Part 5
George spent thirty-seven nights indoors after he signed his name.
His room in the transitional unit was small, with a narrow bed, a dresser bolted to the wall, and a window facing the loading dock. Trucks woke him before dawn. He liked that. Their reversing alarms kept time better than hospital clocks.
During the first week, he slept on top of the covers with his shoes beside the bed and his bag looped around one wrist. Nobody tried to take it from him. By the second week, the bag stayed beneath the dresser during breakfast.
On the third Sunday, I found him in the common kitchen with a jar of peanut butter, four slices of bread, and a plastic knife clenched in his recovering hand. Peanut butter covered his thumb and part of the countertop.
“What happened here?”
“Occupational therapy.”
“Mrs. Chen would close this kitchen.”
“Mrs. Chen isn’t here.”
He pushed a crooked sandwich toward me.
“You made this?”
“Evidence suggests I attempted it.”
“What about yours?”
“Ate it.”
I checked the trash for proof. He pointed to the smear of peanut butter on his shirt.
I sat across from him and ate. The bread was torn and one edge had no filling, but it was the first meal George had ever made for me.
He attended physical therapy, took his heart medication, and complained about the oatmeal. On clear mornings, he sat outside with the navy blanket over his knees. I brought sandwiches twice a week, though the dietitian persuaded him to accept turkey instead of peanut butter on most days.
Victoria visited on Sundays. By the fourth visit, she no longer brought a book. George had begun saving his complaints about the unit for her, and she had resumed correcting his version of their old flight stories.
They did not settle everything between them. They stopped pretending everything had to be settled before they could sit in the same room.
My own life remained balanced on numbers. The hospital restored the shifts I had missed, but Bell’s replaced me on two weeknights. I paid the rent late and the electric bill later. The unopened textbook required for my next course sat in an online shopping cart while its price increased by four dollars.
For once, I told Mrs. Chen.
She arranged extra cafeteria hours without pretending they were charity. I accepted them without pretending I had done her a favor.
In early October, George called me from the unit’s shared phone.
“Bring your index cards tomorrow.”
“You hate my index cards.”
“They’re inaccurate.”
“You corrected them.”
“I found more.”
His voice sounded tired but otherwise ordinary. I promised to come after my shift.
At five-forty the next morning, Mae called.
George had died in his sleep.
His heart had been badly damaged long before anyone listened to it. The medication had eased its work but could not undo the years. A staff member had checked on him before midnight. At dawn, he was still beneath the navy blanket, one hand resting on the leather cover of a library book Victoria had brought.
I sat on the edge of my mattress with the phone against my ear.
Mae kept speaking because forms and arrangements do not pause for grief. George had named me as his personal contact. His burial eligibility was already documented. The national cemetery could accept him. Victoria was driving up.
“I’ll come,” I said.
“You don’t need to come immediately.”
“I said I’ll come.”
My voice came back hard enough to make Mae pause.
“I’ll come after my shift,” I corrected. “Can you keep his things there?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Chen found me standing beside the cafeteria freezer with my apron untied.
She took the stack of trays from my hands.
“Go sit in my office.”
“I can finish breakfast.”
“Aaliyah.”
“I need the hours.”
“Then you’ll be paid for them.” She turned me by the shoulders. “Office.”
George’s belongings fit into one clear plastic bag: two shirts, socks, shaving soap, the photograph of the damaged helicopter, and the navy blanket folded into a square.
A white envelope with my name on it lay on top.
I opened it in Mae’s office.
Aaliyah,
You were bad at lying about extra sandwiches. I knew by the second week.
I should have stopped taking them. I didn’t because breakfast with you was the one appointment I could still keep. That was selfish. Splitting one sandwich was not enough to fix it.
Eat your half first sometimes.
Go to class even when somebody needs you. Especially then. There will always be somebody. Let other people carry what belongs in more than two hands.
I told Victoria to ask what you need instead of deciding for you. Make sure she does.
Thank you for asking my name.
George
I read the last sentence until the ink blurred.
Victoria waited in the hallway. When I gave her the letter, she read only the line George had intended for her and handed it back.
“What do you need?” she asked.
The automatic answer rose to my mouth: Nothing. I’m fine.
I looked at the plastic bag, the folded blanket, and George’s handwriting.
“I need him buried properly,” I said. “No reporters. No speeches from people who never met him.”
“That’s possible.”
“I need the school to let me take my make-up checkoff. There’s a fee. One hundred and eighty dollars.”
“Have you spoken to student services?”
“I spoke to my instructor.”
“That isn’t the same office.”
Victoria took out her phone but did not make the call for me. She found the college’s student-retention fund—a need-based emergency grant for students at risk of leaving before completing a certificate.
I had passed its poster outside the advising office for a year and assumed it was meant for somebody in worse trouble.
The application required a pay stub, a note from my instructor, and a paragraph explaining the emergency. Mrs. Chen supplied the pay stub. My instructor sent the note.
“What do you need from me?” Victoria asked.
“Sit here while I write the paragraph.”
She did.
The fund approved the fee two days later.
George’s burial was scheduled for the following Thursday at one o’clock. The cemetery had an opening then or three weeks later. I chose Thursday because George had spent enough of his life waiting to be placed somewhere.
An hour after I confirmed it, my instructor sent the time for my final make-up checkoff. Thursday. One o’clock…
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