Beautiful Mistake

by Vi Keeland

  I’d never been so happy to be stuck in traffic. Caine had to constantly change gears, and something about the way his large hand gripped the shifter just worked for me. Not to mention his forearm…and that damn vein. God help me. I was still finding a vein attractive.

  Caine noticed me watching him. “Do you know how to drive a manual?”

  “No. I tried once, and I hurt my nose.”

  His brows drew down. “You hurt your nose?”

  “I kept stalling, and the car would jerk. On the fifth or sixth time, I was letting off the clutch and starting to move, and then the damn tires screeched to an abrupt halt, and I lurched forward and hit the steering wheel. I thought I broke my nose.”

  Caine chuckled. “I think you might be a little too tightly wound to drive a stick.”

  “Me? You’re more tightly wound than I am.”

  He side-glanced at me. “Did you forget how we first met?”

  “That was different. I thought you hurt my friend.”

  “So rather than determine if I was the person you thought I was, you jumped down my throat. You’re wound tight.”

  My first reaction was to argue the point with him, which I realized would only prove his conclusion further. “Maybe you’re a little right.”

  “Just a little.”

  “You know, that’s how I became interested in musical therapy. Growing up I learned to use music to relax.”

  “Did you have music on when you tried to drive the stick shift?”

  I thought back. “You know what? I didn’t. I was nervous and didn’t want to be distracted, so I turned off the radio.”

  “Maybe you should have left it on.”

  “Hmmm…I never thought of that. Maybe you should let me drive yours and see if that works.”

  Caine laughed. “I like my clutch too much.”

  The drive to Umberto’s in New Jersey was normally about forty-five minutes on Sunday mornings, but today it was more like an hour and a half. The GW Bridge was closed except for one lane, and we crawled to cross. Once traffic opened up on the other side, we started to talk about my research.

  “Tell me about Umberto.”

  “Well, you read the basics in my summary, I’m sure. He’s seventy-three, late stage or stage six Alzheimer’s, has spent his entire life living in the home he grew up in—even had his medical practice in the house. He was a general practitioner who still made house calls up until ten years ago. He’s been married to Lydia for fifty-one years, and she visits him every single day. They have one son who lives on the West Coast and comes to see them a few times a year. Most days Umberto doesn’t remember Lydia anymore. He went through a two-year period of depression and found some happiness with a fellow patient, Carol. Sometimes Umberto and Carol sit and hold hands while Lydia visits him. I’ve never seen the kind of love his wife has for him. The man she spent her entire life with thinks he’s in love with another woman, and she’s happy for him. It’s the most selfless thing I’ve experienced. She wants him to truly be happy, even if he finds that happiness with someone else.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. It’s something beautiful in an otherwise tragic disease.”

  “And the music he’s responding to, it’s in Italian?”

  “Yes. When I first started to visit the center, I was working with a larger group, trying to find a few candidates to study individually. Umberto didn’t have much interest, even though his wife has control of his medical decisions and had signed him up for the study. I’d interviewed the families to learn about some music from the individual patients’ histories, and each week we’d play music and do exercises to see if I could get a response. Umberto had never reacted to anything one way or the other. He seemed to enjoy music, but neither his wedding song nor anything from other memorable times in his life sparked any type of special interest.”

  “So what made you try Italian music?”

  “It was just a whim, really. The week before, I’d heard Umberto respond to something the nurse asked him in Italian. I hadn’t even known he spoke it fluently. Apparently he slipped into speaking it every once in a while. So the next week, when I came, I thought I’d try an opera. People tend to really respond to the music at a show, so I figured, why not play one?”

  “And Umberto responded?”

  I clutched my chest. “He started to sob. It was heartbreaking. But it was the first reaction at all I’d gotten from him with music—negative or positive. That day was the most lucid he’d been in years. He started to tell old stories about his mother that his wife didn’t even remember. I wasn’t sure if it was the opera itself or the music that brought back a memory.”

  “What do you have planned for today?”

  I’d been alternating weeks between English and Italian music. This was actually an English week, but I’d decided to change things up a bit. Maybe a little part of me wanted to show off for the sexy professor.

  “Le Nozze di Figaro.”

  “Ah. Mozart.”

  “You’re an opera fan?” I asked.

  “I’m a music fan. Doesn’t matter what kind. I actually saw Figaro’s Wedding in undergraduate school—Composition Two. The whole class went as part of the course.”

  “I’ve never been to an opera.” We approached the turn to Regency Village, the assisted-living community where Umberto lived, so I pointed up ahead. “Make your next left. You can’t really see it until you’re almost past it. It sneaks up on you because it’s hidden behind those trees.”

  After we pulled into the parking lot, I started to get a bit nervous. I’d worked on my thesis for over a year. What if Caine found my research flawed or didn’t believe it was the music that brought Umberto’s memories back to the forefront? While he always enjoyed listening, not every session brought the same reaction.

  Caine killed the engine and turned to face me with one arm casually slung over the wheel. “I’ve read your research. Your arguments are strong. You’re going to do fine.”

  I hadn’t mentioned my nerves out loud. He must have read the confusion on my face.

