the floor. Since Iâm not allowed to touch anything hazardous, I squeeze the water out of the mop for her. Even though Iâve been volunteering at the hospital for a few years, I still donât know how Mom does her job. Thereâs no way I could clean up after people like this all day long. I have mad respect for her. Sheâs stronger than anyone Iâve ever known. Deep down, I think she knows that about herself too. Mom doesnât suffer fools and she was always the one who told me I could work my way up to the top. Sheâs always believed in me, that I could do anything, be anyone I wanted to be.
By the time weâre done, the nurse has left the room and the old lady is starting to talk again, something about meeting Frank Sinatra. Sheâs staring out the window at the tall buildings across the street, so I canât tell whether sheâs speaking to us or just to herself.
Mom nudges me with her shoulder. âWhy donât you interview her for your project?â
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, âMeet me at the parking lot at the end of my shift.â
I nod and pull up a seat next to the bed. The stories this old lady could tell sound like theyâd 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.
âHi, Iâm Jasmine de los Santos,â I say. âIâm here to interview you for the study you signed up for? Iâm hoping to compile the stories into a book as well, and plan to share it with everyone at the end of the year.â
She gazes intensely at me, and I notice for the first time that her eyes are a milky blue, like the sky behind clouds. âI suppose you want to know my name?â She has a slight accent thatâs hard to place.
I nod. âThat would be helpful to start.â
âMy full name is Amelia Florence Marsh,â she says, in the tone of voice as if sheâs the queen of England.
âMrs. Marsh...â
â Ms. Marsh, actually, though I suppose thatâs confusing since Marsh is my married name. Iâm a widow.â
âIâm sorry,â I say, backpedaling.
âNo need to be sorry. What do you have people call you when you never divorced but youâre also not married anymore? Anyway, I go by Millie with my friends. And weâre going to be friends, arenât we? I can always tell.â
I smile. âMillie, I couldnât help but overhear your story about meeting Frank Sinatra. Do you want to start there?â
Millie arches one perfectly plucked gray eyebrow. âSure. I was a young girl thenâaround fifteen probably.â
âSo what did he say to you?â
She purses her lips as she looks up to the ceiling like a little kid whoâs been keeping a big secret for a long time and just canât wait to tell someone, even though she also doesnât want to be in trouble. âHe told me Iâd be just his type if I was just a little older,â she says with a throaty laugh. âOh, that Frank.â
I laugh with her. âDid you meet other famous people?â
âOf course. We lived in Beverly Hills, and it was only natural in my husbandâs line of work. But Iâm not some kind of vulgar name-dropper, if thatâs what youâre thinking, missy. The memory just reminded me of being young again, of having a body that worked for me instead of against me. Being oldâs terrible.â
âSorry, I didnât mean to offend you,â I say, although I like that sheâs a pistol.
Millie wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. âNo, Iâm sorry, darling. Iâm an awful wretch when Iâm sick. I shouldnât have snapped at you. I just donât feel well. At my age,