Breathe for Me by Rhonda Helms Page B

walking by elderly people resting in wheelchairs along the outer edges. They all gesture to Dominic, their frail hands and gnarled fingers waving lightly in the air.
    â€œYou know everyone in this place,” I say to him.
    He shrugs. “I try to visit as much as I can. Some of the people here don’t have family. Or they’re deserted and don’t ever get visitors, so I talk to them.”
    My heart twists at the lonely thought. How hard that must be. “It’s nice of you to hang out with them.”
    We turn right down another hallway and come to the second door on the right. Dominic knocks, opens the door. “Grandpa, I’m here.” He goes in, carefully hugging the small, impossibly slender man on the bed.
    I hang in the doorway, not wanting to interfere in their family moment. But Dominic notices and pulls me inside.
    â€œThis is my friend Isabel,” he continues. “Isabel, this is my grandfather, Amos.”
    â€œHi, Amos,” I say softly, trying to smile as casually as I can. Even if I couldn’t see the numbers above his head, I can tell from his narrow frame that he doesn’t have much longer to live. I wonder if Dominic knows.
    Amos lifts his hand toward me. It’s paper-thin, and I can see his thick blue veins on the surface. I give him a handshake, surprised at the strength in his grasp.
    â€œPleased to meet ya, Isabel,” he says. His voice is low, gravelly, with a light, raspy edge to his words. There’s a warmth that makes me feel instantly welcome. “Dom’s told me all about you.”
    Dominic sits in the seat on the other side of Amos’s bed. “You comfortable? Need something to drink?”
    Amos shakes his hand. “Wasn’t sure if you were coming today.”
    I slip into a seat in the corner and watch the two of them together. Dominic looks like his grandfather—they both have the same straight nose and blue eyes. Amos’s hair is also a bit messy, with grey bits tufting all over his head. I grin, now seeing where Dominic gets it from.
    â€œWhat did you eat today?” Dominic asks him.
    Amos sits straight up in his bed, wagging a finger at the door. “Spaghetti and meatballs. It was atrocious—so bland. No spices at all. Those people don’t know how to make a good meal. And they won’t let me in the kitchen to show them the right way. Bah,” he says, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.
    Dominic winks at me. “Grandpa was a chef,” he explains. “I always loved going to his house to eat dinner. I’d come back five pounds heavier and in a food coma, but happier than I’d been in days.”
    I chuckle. “No wonder he’s so passionate about it. It sounds amazing.” Yet another thing I love about New Orleans—the food is astounding.
    Amos looks at me, his bright eyes lucid. “My restaurant had the best Creole food in the Garden District. I prided myself on the authenticity of the recipes. My jambalaya was award-winning.”
    â€œI bet it was great,” I tell him earnestly.
    A pang of jealousy hits me. Not the resentful kind—more of a longing for that type of relationship with family. The only things I have left of my parents are snippets of words by my father, a few bars of some old song my mother used to sing. Jane’s silly dancing as she did her chores.
    Nothing tangible. Nothing concrete.
    I sit back and quietly observe, letting Dominic spend time with his grandfather. They talk among themselves for a few minutes, their heads dipped close together as they exchange words back and forth.
    â€œCome closer,” Amos says as he lifts a hand toward me and waves me over. “Can’t talk from all the way over there.”
    I hesitantly rise from my chair and go to the one on Dominic’s left, closer to the man’s feet. “I was just giving you guys some space.”
    â€œI see him all the time,” Amos says, ruffling