  His eyes pointed down to my wrist. “You play with your watch when you’re nervous.”

  I’d been fidgeting with my watch. I immediately stopped. “When else did I mess with my watch that you noticed it?”

  “The first day of class after it emptied out and you had to come down the stairs to talk to me.” We stared into each other’s eyes. “Earlier in your apartment, when I noticed you weren’t wearing a bra.”

  Embarrassed, I looked around the car to avoid his stare. To my surprise, when my eyes returned to his, he was focused on my lips. Which caused me to jump from one nervous habit to another.

  I bit my lower lip as the sleeping butterflies in my belly woke to a flutter.

  Caine cleared his throat, but his voice was still gravelly. “You have nothing to be nervous about. Now come on, I’m looking forward to watching you kick ass.”

  Umberto was with his ladies, Lydia and Carol. He was smiling and laughing as we walked to their table in the visitor’s lounge.

  I whispered who was who to Caine as we approached. “His wife’s across and his girlfriend is next to him.”

  Caine whispered back. “Umberto’s got some racket going on.”

  I elbowed him in the abs to shh.

  “Hi, Umberto.”

  “Hi.”

  Every week was like starting all over. One thing I’d learned is that Umberto was good at pretending he knew who people were.

  “Did Max go?” he asked.

  “Umm. Yes.” I whispered to Caine. “Max was his dog—a black lab. For some reason, he frequently asks people if Max went to the bathroom. He thinks we were out walking him or something.”

  I turned to the ladies. “Hi, Lydia. Hi, Carol.”

  Lydia stood and kissed my cheek. We’d become good friends over the last year. I was just about to introduce Caine when Carol took it upon herself.

  “Who’s the handsome fella? You a new doctor h
ere?”

  I laughed. “This is Caine West, Carol. He’s a music professor at Brooklyn College, where I’m a graduate student.”

  Caine delivered a dazzling smile as he extended his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Carol.”

  We joined the three of them as they chatted about the movie that had been shown last night. Carol’s Alzheimer’s was less advanced than Umberto’s, so she tended to remember more.

  She put her hand on Umberto’s arm. “The Hunt for Red October. Remember, honey? It had that Sean Connery in it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

  I was certain Umberto didn’t recollect anything about the movie.

  Throughout our conversation, Caine was mostly quiet, just observing. I caught his eyes moving back and forth between Lydia’s face and where Carol’s hand touched Umberto a few times. I’d grown used to the unusual trio, but it was definitely something interesting to watch the first time. A woman who didn’t want to claw another woman’s eyes out when she caught her touching the man she loved—a man she had spent fifty-one years being faithful to. Caine was definitely watching for a reaction. But the only one he’d see from Lydia was contentment. She’d come to terms with whatever allowed her husband to feel some happiness.

  Eventually, the nurse came to collect Carol for an activity. Lydia had insisted we never begin therapy while Carol was present. She didn’t want her husband to have a memory that made him reach for her and upset Carol. There was a special place in Heaven for Lydia someday.

  After Umberto hugged Carol goodbye, he sat back down with us, but seemed agitated.

  Lydia reached across the table and covered her husband’s hand. “Umberto, Rachel is going to play you some music. Do you remember that Rachel plays you music sometimes?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

  That was Umberto’s way of saying, I have no idea, but I’m not telling you that.

  She squeezed. “Rachel’s going to put some headphones on you. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I placed a set of wireless headphones over Umberto’s ears while Lydia dug into her purse and took out a small case of earbuds she’d started to carry. It wasn’t necessary for her to listen, but she liked to keep in tune with her husband. Realizing for the first time that I hadn’t brought an extra set of wireless buds, I offered to share mine with Caine. It wasn’t necessarily a hardship having to inch up directly next to him so we could each listen through one bud.

  I started the music, and Umberto immediately closed his eyes. Within seconds, the tension etched in his face seemed to flee. I glanced over at Caine, who was watching Umberto, and he nodded his head and smiled. At some point during the song, Umberto reached out and took his wife’s hand. It was such a small gesture, but those tiny moments of recognition made a world of difference to a family dealing with advanced Alzheimer’s.

  We played two songs, and then I removed the headset from Umberto’s head.

  “How are you feeling today, Umberto?”

  “Good. Good.” I wasn’t sure if he felt any different than before, but the agitation from ten minutes earlier was gone.

  Lydia tried to build on the effect of the music. “Umberto? Do you remember when Francesca used to play this song?”

  “Sure.” He nodded. Then he pursed all five of his fingers together in the universal Italian grandmother hand language and said, “Belle parole non pascon I gatti.”

  Lydia laughed. She looked to me. “It means Fine words don’t feed cats. My mother-in-law, Francesca, used to say it all the time. I never really understood what it meant.”

  We stayed for a few hours, even breaking for lunch and then coming back afterward. But that was the extent of Umberto’s brief burst of memories that day. A second round of music in the afternoon didn’t bring back any specific recollections, but I hoped the music had something to do with the smiles everyone wore.

  Lydia looked at her watch. “Umberto, it’s almost time for mass. Do you want to get washed up before the service?”

