The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,22
is her nurse tonight and she joins us mere moments after we arrive. “I’ll take over from here, Ashley. You go on and enjoy some time away from this place.”
Davis kisses his grandmother’s cheek. “I love you, Gran. Thanks for coming back to us for a little while.” She continues to stare off into space without even a glimmer of acknowledgment.
As we walk out of the building, the air around us feels deflated like an old party balloon. Once we’re in the car, Davis sits behind the wheel but doesn’t make a move to start the ignition.
“Are you okay?” I ask after a few minutes. My voice sounds loud and foreign to my ears, making me think I should have kept my mouth shut. This has been an emotional day, and he needs to process things in his own way.
Davis shakes his head before giving his shoulders a half shrug. “I’m sad. I figured Gran would sit around quietly while we all had dinner. Even though that wasn’t the most appealing thought, it’s the one I prepared myself for. Now that I’ve seen her as herself again, I find myself missing her something fierce.”
Several moments pass before he asks, “Did you ever know Gran when she was herself? You know, before dementia took over?”
“I’ve had the pleasure of knowing your grandmother as many different people, and while they were all fabrications of the truth, I’m positive her real personality shined through most of the time.”
“How so?” he wants to know.
“I’m pretty sure Cleopatra never swore her recipe for fried frog legs was the best on the whole Nile.”
Davis bursts out laughing. “I bet you’re right. Gran probably fried more frog legs in her time than any other person on the planet. Pops loved them so much he could eat them every day of the week.” His eyes dart in my direction. “Do you like them?”
“Um, no. I mostly grew up in the Chicago area where no one but French chefs and seventh grade biology teachers were proficient in frog anatomy.”
“No one in Creek Water ever made them for you?” he wants to know.
“My friend Janine’s mom did once, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat them. They’re too reptilian for me.”
“Frogs are amphibians,” he informs me.
“Okay, but they’re cold-blooded and that makes them pretty darn close to reptiles in my book.”
“A lot of varieties of fish are cold-blooded.”
“Fish don’t hop,” I retaliate.
“So, it’s the hopping you’re opposed to?”
“Davis, this is a stupid conversation,” I tell him.
“It is. But thank you for helping divert my thoughts.” He reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. He doesn’t remove it right away either; he maintains the contact.
Oh. My. God. Davis Frothingham is holding my hand. There’s probably no more meaning behind it than a moment of camaraderie, but I don’t care. It feels amazing and if I had even an ounce of courage I might let myself lean into him a bit. Of course, I don’t do that. I just sit bone straight like I have a steel rod shoved up my bum. I know that’s a disgusting analogy, but it’s accurate all the same.
When my hand starts to get clammy, I pretend to sneeze so I can remove it from his grasp in order to cover my mouth.
Once the connection is broken, Davis seems to regain his senses and starts the car. “I guess it’s time to get back to Creek Water.” He turns the music back on and I sing along in my head to Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life.”
When we pull into town, Davis doesn’t take the turn that leads to Shady Acres. Instead, he goes in the other direction toward the river. “Did you forget where I live?” I ask.
“No, ma’am. I just figured that we’d stop and get some supper. I don’t think either of us got more than two bites before we left my folks’ house.”
“I have food at home,” I say. Not that a frozen dinner is any great shakes.
“I don’t. But if you don’t want to eat together, I can turn around.”
“No, no, that’s okay. I’d like to grab something out.” I just don’t know what in the world we’ll talk about. My stomach suddenly feels like a flock of hawks are dive bombing their prey. One guess who the prey is.
Davis pulls into the parking lot at Filene’s Steak House. “We’re eating here?” I ask, more than a little surprised. The only time I’ve ever eaten at Filene’s is when my mom and