“You can come in now,” he says loudly, quickly popping his head back out of the room. Embarrassment courses through me. “She’s awake.” He turns back to Ms. Sinclair and adds, “K’acy is here to give you your medicine.” Crap. It’s not time for her medication. Before I walk into the room, I quickly pat the pockets of my scrubs, looking for an Altoid or something to serve as a placebo. I don’t find anything besides a pen and a paperclip.
“But, dear, I’ve already taken my medicine. They give it to me first thing in the morning. Never in the afternoon.” She says it just as I walk into the opening of the doorframe. I’m standing in full view of both of them, feeling a rush of hot blood creep up into my cheeks. Bad timing on the lucidity, Ms. Sinclair. Thanks.
Adam Sinclair stares at me long and hard, probably trying to decide if I almost just made a terrible mistake by overmedicating a resident or if his grandmother just totally busted me for spying on them. It doesn’t really matter which one of the two he decides on because either conclusion makes me an idiot. All I can do is stand here like the moron I apparently am. First of all, I can’t even administer medication. I’m not licensed. And secondly, I’m not holding a medication tray, or even one of those tiny paper cups they distribute the pills in, nor did I drop anything when he ran into me in the hallway. It doesn’t take him long to figure out which conclusion is the right one.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got such a good memory, Gram.” He sits down on the edge of her bed and looks back up at me with an enormous, smug grin. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes. It’s remarkable, really. Especially considering that just yesterday Ms. Sinclair thought I was a student in her fifth grade class.” I regret my sassy words immediately. But not because I said them to him, but rather because I said them in front of her. I don’t like to talk about the patients’ memory failures within their earshot. The last thing I want to do is remind them that they’re losing it. When you’re eighty-five and tormented by Alzheimer’s, you don’t need any reminders of your brain’s current inadequacies. Mentioning a patient’s “wrongs” does nothing but frustrate and confuse them, so I try to keep our conversations grounded in reality without smacking them in the face with it. I usually try to tiptoe around their memory’s mistakes. But the words I just said did not tiptoe around anything. They ran right over it.
“Really? She thought you were one of her students?” It’s not the reply I was expecting. The look of smugness has left his face. It’s been replaced by perplexity.
“I did no such thing,” says Ms. Sinclair from her bed. “I know this young lady is my nurse. Why on earth would I think she was one of my students? She even helped me comb my hair today, dear.”
“You’re right, Ms. Sinclair. I’m sorry. I must have been confusing you with someone else,” I say in true apology. I turn to walk away, but in my peripheral vision I see Adam’s face. It’s smothered in uncertainty. I’m beginning to wonder how long it’s been since he last saw his grandmother.
Before I start walking down the hallway, I turn to him and thoughtfully add, “If you need anything while you’re here, don’t hesitate to come find me. I’d be happy to fill in any blanks.” I don’t mean for it to sound like some kind of code. I just want him to know I can probably tell him more about his grandmother’s condition than anyone else here.
“I’ll be going for that coffee a little later. I’ll try to find you then.”
“I’ll be here.”
I need to go check on Mr. Rauch and his shoulder, so I head down the hall, past the reception desk, through the lobby, and over into the other wing of the building.
And the whole time I’m walking, that Chili Peppers bass riff is thumping in my chest.
CHAPTER 5
Beth Salvo—Room number 126
I spent most of my life in a basement, doing laundry for two different families. When I was just sixteen years old, I started working for a family of seven. Then, when that family didn’t need me anymore, I moved to a different basement. This one belonged to a family of nine. Washing, drying, folding, and ironing. All day long. Trousers, blouses, skirts, blue jeans, tablecloths, and bedsheets. I ironed just about everything ’cept for their socks and skivvies. Five days a week I did someone else’s laundry. And yet, I loved it. I loved watching the children grow, right along with the size of their undershirts. I never had any children of my own, so it was always a pleasure to hear them laughing and playing in the family room above my head. I also loved the solitude of the work and the satisfaction of knowing I’d always have a job. ’Cause somebody, somewhere, was always gonna need their shirt pressed or their bedsheets laundered. Even if I lost that particular job, there’d always be another one right around the corner.