  “Okay.”

  She turned to Caine and me. “Would you like to join us?”

  Even though I was definitely not a Sunday mass person, I’d joined them on a few occasions to observe Umberto’s reactions to the music.

  “I think we’re going to head out,” I told her. “It’s getting late.”

  As we were saying our goodbyes, Umberto looked to Caine. “You going to take Max out now?”

  Caine went along with it. “Yeah. I’ll take good care of Max.”

  After the nurse took Umberto back to his room to get ready, Lydia walked us to the lobby. “Somehow I don’t get offended that my husband has fallen in love with another woman and doesn’t remember me, but every time he remembers Max, I can’t help but be insulted.” She laughed, but seemed only half kidding. “So, I hope our Rachel scored an A today. The musical therapy really seems to be working.”

  I smiled. “It’s not like that. Professor West doesn’t give me a grade. He sort of oversees the research I’m doing and the writing of my paper.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, I hope you were impressed.”

  Caine looked at me with warmth in his eyes. “I was. Very.”

  Lydia gave me a hug. “See you next week?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Will I be seeing you again, Professor?”

  “If Rachel will have me.”

  Umm. Are we talking literally or figuratively here?

  Back in the car on the drive home, I could tell something was on Caine’s mind. He was quieter than usual.

  “Did you want to go to mass? I didn’t even think to ask you before I declined, and I’ve monopolized your entire Sunday.”

  Caine glanced at me and back to the road. “Haven’t gone to church in fifteen years. Wouldn’t step back inside if you paid me.”

  Caine

  Fifteen years ago

  What the hell is she doing?

  I ducked behind a wide marble column to watch. I was later than usual because Liam had been screwing around at band practice, and we all lost track of time trying to learn a new song he’d written while drunk last night. Half of what he’d chicken-scratched down on a brown paper bag was smeared and unreadable. But the other half was pretty damn good. So we riffed and riffed, trying to get the jackass to remember the words he’d written.

  I normally showed up at twelve-thirty and set myself up in the confessional to wait. My little friend generally wandered in sometime before one. But today I was late, and she was early. At least I thought she was early. I hadn’t really ever seen her clearly enough to be positive it was her. For all I knew, I could be hiding from some other random little girl who’d wandered into church on Saturday afternoon.

  The old wooden confessional was dark to begin with, and the latticed grate that separated us made it even more difficult to make out any detail other than her ponytail. I knew she had dark hair and was tiny—just like the little girl currently peeking into the priest’s side of the confessional. I watched curiously from a distance as she looked around and then opened the door. She stepped inside for a half a second and then darted back out and into the parishioner’s side—the sinner’s side.

  Five minutes passed, and she hadn’t opened the door back up, so when the coast was clear, I made my way over and slipped inside for my priestly duty. The booth looked as it normally did, except for two coins on the floor. I figured maybe she was trying to get a peek at the priest.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  It had to have been at least six weeks now we’d been doing this, yet every time she said those words, I felt an ache in my chest. She was carrying too much baggage for a kid. Lately, we didn’t even talk about the sins she thought she was committing. She just showed up and we shot the shit for a half hour or so. I got the feeling I was the only adult she trusted. Which was pretty fucking ironic considering I wasn’t even really an adult yet, and I’d been lying to her since the first minute she stepped into the booth.


  “How was your week?”

  “I got in trouble at school.”

  I smiled to myself. “Oh yeah? What did you do?”

  “It was also a sin.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, you know the boy who sits next to me that I told you about? Tommy?”

  “The one who always has his hand down his pants?”

  “That’s him. He made me say a bad word, and I got detention. We both got detention.”

  “How did he make you say a bad word?”

  “We were reviewing shapes in class for some state test. The teacher drew a diamond on the board and asked what shape it was. We’d learned rhombus a few years earlier, but when she called on me to answer, I forgot the word. The teacher gave me a hint to try and help me. She said it started with an R. I got excited because I thought I remembered, and I yelled out the wrong R word.”

  “What did you yell?”

  “I yelled rectum.”

  I had to stifle my laugh. “Do you know what that means?”

  “I do now. Tommy explained it to me by yelling that I was an A-hole.” She paused. “He said the whole word, too.”

  I tried to provide some priestly guidance. “Your mistake was honest. It sounds more like Tommy is the one who sinned by using the bad word intentionally. Not you.”

  “Well…I used it, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “At recess, some of the kids were still making fun of me, calling me an A-hole lover. So I told the kids I learned the word rectum from Tommy…because when he has his hands down his pants he sometimes sticks his thumb up his rectum during class. Only I didn’t use the word rectum when I said it.”

  What I wanted to say was Atta girl, but instead I stuck to my priestly ways. “You’ll say three Hail Marys for using the bad word. But, between us, it sounds like Tommy’s a jerk and deserved it.”

  My little lamb giggled.

  “Anything else?”

  Last week she hadn’t mentioned home, and I was anxious to find out how things were going. The only thing I’d been able to draw out of her, other than her own admission that she had bad thoughts about her stepfather, was that he drank too much and yelled.