The Sound of Light

by Claire Wallis

  “No. His name is Winston. But, come to think of it, he does run a different sort of cult. No religion, though. Just politics.”

  Winston Sinclair. Sounds like the perfect name for a giant political dickhead.

  “Your dad’s a politician?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Huh. I voted a couple of times, but that’s about as close to politics as I’ll ever get.”

  “Me, too. Though at one point, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. No chance in hell of that. The last thing on this Earth I want to be is a giant dickhead.”

  “When I look at you, I definitely don’t see a giant dickhead.” I have my fingers on the handle, ready to open the door.

  “What do you see when you look at me?” He turns his upper body to face me and settles his hands in his lap, dropping them off the steering wheel with a small grin. It’s a loaded question if there ever was one.

  “I see a guy who cares about his grandmother. A lot. I also see a guy who enjoys swooning over bass players and drinking coffee with a touch of cream in all his unemployed spare time.” I open the car door and start to get out.

  “Spot on.”

  When I’m out of the car, I open the back door and take my bass out. Before I close both doors, I lean in to him and add, “I also see a guy who won’t tell anyone at Pine Manor about tonight because the girl in front of him would very much like to keep her day job.” I don’t know how my supervisors would feel about me hanging out with a patient’s family, and I’m not ready to find out.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I close both doors.

  Then I swear I hear him add, “But I might dream about you,” through the glass and steel.

  I sling the StingRay over my shoulders and head up the stairs wearing a huge smile.

  It’s beginning to look like Miriam Hansen was right.

  CHAPTER 10

  Christopher Siewers—Room number 116

  I spent most of my life in the corner office, ordering people around and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt the only way to get someone to truly respect your authority is to repeatedly show them you’re the one in charge. It’s especially true of women. Always has been, always will be. They need to be kept in their place. Screw women’s lib. Or whatever the hell they call it these days.

  When I started working for the firm in 1946, I had a secretary named Thelma. God, that woman knew how to push my buttons. She never said a nasty word out loud, but then again, she didn’t really have to. She’d tell me she hated me with her eyes. For the first four months, whenever I told her to take a letter or hang up my coat or reserve a table for lunch, she’d glare up at me with that pasty face of hers, spilling silent curses out of her dark pupils. I always suspected she was spitting in my coffee and slipping hair-loss tonic into my bourbon, but I could never catch her in the act. When I asked him to get rid of her, Mr. Morgan said he wouldn’t fire her. He said “demonic eyes” weren’t grounds for dismissal or reassignment, and Thelma was a faster typist than any of the other girls at Breakstone and Gladshire. Plus, she’d already been with the firm for two years before I even got there.

  Nowadays, they won’t allow you to do what I did. They won’t allow you to show a woman who’s boss by banging her on the conference room table against her will. They call it sexual harassment. Rape, even. But back then, back when things were right, a man could put a woman in her place, even if she wasn’t his wife. He could show her, in no uncertain terms and by whatever means necessary, that he was the one in charge. But not these days. These days, you got women doing all sorts of jobs built for men, jobs they have no business doing. If you ask me, that’s why the world’s so backward these days. That’s why women are sassy and brazen. They forgot where they belong.

  Thelma kept working for me for five years, only needing an occasional conference table reminder that I meant business. The one time she mustered up enough nerve to try to tell me no, I only had to tell her if she quit, I’d make sure she never worked in Philadelphia again. Her spinster ass would be moving into the church basement in the time it takes to refill the office percolator. After that one time, she kept her demonic eyes on the floor whenever I spoke.

  See what I’m saying? Show a woman where she belongs, and she’ll be at your heels, waiting to be dealt her next duty with nothing but a smile.

  I practiced law at Breakstone and Gladshire for forty-five years, working my way up to full partner by the time I was in my late thirties. Marilyn kept the house running like a well-oiled machine, just like I told her to. I had her put Christopher Junior to bed promptly at 6:30 every night. A boy needs his sleep, a man needs his bourbon, and a husband needs an obedient wife. I was a lucky man.