My only regret was marrying Paul. Sometimes he was a real charmer, but other times, he was meaner than a coked-up Ike Turner, hitting me with his words or his fists whenever he had a clear shot. Truth be told, it was a relief when he died. I would never have wanted him to suffer, because that’s not something a God-fearing woman would ever want for anyone. But that heart attack…it was the perfect way for him to go. Quick and painless and in the middle of the night. I got to live another twenty years without him, and even though I was still in a basement for most of them, they were the best twenty years of my life.
As for me, when it was my turn to die, I wasn’t sad. I was ready to go. There’s only so much tiredness a person can take before they’re ready to move on. There’s only so much pain a body can manage before it just wants to get some rest. I worked my whole life and didn’t have so much as a dime to share when the end came, nor did I think I had anyone who would care about me being gone. But that girl, the one from the nursing home, she cared. She cried about me dying like I was someone that actually mattered. She was good to me, but I can’t imagine I mattered much to her. I was just a woman whose hair she washed every Tuesday and whose bedpan she changed when I couldn’t get up and use the toilet anymore.
My whole life, I never really mattered to anyone. Why would it be any different at the end?
CHAPTER 6
During my break, I tell Adam Sinclair about his grandmother over a cup of coffee, and as I’m talking, I actually think I see his heart break. By the end of our conversation, I’ve learned he hasn’t seen her in almost seventeen years, but he doesn’t tell me why. And I don’t ask.
Adam tells me he’s fresh out of grad school, with a master’s degree in finance from the University of Washington. He was born in Philly, but his father moved his family out west when Adam was eight. He moved back here last week, wanting to be closer to his grandmother. He’s honest and frank and clearly shaken by Ms. Sinclair’s condition.
As we talk, it’s painfully obvious he had no clue she’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, and his voice cracks as he asks me about what will happen to her as the disease progresses. I do my best to comfort him, but I’m not her doctor or even a nurse, so all I can do, without getting myself into trouble, is share general information about the disease and tell him what I know about Ms. Sinclair’s needs right now.
“What can I do for her?” he asks me at one point in the conversation. “I mean, outside of what my father’s already doing with her doctors.” I’m glad to know his father has been in touch with Ms. Sinclair’s doctors. It’s news to me, but I’m glad to hear it nevertheless.
“Well, I’m certainly not a doctor, but I can tell you our residents really enjoy visitors, and the more often she sees you, the easier it will be for her to stay connected to you in the future. It’ll be frustrating sometimes; trust me, I know. But meet her wherever she is. Even if it means sitting at the window with her and talking about her birds.”
“Her birds?” He looks confused again.
“Yes. She told me she used to have pet birds when she was young, so I set up a birdfeeder outside the lobby window. She loves to sit there and watch them.”
He looks at me thoughtfully, but I don’t think he’s questioning my motivations; I think he’
s just trying to figure them out.
“Huh.” He shrugs and looks off in the distance, over my shoulder. I’m beginning to get the impression that Adam doesn’t know much about his grandmother at all. The sadness in his face deepens, and the bass riff still vibrating in my chest suddenly drops deep into my gut, forming a melancholy puddle of sympathy. For both of them.
“Your grandmother is a wonderful woman. She’ll really enjoy having you around. That much I know for sure.” He smiles at my words and takes a small sip of his coffee. His silence adds to the puddle in my gut. I think I see tears forming in his eyes. “I’d better get back to work,” I add, wanting to give him some privacy and save him from the humiliation of crying in front of a girl.
“Thanks, K’acy. I guess I’ll be seeing you around then.”
“Like I said, I’ll be here.”
I turn away and walk out of the room.
