added one more irritating remark to the muscular artist: Have fun at the old folks’ home tonight, better you than me.

Trevin smoldered like a sunburn, waiting for everyone to leave the main office area. He finally got up to take a peek at the splendor taking place over the city. It was positively otherworldly up there. He’d never seen anything like it.

Compassion, he thought to himself. There needs to be compassion.

Glen was an all right guy. Trevin recalled the troubles the nattering butterball was currently having at home with his wife. Glen had told Trevin of the woes often enough.

Yeah… maybe Trevin’s recent female acquaintance, Constance, could teach him how to be a little more compassionate …

* * *

By five o’clock, Trevin rushed the door like a cheetah, politely waving goodnight to the temporary receptionist behind the front desk. He hadn’t bothered checking on the interns—as was his assigned duty—monitoring them, making sure they’d been pulling their weight, helping to create samples in order to drum up the much-needed new business. And Trevin didn’t care. Not tonight anyway. His heart and mind just wasn’t here, in the ordinary. He had his precious seniors to connect with.

Glen shot out of his office, catching him at the last second. Trev! Seen the boss?

Nope, Trevin answered quickly, gripping the door handle. Not once all day. Hasn’t that been Richard’s way as of late? Gotta run.

Glen went to say something, but Trevin was gone. Befuddled, Glen went back to his own work, but when it came his time to leave, he made sure to leave a Post-It note in the big man’s office, letting him know exactly what time their star graphics guy had left the building. It was a tattle-tale message scribbled under the company logo—Lightning Strikes Advertising.

* * *

Like a pro, Trevin negotiated the Kennedy Expressway in his 1997 Chevy Blazer, through the horrendous rush hour traffic, working his way northwest as fast as possible. Around him, he saw—in quick glances—the general anger and irritation painted on drivers’ faces. Heads shook, horns honked and rude gestures flew. In his estimation, the sights were part and parcel to his personal theory: People were hurting to the breaking point, emotions ramping up.

When a dense layer of low clouds broke, the powerful sun suddenly blasted through, glaring off his windshield, and Trevin was temporarily blinded. He had to lock up the brakes when traffic ahead suddenly halted. By the time he got going again, his nerves were shot, and he finally passed the clogging construction with frayed nerves and sweat trickling down his neck. The back of his buttoned shirt, and his collar, were now soaked.

After pulling into the massive Lakebreeze Healthcare Campus parking lot, he motored all the way to the back, where he shut off the engine and decompressed, pulling his thoughts together. His heart was still hammering from the near accident. He parked where he always did—just before the forest preserve, where no one was around him. Soon, he knew, the swarms of visitors would be arriving, filling the lot. Currently, there were only a dozen vehicles here, and they were way up, by the front entrance.

As he labored to slow his breath, peeling his back from the upholstery, he gave it his mental all, working the psychological tension out, visually drinking from the serene scene before him. Since it was late spring, almost summer, there was still plenty of light left before nightfall. The funny clouds had mostly left, but more were brewing in the horizon, in the west, where the hint of yet another dazzling sunset struck and soothed his troubled soul. At least he was here—one of the few places he found solace anymore. He got out, listening to the vivacious birds in the trees behind him. He always parked facing west now. It had become his weird little idiosyncrasy, always desiring to be pointing in that glorious direction. To the sunset. To infinity.

This was still the city, and the developers had done a great job melding the facility’s form with function. Despite the massive recession (more of a depression, Trevin believed), this was one of the more decently funded institutions around. A lot of private dollars saw their way in here.

But these residents deserve a place like this, he reminded himself. They’re better than us, the younger generation. Look what we’ve done to the world. We’re no stewards.

He grabbed his black tote bag full of art supplies and began the long mosey into the building. A particular scent caught his attention straight away, jogging his memory. Someone had recently mowed grass—the lush acreage where he sometimes saw a resident or two wheeling about. The aroma struck a chord, instantly catapulting him back to the days of Little League baseball, where his father and mother would drop him off at the edge of the freshly mowed playing field, and he’d run free as the wind to join his pals. In his mind, he could still hear his parents shouting after him, telling him they’d catch up after parking.