  Then life changed. Christopher Junior died of rheumatic fever when he was twelve. Marilyn never got over it. For years, I found solace at the office and in a parade of women hoping to climb the steno pool ladder via the slick spot between their legs. I busted my ass for that firm, but the younger partners forced me to retire at sixty-eight. They said I deserved a good, long retirement after all those years of putting in such long hours, but I think they were nothing but a bunch of pussies who couldn’t handle how tightly I held the reins. It was 1991. Marilyn and I spent a couple of years together after I retired, but I lost her to a stroke in 1997. I’ve been alone ever since.

  I was ninety-two when I died, but I was ready to go long before that. Trapped in a dense, buttery body with legs that were unable to carry my own weight, I cursed God for letting me get so damned old. I never wanted to live so long. I never wanted to be helpless. Especially not surrounded by a bunch of women. But that’s precisely what happened. Everyone at that place was a woman. The nurses, the administrators, the secretaries, the aides, the cooks. All women. Sassy, brazen women who didn’t know a damn thing about taking care of a man. They all but smacked my hand away the few times I was bold enough to try and pat one of them on the backside. At the end, I was confined to the damn bed, with only a bunch of women to cut my food, comb my hair, and sponge wash my dried-up pecker. There’s nothing more degrading than that.

  But that one girl, the one with the dark skin and the bottomless smile, she was different. She snuck me a glass of Elijah Craig Single Barrel bourbon every day for the last three weeks of my life, and sat and talked to me like I somehow mattered to her. She was good, that girl. Good at pretending like she cared.

  I don’t believe in the words please or thank you or sorry. They’re a sign of weakness. Most everyone I’d ever met had a problem with that. But not that girl. She never seemed to mind me being me.

  CHAPTER 11

  I spend the weekend changing soiled sheets, labeling fluid samples, and helping people get dressed. Adam spends the weekend with his grandmother. They play cards and watch TV. At one point, he reads to her. I know all this because I stop by Ms. Sinclair’s room several times a day, checking in on her as I go from one patient to another. I can’t help myself.

  Sondra calls me out on it just before my shift ends on Sunday. We’re standing in the lobby, getting ready to start moving people to the dining room for dinner.

  “So, you got a thing for Ms. Sinclair’s grandson or what?”

  “Maybe,” I say, shrugging and offering her a sly smirk.

  She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. It’s not the reaction I expected. I thought she’d be happy about it, seeing as how she’s always interested in my nonexistent love life.

  “I told you before, K’acy, you shouldn’t get attached to the patients. And the same goes for their families. You’ll only end up heartbroken. Someday, Ms. Sinclair’s gonna leave us, which means her grandson’s gonna leave us, which means you’re gonna be a hot, sobbing mess in the back stairwell yet again, sweetheart. And this time you’ll be crying over losing two people instead of just one.” She drops her hands to her sides, relaxes her face, and blinks one long, thoughtful blink. “I know what Miriam Hansen told you before she died. I was
there, remember? But don’t put too much stock in that, okay? They were just words from a crazy old woman. That’s all. You know that, right?”

  I haven’t put “too much stock” in Miriam Hansen’s words—I’m laying my entire heart out on them. But only because Mrs. Hansen was right. About a lot of things.

  “I don’t like Ms. Sinclair’s grandson because of what Miriam Hansen said.” There are plenty of other reasons, too. But I keep those to myself.

  “Good.” Sondra smiles at me and pats me on the shoulder. “Just be careful, okay?”

  I nod and smile, knowing full well there’s nothing to be careful about. Everything about this is right.

  “Time to get everyone rolling. Let’s go,” she adds.

  Sondra and I part ways to shuffle everyone into the dining room for dinner service.

  The last room I go to is Ms. Sinclair’s.

  “Hi,” I say as I walk into the room. “It’s time to go to dinner, Ms. Sinclair.”

