1 Second Week In July, 2018 (2/2)
”Good to know. You alone on this travel?”
”Listen, I'm gonna jet,” said Gemma, feeling the conversation had turned personal. ”Cheerio.” She said and headed for the door.
”My dad's crazy sick,” the woman said, talking to Gemma's back. ”I've been looking after him for a long time.”
A stab of sympathy hit Gemma in the heart. She stopped and turned.
”Every morning and every night after work, I'm by his side,” the woman went on. ”Now that he's finally stable, and I wanted to get away so badly that I didn't even think about the price tag. I'm blowing a lot of cash here I shouldn't be.”
”What's your father got?”
”MS,” said the woman. ”Multiple sclerosis? And dementia. He used to be the head of our family. Very macho. Strong in all his opinions. Now he's a twisted body in a bed. He doesn't even know where he is half the time. He's, like, asking me if I'm the waitress.”
”Damn.”
”I'm scared I'm gonna lose him and I dread being with him, both at the same time. And when he's dead and I'm an orphan, I know I'm going to be sorry I took this trip away from him, you know?” The woman stopped running and put her feet on either side of the treadmill. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ”Sorry. Too much information.”
”S'okay.”
”You go on. Go shower or whatever. Maybe I'll see you around later.”The woman turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A scar wound down her right forearm, jagged, like from a knife, not clean like from an operation. There was a story there.
”Listen, do you like to play trivia?” Gemma asked, against her better judgment.
A smile from the woman emerged with white but crooked teeth. ”I'm a badass at trivia,actually.””
They run it every other night in the lounge downstairs,” said Gemma. ”It's pretty much crap. You wanna go?”
”What kind of crap?”
”Good crap. Silly and loud.”
”Okay. Yeah, all right.”
”Good,” said Gemma. ”We'll crush it. You'll be happy you took a vacation. I'm strong on superheroes, spy movies, YouTubers, fitness, money, makeup, and Victorian writers. What about you?”
”Victorian writers? Like Eliot?”
”Yeah, whatever.” Gemma felt her face flush. It suddenly seemed an odd set of things to be interested in.
”I love Eliot.”
”Shut up.”
”I do.” The woman smiled again. ”I'm good on Eliot, cooking, current events, politics . . . let's see, oh, and cats.”
”All right, then,” said Gemma. ”It starts at seven o'clock in that lounge off the main lobby. The bar with sofas.”
”Seven o'clock. You're on.” The woman walked over and extended her hand. ”What's your name again? I'm Sam.”
Gemma shook it. ”I didn't tell you my name,” she said. ”But it's Willow.”