Like the current weird weather conditions, this phenomenon—this transportation and complete immersion back into his wonderful memories—had been occurring all the time now. It seemed to be occurring especially after staring off into the western light, into desire, after wishing he could go back to the those better days… forgetting all about his present problems.

God, he wished he could go back.

Chicago definitely could use some rain. The days had become so hot and dry. The long-range forecast hadn’t much of it in sight, unfortunately. It had become this way since the formations had started billowing in. Another unsolved mystery. By the time he passed through the automated double doors and into the blessedly comfortable lobby, the euphoric running through the baseball park, cicadas buzzing, friends cheering him on, had been eradicated. Industrial strength carpet sanitizer replaced the grass scent, and Trevin had to shake off the cerebral cobwebs with considerable effort. He now stood in locked formation at the sign-in desk.

Mr. Lambrose, hello, chirped a young aide manning the station. Welcome back, the residents are ready for their art lessons. Then the female employee darted a look past him into the lot and formed a wry smirk. Parked as far away again as possible, I see. Trying to set a record?

I just like the walk. Tough day, Trevin replied, sighing. He liked this woman. He liked all the employees here. He wished he could be one of them. Setting the tote bag down, he signed in, letting her reach across the desk and slap the adhesive name-tag on his chest, giving it a tap for good measure.

Sky still goofy out there? she asked innocently.

It’s diminished somewhat, he answered. But it looks like it might be another good sunset. You should get some of the residents outside. Is Allison on tonight?

Yes, she’s around. Want me to page her?

No, I’ll run into her, thanks. Can I go in?

You sure can. Have a great one, Mr. Lambrose, have fun with your pupils.

You can call me Trevin, you know. And then he was going to say more, but he realized in his daydream up to the door, he had forgotten her name. She had a smile button over her name-tag. Embarrassed, he thanked her again as she went back to the phones, and he walked past the desk, around and into the front atrium, where he momentarily didn’t know which wing to navigate.

Another friendly male staffer, a maintenance man, startled him, making Trevin’s decision for him, pointing. Yo, Picasso! You’re down there tonight. You went the other way last week.

As Trevin thanked him and cracked a joke, he made his course correction.

Creating more masterpieces tonight? the man asked after him, seemingly genuinely interested.

Something like that, Trevin answered, still foggy with kernels of happiness from his memory.

It didn’t take long to get blindsided by another. Immediately in front of him, a very old resident was being gently pushed in her wheelchair by a loving set of adults. Trevin stepped to the side to let them pass and froze, disproportionately moved by the sight. He recalled his own beloved grandmother; a person whom he was very close to but was now gone. Trevin said hello to the three strangers as they continued onward, secretly watching as their forms—framed by the entrance—turned to silhouettes against the wavering heat lines in the parking lot, creating quite a picture. So much tenderness there. The feeble woman pointed out her favorite fish in the lobby’s aquarium.

Trevin found himself whispering his grandmother’s name: Nan… I miss you …

Never could he walk into a nursing home and at some point not compare the facility to the one his grandmother lived in briefly back home in Rochester before her death. Before he had a chance to fly in from Chicago and see her before she passed away in the hospital. He’d never found peace in that heartbreak.

Consequently then, Trevin’s stroll through the hallowed complex became more or less a continuation of the dreamy amble in this evening, taking an even keener note mentally recording everything he saw and felt, trying to absorb the love that surrounded him. Even the tropical plants, spread out evenly throughout the hallway, and the nice art he wished he’d been commissioned to paint, appeared brighter and more supporting this evening. Some sights he’d grown accustomed to: Families talking low in private quarters, caregivers assisting the frailest, nurses checking blood pressure. His heart reached out to all the residents, hoping their days were filled with happiness and fulfillment.

Unlike what he was experiencing these days …

Trevin rounded the bend and saw his first destination of the visit: a private room all the way down on the end. The door was open and a sliver of light from the outside was shedding illumination onto the carpeting, as if calling him. Across from that was the bay window to the courtyard, facing west. Facing west, of course. The sun was just starting to set out there. The hallway was beginning to glow.