  She and Adam are sitting at a card table with a checkerboard between them. Ms. Sinclair’s face is in her hands, her elbows propped on the table. Then I notice that all the checkers are scattered on the floor, likely swept off the board by Ms. Sinclair in a fit of frustration. I’ve seen it happen before. Even games that have been played a thousand times over are different with Alzheimer’s. “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  Before either of them can answer my question, Ms. Sinclair raises her head and looks directly at me, lowering her hands onto the table at the same time. They fall with a thud.

  There’s something new and startling in her eyes. Something I haven’t seen before.

  Fear rushes through me. All the air leaves my lungs in sickeningly slow motion, knotting my stomach as it goes.

  It’s all there, in her eyes. The story of the end. Every second. Every detail. All the things that will happen if I’m not here to stop them.

  A gurgle of apprehension ripples through me. The room is quiet as I study her. It may be five seconds, it may be five minutes. I don’t know, but I can’t look away.

  Adam’s voice cuts into the silence, jolting me back to reality. “You know what, Gram? We don’t have to play checkers anymore, okay? In fact, let’s get rid of them.” He picks up the checkerboard, folds it in half, and dumps it into the trashcan with a clunk. Then he scrambles around, collecting all the checkers off the floor like candy at a parade. They fall into the wastebasket, bouncing off the discarded checkerboard with a disheveled clatter.

  When he’s finished, Adam straightens his back and takes a deep breath. He looks over at me, and there are tears in his eyes. “I never liked checkers anyway.”

  “Me neither,” I say, trying my best to disguise the new and sudden fear in my heart. “I mean, who says pieces of plastic can’t get along simply because of what color they are? It’s totally ridiculous, if you ask me.” His head tips to the side and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. I smile back, feeling instantly better, despite what I’ve seen.

  “Come on, Ms. Sinclair. Let’s get you into your wheelchair. I hear the dining staff is serving those pork chops you like so much.” Ms. Sinclair tilts her chin up to look at me, but I quickly turn away. I can’t handle any more.

  I follow Adam as he pushes his grandmother down the hallway and into the dining room. He nestles her wheelchair up to the table, sets the brake, and tells her he’ll see her in the morning. Then both of us turn to walk away.

  “It was so lovely to see you. Thank you both for coming. Goodbye, Adam.”

  I think it’s the first time she’s ever called him by his real name without being reminded. He freezes in place, and his eyes close for a moment, taking it in. “Goodbye, Gram,” he says, turning to kiss her on top of the head. We walk out of the room together.

  WHEN I LEAVE the administration office to head home fifteen minutes later, Adam is alone, sitting on one of the lobby’s leather wingchairs with one leg crossed over the other. He’s looking down at his phone.

  “Hey,” I say, walking over to him and taking a seat in the adjacent chair. “You okay?”

  He shuts his phone off and shoves it in his pocket. “Yeah. I’m okay. It was just a hard day, that’s all.”

  Unfortunately, there’s going to be a lot more of those. But he doesn’t need to hear that; he already knows.

  “Alzheimer’s is unpredictable. You just have to roll with it as best as you can, you know? Time and love.” I pause for a second, shrugging my shoulders and shifting in my chair. “It was pretty cool when she called you by the right name, though. That’s stellar.”

  “I just wish it weren’t on the heels of the checkers incident.”

  “You’re gonna have to take what you can get.” My words are true for so many things in life. Especially this.

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know you are. And somewhere inside, she knows it, too.” I want to take his hand in mine and tell him everything is going to be okay. I want to hug him and reassure him and say that things are going to get better. But Sondra’s voice is in my head, reminding me of the truth. Reminding me that things are not ever going to get better for Ms. Sinclair. They’re only going to get worse, and you don’t need to see what I saw to know that.

  I decide the conversation needs to change direction before he sinks any deeper.

  “So, what are you doing sitting here by yourself? I thought you left after we took your Gram to dinner. How come you’re still here?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  Oh. “Well, here I am.”

  “I wanted to ask if you’d like a ride home or something.” His hands are fidgeting with the fabric cuffs of the chair.

  And just like that, the bass riff commences.