I’M PLAYING my StingRay again. This time, I’m by myself, in the back of a dive bar called The King’s Court. It’s my regular Wednesday-night emotional-housecleaning gig. The one I use to forget about the rest of the world. I don’t get paid to stand here, slapping my fingers against the strings in a solo performance that’s, more often than not, completely devoid of an audience much larger than a half dozen. I do it because I need to. Because it helps me forget.
Jarrod is sitting at the bar nursing a beer. He’s the only person who’s religiously here on Wednesday nights, and I like it that way. Flying under the radar is just fine with me. I don’t need “regulars”; I just need music.
The StingRay sits against the perfect pocket formed by the front of my hip, tied to me with a thick strap of leather and a set of strings that go straight to my heart. I play for two solid hours, thinking of nothing but the music coming out of me. My foot presses down on the compressor pedal from time to time, serving to both balance the sound and decompress my soul.
Then, just before I finish, I start playing the bass riff that’s been echoing through me nonstop since I shook Adam Sinclair’s hand on Monday afternoon. The moment Jarrod recognizes the song, he looks up at me. He’s never heard me play a Chili Peppers song before, and he’s wearing a look of amused bewilderment. Hell, I’m confused myself. But “Soul to Squeeze” comes out of me in an unstoppable pulse of flawless notes. And, though I don’t say them out loud, the lyrics roll through the inside of my head like they somehow belong there. It’s disconcerting. I’m gonna catch hell from Jarrod for it, that much I’m sure of. But still…when I finish the song, I feel cleansed.
“What the fuck was that?” Jarrod asks, walking up to me just after I zip my gig bag closed. I stand, sling the StingRay over my shoulder, and turn to him. I can smell the beer on his breath.
“‘Soul to Squeeze.’ Why?”
“I know what song it was, smartass. I wanna know why the hell you were playing it.”
“I don’t know. It’s just been stuck in my head for the past couple of days. I had to purge the earworm.” It feels like we’ve undergone some kind of bizarre personality flip. This time, I’m the one turning away from him, just to keep from showing him too much. Too much of what, I’m not sure.
“Earworm? Since when do you get earworms that involve Anthony Kiedis?”
“Since Monday, I guess.” I start walking toward the front door, hoping to avoid any more questions. I have no reason to feel like I have something worth hiding, but if anyone’s gonna call me out on an awkward reason for playing a particular song, it’s Jarrod. He knows I don’t play anything without purpose.
“And what happened on Monday to get this particular earworm tunneling into your little brain far enough for it play on repeat for two entire days?”
“Nothing.” I open the front door and walk out into the night, turning to the right and heading to the closest bus stop.
Jarrod coughs into his hand, spitting a rough “bullshit” out with the sound. I stop and turn on my heels, staring him down as best as I can without raising my hackles, or his. I don’t say anything.
“Fine. Don’t tell me then. But you have to know that if you don’t, I’m gonna assume all kinds of stuff. Like maybe the Chili Peppers ‘discovered’ you on YouTube and want you to come on tour with them. Ooo, no…I’ve got it! Maybe you had a crazy sex dream about Flea. Like the kind where you’re screwing on stage or something. Maybe that’s what this is all about. Which is it, K’acy? The tour or the sex dream?” He nudges me on the shoulder with his outstretched hand, like a big brother would prod his little sister. I can’t help but smile.
“It’s neither, you big douche. It’s just someone I met at work. They remind me of that song for some reason.” I see the bus coming down the street. I turn away from him again and hurry toward the stop. I don’t want to miss this one because another 43D isn’t scheduled to come for another forty-five minutes. He follows close behind me.
“You met an old person who reminds you of the Red Hot Chili Peppers? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Maybe it isn’t an old person.”
A split second later, the bus meets me at the curb and the doors open. I step on, leaving him standing on the sidewalk alone. As the bus drives past Jarrod, I look out the window and see him frozen there, wearing his Kranky Records “hugs and/or drugs” T-shirt and one hell of an enormous grin.