Gladys Embery—the super-sweetheart—was in there. A peach in her upper eighties, and as far as anyone knew, had no family to look after her. She was all alone. That’s what Trevin had been told anyway. That had always killed him, and he didn’t want to take another step before preparing. He loved seeing her, and he had to demolish the miserable daily news from his head and instead concentrate on just benefiting from her wonderful presence. This was invigorating, she was invigorating. From the day they’d met, there was something about Gladys that was utterly engaging. Kind of like his Constance.

Maybe someday the two would meet.

He got to her door and poked his head in. This was how he always first saw her. Her back was turned, her marshmallow white hair pulled into a bun, doting tenderly on potted plants on immaculate sills, watering soil and separating leaves with thin, pale fingers. Gladys was dressed in her typical (and somewhat funny) pink robe and fluffy slippers. It was not hard to imagine the other end of her life as a pony-tailed teenager, almost 70 years ago, maintaining a neat room for her parents’ inspection.

Trevin hoped to be as resilient when reaching her age. If he reached her age.

As Gladys turned, she lit up like a chandelier, delighted to see Trevin standing there. She set the spray bottle on the bureau by her bed and scurried to the door to cup her tutor’s face. Trevin, oh Trevin. It’s our lesson for the month—you didn’t forget. I sure didn’t.

Trevin was already laughing as they hugged each other. Gladys, how are you, my dear?

He used as much warmth as possible, seeing how the now-setting sun behind them was reflecting in her signature bifocals. Despite its brilliance, the light was still unable to hide her worldly, crystal blue eyes.

I wouldn’t forget you, he said. How could I?

She ushered him in with wild waving. Trevin set his heavy bag on the standard-issued sofa. There was one of them in each single room. Oh, I love this time, Gladys crooned. I wish we could do this art therapy of yours for hours. Let me put everything away.

Trevin stopped her. No, your room is spotless. Let it be, Gladys, let it be. We’re always running out of time.

He then set up his supplies as she fetched a hardbound sketchbook from a top drawer. He promised to himself that he would always, always protect her—whatever that meant—while she prattled about the drawings she’d done in his absence. The apartment’s square footage was adequate for the activity they were about to engage in—about the size of a single hospital room. The bed was the mightiest obstruction to deal with.

Thank you again for buying all of us these beautiful sketchbooks, Gladys said, getting comfortable. I happen to know everybody loves them.

For my favorite pupils, he said, anything goes.

Within minutes, they were doing art together, two peas in a pod, Gladys sketching in her book while Trevin gave her pointers, occasionally going to his work. They had a great time, reacquainting, catching up, talking about the great things Lakebreeze had done for the residents lately. And Gladys was never short of compliments.

Everyone loves you here, Trevin, she said. It takes a creative mind to think of a volunteer program like this. I’m glad you came to us.

I don’t think everyone’s a fan, Gladys. Mr. Joseph doesn’t love me. All that man does in our lessons is give me a hard time. I’m seeing him next.

Eugene’s a curmudgeon. Don’t take anything he says or does personally.

Not everyone’s as easy going as you are, dear. You make this an absolute pleasure.

That’s because I’m just an old bitty waiting to die.

Gladys! Trevin scolded. Don’t say that! That’s morbid.

I don’t see it as morbid, Trevin. Someday an angel’s going to come for me. I’m just looking to move on to a better place.

Trevin almost said ‘You too, huh?’ but instead opted to just stare at Gladys, thinking about her words, taking in the fantastic person she was. He’d heard her speak of the afterlife before, and her belief in a great paradise beyond this plane, but he had to push it all out of his head. He just couldn’t handle the heavy stuff from anyone other than himself tonight. Gladys stopped drawing to stare out the window, at the lawn and forest on her side of the building.

Get your inspiration from out there? he asked.