  “A ride would be great. Thanks.”

  “Do you wanna grab some dinner, too? My treat. Just to say thanks for all you do for Gram.” He stumbles over the words.

  “Okay.” I try to keep my cool and ignore the notes knocking around inside my skull.

  Adam gets up from his chair and offers me his hand, as if I might need help to stand up. As if I were his grandmother. I’m not sure if it’s habit or if he’s trying to be a gentleman. Either way, I take it, but only after glancing at the front desk to make sure no one is watching. I feel like I’m on the set of Downton Abbey. Except I’m wearing scrubs. And I’ve got the wrong color skin.

  My hand is connected to his for precisely 2.4 seconds.

  I’m glad when Adam lets go and starts walking toward the door because that’s exactly when Sondra rounds the corner and walks into the room. She softly shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the sight of the two of us together. I shrug, knowing Adam’s back is to me.

  “You off tomorrow, K’acy?” she says as I head for the door myself. Adam turns around to face us both.

  “Yep. And Tuesday.”

  “Guess I’ll see you Thursday then. I got nights this week.” Sondra switches shifts sometimes to accommodate her husband’s work schedule. She must be off on Wednesday.

  “Okay. See you then. Good night.”

  “Night, K’acy. Keep out of trouble now, you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I give her an eye roll of my own before following Adam out the door.

  I direct him to my favorite Mexican place, and the hostess seats us at a small, round table by the bar. Rather than sitting across from me, Adam sits at my side. It’s another thing that would put him on Louise McGee’s discard pile. I like it.

  As we eat, Adam and I chat about Sondra and some of the other aides and nurses I work with. He says everyone at Pine Manor seems very nice. Except for Marie. He calls her “the grouch at the front desk.” I tell him she’s definitely the exception; everyone else is pretty great.

  Then he asks me about Jarrod.

  “So your front man…the one with the great ass…what’s up with him?”

  “Jarrod? He’s a good friend. My best friend, actually.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I furrow my brow at him,
wondering who told him Jarrod is my bestie. “When he came over to me at Bartholomew’s on Friday night, he introduced himself as ‘K’acy’s best friend, Jarrod.’”

  I don’t ever remember Jarrod calling me his best friend before, and even though I’m only hearing it through the proverbial grapevine, it feels good.

  “I hope he wasn’t an asshole or anything.”

  “Not at all. He introduced himself and then invited me to come back and see you.” He pauses for a second before continuing. “Why? Is he an asshole sometimes?”

  “Never to me. No. But sometimes to other people. I think it’s probably just him being overprotective.”

  “Of what? You?”

  “Of the band, I guess. But maybe of me, too.” Though I never really thought of it that way. Until now.

  “What’s he protecting you from?”

  It’s a good question, come to think of it. I’ve done some protecting myself since I met Jarrod, and my best guess is that he just feels the need to return the favor.

  “Swooners, apparently. Though I didn’t even realize I had any until Friday night.”

  Adam laughs out loud. The sound is jitter-inducing and downright amazing.

  “Maybe he’s just jealous because you have more swooners than he does. He’s trying to scare them off before you even notice they’re there.”

  “That must be it.” My gaze settles on my half-eaten enchilada because I’m too embarrassed to look at him anymore. I wish I had a shot of tequila.

  “Well, I guess he won’t have to worry about that anymore, now that I’m your lone swooner.”

  And now I wish I had a whole bottle of tequila. I keep looking at my enchilada because I have no idea what to say.

  But then I feel his hand touch my face, and the words come to me.

  “No, I guess he won’t.”

  Adam Sinclair leans over and kisses me.

  There’s thumping in my ears, and at first, I think my brain must have turned up the volume on “Soul to Squeeze.” But then I realize it’s my heart, jackhammering against my ribcage as if it suddenly wants to be set free. He tastes like the whiskey and Coke in his glass. I’m pretty sure I taste like an enchilada. But it doesn’t stop me from kissing him back. In fact, right now, I don’t think anything could stop me from kissing him back.