I DON’T SEE Pine Manor again until my shift on Friday, the busiest day of the week. Today, we have two special programs for our residents, instead of just one. There’s gentle yoga in the morning, and then a group of therapy dogs comes at 2:00. It’s always chaos when the dogs are here because everyone wants a chance to see them. And then, to add to the crazy, when my shift ends, I have to head home to change and pick up my gear. Crackerjack Townhouse is playing at Bartholomew’s tonight. We hit the stage there once or twice a month and tonight’s one of those nights. It’s always a barrel of amazing. The vibe at Bartholomew’s is like nowhere else on this Earth.
I’m helping Ms. Sinclair out of her wheelchair and into her recliner for this morning’s viewing of Family Feud when Adam walks into the room carrying a plastic grocery bag. I haven’t heard a peep from Jarrod after leaving him stupefied at the bus stop, but the immaturity of our conversation leaps into my mind as soon as I see Adam’s face. Thankfully, the earworm seems to have been purged. At least for now.
“Good morning,” he says, taking off his jacket and tossing it onto her bed, right next to the grocery bag already resting there.
“Hello, Bradley. How are you feeling today? Are you better?”
Adam’s face slumps at the sound of his grandmother’s words, and he lets out a breathy sigh. I settle Ms. Sinclair into her seat and tuck a blanket over her legs, willing Adam to just run with it.
“Gram, it’s me, Adam. Remember? I was here to see you yesterday. I brought you more peppermint candies today. And some of those peanut M&M’s you used to like so much when I was a little boy.” He picks the bag back up off the bed and holds it out to her. She looks inside and pulls out a clear package of Starlight mints, tearing it open and pouring the contents into the candy dish on the table next to her. Then, she picks up one of the mints and starts to unwrap it. Adam looks at me as his grandmother’s focus instantaneously switches from him to Steve Harvey and Family Feud. I think he’s feeling pretty lost. I tilt my head toward the door and raise my brow in suggestion. He gets the message.
“Gram, I’ll be right out in the hallway if you need anything, okay? I just want to talk to K’acy about something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He pats her on the arm, but she doesn’t look away from the television, nor does she respond.
Out in the hallway I tell Adam the words I think he needs to hear.
“I know it totally sucks, but please try not to get upset about her thinking you’re someone else, or even that she’s so focused on the TV. Ms. Sinclair has developed a routine with us over the past few months, and sometimes it’s hard for someone with her issues to break out of that routine, even when they have guests. It mig
ht seem boring to you and me, but to her, the predictability is comforting. It’s kind of like dealing with little kids; they do better when they know what’s coming next. I’m not saying you shouldn’t remind her that you’re Adam and not Bradley. I’m just saying it’s going to take some time. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” he says, lifting his right hand and brushing it through his hair. The motion exudes both exasperation and reluctant acceptance. “It does.”
“The thing is, you just have to start becoming part of her routine. It isn’t going to happen overnight, but just keep coming. Keep talking to her. If you’re lucky, eventually you might even become as familiar to her as Steve Harvey.” I shrug at my lame attempt at lightening the mood. He doesn’t look amused.
“Can you just tell me…is this Bradley person a part of her routine?” He doesn’t sound angry, or even hurt. But he does sound as puzzled as I suddenly feel. Ever since Adam showed up and informed me Ms. Sinclair has a son, I just assumed Bradley was Adam’s father. I guess I was wrong. “How often does he come to see her?”
“He’s never come to see her, as far as I know. I don’t even know who he is.”
“Oh.” Adam’s expression turns into a tangled knot of uncertainty and helplessness. It takes everything in me not to reach across the empty space between us and wrap him in a hug. My chest is heavy. I don’t know what to do or say next because there are no words capable of taking the sting out of what he’s feeling. The thought of his grandmother wishing he was someone else—someone he doesn’t even know—must hurt beyond measure. I try to find the right words.
“Keep coming. As often as you can. She’s just like the rest of us, really. All she needs is time and love.”
Adam Sinclair tilts his head to the side no more than the width of finger. His eyes narrow and his forehead tucks down on itself. It’s a small movement, but it’s one that instantly floods me with emotion.
The Sound of Light Page 3