I don’t have much time left, Trevin, she answered, ignoring the question. I can feel it. But it’s okay, there’s people waiting for me. I miss my mother and father so much. Then, changing tone, Looks heavenly out there, doesn’t it? The light. It’s communicating to us.

What’s it saying? Trevin asked tenderly.

It’s signaling a change.

A good change?

I think so.

Trevin’s heart raced to her. But to stay focused, he commented on her lovely plants.

I take care of them the best I can, she responded with pride. They’re living, too.

Trevin’s hand went to the rubber tree plant by him, and he paused at a single leaf. May I?

Sure, Gladys said. That’s my rubber tree plant. They like a human touch.

The texture was soft and slippery. It’s so smooth, he said.

Gladys went back to her sketching. My mother taught me to polish the leaves of a rubber tree with mayonnaise.

Mayonnaise?

Nutrients. Old farm trick.

Trevin raised his eyebrows, amused. Stealing jars from the kitchen, Ms. Embery?

Gladys laughed again, the sound disarming. She said, The chefs give them to me, silly. I ask for them.

Trevin chortled, shook his head. I know, dear. Then he asked for indulgence. He was in the mood to see what she’d been doing on her own. One sketch in particular had him extremely impressed: the bird feeder hanging from the tree just 15 feet from her window. In the drawing, a cardinal was perched on the feeder, pecking at seeds. The execution was more meticulous and intentional than her previous work.

Wow. He compared what she’d done to real life. This fellow with the feathers. That’s this view out there.

She nodded. You get an A-plus. That cardinal posed for me. It was around when I woke up. I did that this morning.

Great composition. Good weight given to the bird’s shadow.

I wanted to capture its spirit before it flew away. Like you’ve been teaching us: Concentrate on subjects that make us happy. I used to draw things like this when I was a little girl.

As they went on with their session and conversation, and Trevin slipped deeper and deeper into apparent rumination, Gladys noticed, reaching out to pat his hand. I think tonight is about teacher. I think tonight is about you, Trevin. You obviously have so much on your mind. Is work not going well?

Trevin became embarrassed, and balked with a shrug and a mumble. Knowing he was uncomfortable, Gladys gave him a break, asking how he came to enjoy working with old fuddy-duddies in the first place.

And so he obliged, regaling the story of an intern at Lightning Strikes who’d mentioned visiting his grandfather at one such retirement home. The residents there apparently liked hearing about the world of advertising, and the proverbial light bulb went off over Trevin’s head. And it didn’t hurt that his beloved grandmother, Nan, had been treated well in the short time she was in one. And so one thing led to the next, Trevin summarized, and now here I am. Good thing Allison was open to my suggestion.

Well, Allison’s the program director here, followed Gladys. She’s supposed to take in good ideas.

True enough, said Trevin.

Speaking of your grandmother, Gladys continued, what do you remember most about her?

Her tireless love for her family. And sharing tea with her whenever I came home from college. We had some good talks.

She’s in your memories, but does she come to you in dreams, Trevin?

Interesting question. Not yet. Why?

Well, she will, Gladys said. Like my theory on the weather out there—dreams also communicate.

Trevin laughed, shook his head. You’re a clever whip, Gladys. That’s why I love coming here and working with you. You’ve turned the deal on me—this was supposed to be about you tonight. I live in my head too much, that’s my problem.

The only problem we have is running out of time, my dear, said Gladys. Let’s get some work done.

And the two worked on in silence.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Gladys and Trevin’s rapt attention to their craft had consumed them. They were both still drawing in their sketchbooks, talking about nothing in particular, happy just to be with each other. Trevin was feeling much better than he had all day. When he paused to see what she was doing, he was surprised to see she’d just been executing circle after circle on the blank page, grinding graphite to paper like a machine.

"Gladys, I thought you were adding something to the cardinal sketch. What are you doing?

Why are you drawing all those circles?"

It took her a moment to come around. This was the first Trevin noticed her perception seemed to have drifted. He became a little worried.

Oh … she answered slowly. It gets my good memories percolating. I do this sometimes. I’m not sure how I picked it up. It’s dumb, I know.

