“Who is he?” I ask, ignoring the teasing.
“Congressman Blakely’s son. His dad represents our district. They were here visiting a relative.”
I take a surreptitious look at my phone, at the mug shot he just took. He’s smiling like a doofus. A very handsome doofus who does things like take a girl’s phone on a whim. ROYCE BLAKELY, it reads. Royce? What kind of ridiculous name is Royce?
Gladys smirks. “Cute, isn’t he?”
I roll my eyes. “He’d be even cuter if he didn’t wear a suit. Who wears a suit in LA?”
“Be careful what you say,” Gladys says, tapping the counter with a pen. “When you’re older, you’ll want your man to dress better. Some can get pretty lazy. After enough years together, you could find yourself begging him not to wear sweatpants to the Christmas party. Like I know I’ll have to do with Bob again this year.”
I laugh and say goodbye to her, then take the elevator up to the floor where they keep the people who have chronic illnesses or have to stay at the hospital for long periods of time. Mom makes friends with a lot of these patients, since she cleans their rooms every day. When she comes home quieter than normal, I know she’s lost one of them.
Most of our family still lives in the Philippines, so I understand what it’s like to be away from people you love. But at least I know they’re still alive. I can’t even imagine what I would do if I knew I would never be able to visit them again. It’s been a few years since we were back in Manila, and I miss it. I miss my grandparents’ huge house in the province, where at any time of day you can find neighbors, friends and relatives gathered at the courtyard tables playing mah-jongg or cards. Their house is like the community center for the village, always open and welcome to all.
I look down at my phone again. His name is Royce. Seriously? Am I supposed to call him that? Why don’t you text me? That way it’s up to you, he said. He’s not a stranger. He’s a congressman’s son. I mean, you’re supposed to know your congressman, right? I can be a good citizen.
jasmindls: Hey it’s me, I send.
I get a text back immediately.
royceb: jazzy baby?
jasmindls: The one and the same, Rolls Royce.
royceb: original.
jasmindls: Is that your real name or did your parents just really want a car?
royceb: if you must know, I’m named after my uncle who died.
jasmindls: Oh god! Sorry. My bad.
royceb: no, it’s mine. my uncle’s alive.
jasmindls:
royceb: actually he just got in a car accident, that’s why we were at the hospital.
royceb: so you have a problem with my name huh?
jasmindls: I dunno I kind of like fancy cars.
royceb: cool.
royceb: or do you prefer Baby?
jasmindls: It’s Jasmine, thank you very much.
royceb: nice to meet you Jasmine.
jasmindls: U too GTG TTYL, I type as I reach my floor.
royceb:
The nurses are chatting around their workstation as an employee pushes a food cart down the hall past me for the early bird dinners. Usually, I try to snag a Jell-O cup for myself. I’d never admit it, but I actually like the hospital food. But this time, I leave it. I was starving earlier, yet for some reason, I’m not hungry anymore. I’m excited and queasy-feeling, and I suspect it may have something to do with the boy who’s texting me.
I see my mother rounding the corner in her dark blue scrubs, dragging a bucket full of water and a mop behind her tiny frame.
“Mommy!” I say, skipping toward her. I never call her that except when I want to make her happy. It’s sort of a Filipino thing, and right now I’m bursting with news about the scholarship. “Guess what!”
But before I can say anything else she sets down the mop and leans against the handle. “Are you busy?” she asks. “I need you.”
I shake my head, disappointed not to have her full attention, and my good mood dampens a bit. She seems stressed. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Can you come help me with a mess? You don’t have to touch anything. I just need you to make sure no one walks on it.”
I nod and follow her. When the pressure becomes too much sometimes, when I feel like I’m about to burst with anxiety over my grades or get mad that I’ve never had a social life, I think about my mom and what she’s sacrificed for us so that we can have a better life. I’m so grateful to her and my dad for everything.
She leads me down the hallway into a large room. There’s a nurse bustling about the bed, giving a small, frail woman with white hair a sponge bath. I look down to give her privacy, but the woman complains loudly, “Nothing special to see here, honey. When you’re this old, there’s no such thing as dignity. Your body falls apart like a junky car, but you still have to have the mechanic take a look at the insides. Funny how young people are so modest when they have no reason to be. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say.”
I raise my eyebrow at my mom, who suppresses a smile. This patient is a feisty one, that’s for sure.
The nurse quiets her down while my mother begins mopping up urine from the floor. Since I’m not allowed to touch anything hazardous, I squeeze the water out of the mop for her. Even though I’ve been volunteering at the hospital for a few years, I still don’t know how Mom does her job. There’s no way I could clean up after people like this all day long. I have mad respect for her. She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. Deep down, I think she knows that about herself too. Mom doesn’t suffer fools and she was always the one who told me I could work my way up to the top. She’s always believed in me, that I could do anything, be anyone I wanted to be.
By the time we’re done, the nurse has left the room and the old lady is starting to talk again, something about meeting Frank Sinatra. She’s staring out the window at the tall buildings across the street, so I can’t tell whether she’s speaking to us or just to herself.
Mom nudges me with her shoulder. “Why don’t you interview her for your project?”
I check to see if the hospital room is on the approved list first, and notice that this patient was the last-minute addition that Gladys just handed to me.
Pushing the mop bucket out the doorway, Mom says, “Meet me at the parking lot at the end of my shift.”
I nod and pull up a seat next to the bed. The stories this old lady could tell sound like they’d be interesting, especially as she was describing to the nurse how she met Frank Sinatra backstage and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine de los Santos,” I say. “I’m here to interview you for the study you signed up for? I’m hoping to compile the stories into a book as well, and plan to share it with everyone at the end of the year.”
She