He carefully took her book. Flipping back further, he came across dozens of pages just like it, some circles bold, some very light. Some had wings and halos around them.

You didn’t show me these, Gladys, he said. It’s fascinating. You know, this might also sound weird, but I’ve been seeing circles a lot lately myself. I mean, not to stimulate memories, but I’ve been noticing them, too—in nature, out in the world as I walk around. Speaking of dreams and communication, you’re onto something here. There’s something about that shape—that motion—that’s important. He handed the book back and chuckled at himself. We’re a pair, aren’t we?

But she didn’t answer the question, and instead took to doodling more circles, letting her mind wander, a far-off expression coming to her face. I let them take me back to better times, she said. The future loves the past, Trevin. Take me away, take me away …

He was going to interrogate his protégé further, but a sharply dressed female holding a clipboard had appeared at the door with her eyebrows raised, a look of relief on her face.

Allison! Gladys said happily, setting her work aside.

At this, Trevin stood up at attention, feeling a little guilty. After all three exchanged greetings, the attractive young woman with the cropped blonde hair pretended to be upset at her instructor.

Trevin, you’ve been here with Ms. Embery all this time?

We were just wrapping up, he said. I’m going to see Mr. Joseph next.

It was my fault, dear, Gladys interjected. I kept him longer than I should have.

It’s okay, Ms. Embery, said Allison, I was just joking. Then she checked her watch. But he does have others to get to tonight. Time can get away from all of us. I just want to make sure Trevin sees who’s expecting him—they’ve been asking about him.

Trevin gathered his supplies. Gotta go, Gladys, sorry. Great talk tonight.

Gladys groaned to her feet, Trevin assisting her. Allison leaned into the doorway, bringing the clipboard to her chest. Honestly, I’m not cracking down on you guys. We’re having fun here, everything’s okay. Ms. Embery, we have a movie in the recreation room in a half hour.

I won’t be doing that tonight, Allison, said Gladys. But thank you for telling me. I’m going to bed early.

As Trevin hoisted the tote bag over his shoulder, he noticed Allison’s official business. What’s that?

I just need your John Hancock on more of these forms, said Allison. We forgot them when you started. Legalese, sorry. Want to step out with me?

Sure.

Trevin and Gladys said their bittersweet goodbyes, hugging again, and just like that, the sweet-natured senior simply detached, grabbing her TV remote and turning the set on to a game show, the volume instantly drowning out any further dialogue in the room. Allison waited for Trevin in the hallway, saying goodnight to Gladys, and hooked his arm as a friend would when they were out of sight, leading him away. The last thing Trevin saw was Gladys transitioning back to isolated reality. His heart broke at once.

When the two reached the end of the hallway, where the foot traffic was busier with added visitors, Allison acknowledged his obvious ruefulness. Gladys is fine, Trevin, I’ve come to know that look from you. We take very good care of her here.

He stopped her. "I know you do, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. But she has been happy? She has been all right?"

Yes, of course. Something to be concerned about? Allison queried.

No. She just seemed a little… preoccupied tonight.

Can you elaborate?

Trevin thought about it, but drew the conclusion it wasn’t his place to psychoanalyze. I’m sorry, Allison, I just grow attached to some of them. I read into things.

Allison laughed knowingly, maneuvering around a large potted fern plant. She had to move a branch out of her face. Trust me, she said. That’s something you have to get used to. We all love Gladys, who couldn’t? But she’s safe and warm and lacks for nothing. We’re her family.

Trevin thought about the comment. He wouldn’t exactly say she lacked for nothing. Some of the mystifying and poignant things she was talking about …

So, he said, changing the subject, let me do what I need to do.

Allison handed him the clipboard with a pen, tapping the spots he had to address. Sign there and there. This is a waiver stating you won’t sue us if a meteor lands on your head while you’re here on the grounds.

As he took the forms and did as requested, Maybe getting hit by a meteor would do me good.

But Allison was smug this evening, and she began eyeing him capriciously. He noticed, and stopped with the pen. What? he asked.

The smirk grew large on her face. A little birdie told me you’re dating someone. Who’s the lucky girl?

Handing back the clipboard, he feigned annoyance. Who said that?

Word gets around. He was furrowing his brow, not budging. Oh, come on, Trevin—we’re friends—you can tell me. You’ve quite the rapport with the female residents here; you must’ve said something to one of them during your lessons.

I say a lot of things, he replied.

So who is she? Allison pushed. Maybe you two can double date with Robert and me sometime.

"Allison, we’re not ready to join you and your husband Technically, I am seeing someone, but I don’t know where I stand with her yet. She’s a mysterious woman."

Ooh, that’s intriguing …

Ha ha. She’s brand new to town and we haven’t had that much face-time together.

Allison smirked. Where’d you meet her?

In a bookstore.

What’s her name?

Constance Summerlin.

Constance? That’s a pretty name, Allison said. Well, good luck with that! Truth be told, it’s a relief to hear, I was desperately trying to think of who I could set you up with. You’ve taken the pressure off.

Glad to have been of assistance, he countered. But I’ll put the pressure back on by asking if you could get me in here full time. I really love working with this population group, and as you know, I’ve run out of steam in the advertising world. I think I’d be an asset to Lakebreeze.

You would be, Allison responded quickly, but we’re broke. The state owes us a ton in operation costs, and private donations are drying up. Times are tough, bucko, sorry. We’d love to have you as staff.

Trevin couldn’t hide his disappointment. Getting out of Lightning Strikes is all-encompassing. I’m just dead there, Allison. I can’t get excited over anything about that place anymore.

Be careful what you wish for, she warned. You don’t want to be out on the street with nothing lined up.

He went to say something more, but suddenly, the end of a walker—rubber caps and all—came poking slowly out from behind the massive fern, previously hidden from view. It was trying to tap him in the balls. Trevin jumped back. Allison jumped, too, also alarmed.

The crazy old coot behind the stunt made his grand entrance.

Mr. Joseph! Trevin exclaimed loudly. "What the hell?"

Maniacal laughter filled the hallway. The short man sporting a scruffy white beard and moustache slowly emerged fully from his covert hiding place, pushing the walker with effort. Through the wheezing, he said, Been listening and waiting for the moment, sucker. Thought you were gonna be yakking with Ms. Allison here all night. Good evening, beautiful!

Trevin said, You son of a …

Mr. Joseph got up in his face, staring him down. With a grin, he formed a fist and held it under Trevin’s chin. What’re going to do, boy, put up a fight?

Trevin laughed it off, backed up a step. Allison played into the joke.

You snot-nosed schlub, Mr. Joseph continued at Trevin. What were you going to do, blow right on out of here without giving me my lesson? You missed me last time, chowderhead, you’re not getting away easy tonight.

Go at my balls again, pal, warned Trevin, and you’ll never get another one.

The cantankerous man, his atrophied body half stooped, flexed a bicep for display. I’m scared. You’ll get these: the guns.

Finally, a laugh was shared by everyone. Allison got between them. Get going, you two. Trevin, I’ll see you on the way out. Mr. Joseph, behave. We don’t want to have to spike your Metamucil with a cow tranquilizer.

Mr. Joseph cackled uproariously, drawing attention from the lobby. That couldn’t stop me from asking you on a date, darling. How about it? You’re tired of your husband anyway.

Next time, Romeo, Allison said, wagging a finger at him and walking away. Mr. Joseph stared after her, lasering in on her buttocks. Allison called back to Trevin.

Bring your lady next time, Mr. Lambrose.

When she was far enough away, Mr. Joseph said to Trevin. Love to watch ’em walk away. Then he tried poking Trevin. Mrs. Pertina has quite the bod, doesn’t she? Too bad she’s married. And finally he threw a fake punch. Ready, chump? I got something for you to do. I don’t want to stand out here all night.

Trevin swept with his hand, rolling his eyes. By all means, sir, lead the way. I can’t wait for our time together.

* * *

Trevin admired the Playboy pin-up that Mr. Joseph had taped to the inside of his closet. He’d seen it as the old man opened the