The Sound of Light

by Claire Wallis

  The beeps and blips of medical equipment start as soon as we set foot through the crash doors. Glass-fronted rooms line both sides of the hallway, allowing a brief view of the patients housed inside as we walk past. Outside of each room, in the hallway, is a nurse’s station. Some are staffed while others are not. We walk farther down the corridor, past a large central area where several nurses and doctors are collected, discussing something in a hushed tone. They pause and watch Perry Devine as we walk past. He doesn’t look at them, but I do. And I offer a small, sheltered smile in greeting. Some of them nod back at me before returning to their conversation. At the end of the hall, in the far left corner, is Winston Sinclair’s room. I draw a map inside my head, so I won't forget. Mr. Devine holds the door open for me as I walk inside.

  A burnt, metallic odor—like used fireworks—infuses the air, twisting my stomach and walloping my senses. It sticks on the back of my tongue, along with the smell of scorched hair and antiseptic. Mr. Sinclair is lying in the bed, the stiff whoosh-and-hum of a respirator causing his chest to rise and fall. Most of his skin is covered in gauze, except for the inside of his left forearm, where the IV enters. The skin there is thick and leathery. Soon, they’ll cut it away. They’ll scour his body and get rid of all the burned, dead tissue. When they pull him out of sedation, the pain will be shockingly relentless. Intense and unending. He’ll suffer through it, but in the end, he won’t survive. His organs will fail, and despite a surge of antibiotics, an infection will turn septic. All of his pain will be for nothing.

  I close my eyes at the sound of my own quiet voice. “How is Adam?”

  There’s a pause before Perry Devine offers an answer. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “He won’t talk to me. He won’t talk to anyone. All he did last night was sit here.”

  “Where is he now?” I ask, willing Mr. Devine to confirm my hope that Adam is with his grandmother.

  “I’m not sure.”

  I inhale a single cleansing breath and open my eyes to look at Mr. Sinclair, swaddled in gauze and temporarily blind to his own intense pain, thanks to the miracles of opiates and modern medicine. I want to sit on the edge of his bed and take the useless hurt of his future away. For how intensely I wanted the man to suffer less than twenty-four hours ago, I now feel equally as passionate about taking it all away and giving him peace. But it’s not just because I promised Evelyn Sinclair I would take care of her son. It’s also because I’m me.

  My daddy taught me the difference between outside pain and inside pain a few weeks after Momma left us. When he finally told me and Charlie she wasn’t coming back from Reverend Thompson’s revival tent, he said there was nothing a person could do about certain kinds of pain. He said you can fix most kinds outside pain with medicine and Band-Aids and kisses, but inside pain was different. He said there’s no way a doctor can fix that kind of pain; only time and love can.

  After that night, Charlie stopped crying herself to sleep and praying for Reverend Thompson to bring our momma back. It’s like she accepted it and decided to wear her pain like a badge, letting it lead her life to all the wrong places. I don’t want Adam to do the same. I don’t want his inside pain to do the same thing Charlie’s did to her. I don’t want it to chew him up and change him into something he’s not.

  If I take away Mr. Sinclair’s pain, maybe it will wipe Adam’s away, too. Maybe it will fix him.

  “You’ve seen what you wanted to see. Time to go now, Miss McGee. And don’t come back. There’s nothing you can do to help.”

  “Will you let Adam know I was here? Please.” Please.

  He doesn’t pause before giving his answer. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Why not?” I turn to face him.

  “Because I don’t think Mr. Sinclair would like that very much.” His expression is hard and stern, even as quiet tears begin to spill out of my eyes. I nod my head and follow him as he walks out of the room and down the long glass-lined corridor.

  BY THE TIME I get to the elevator my tears are flowing, steady and seemingly unstoppable. I don’t even try to rein them in. I just let them fall, accepting them as part of my story. They deserve to be here, and I deserve to feel this way. My regret is cavernous and hollow. Mr. Sinclair’s money has emptied me, despite the good I hope it brings to Charlie. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but it did. And now my heart is scrambling to find its way back home, still unaware that home has burned to the ground, hand in hand with Winston Sinclair. My head knows it already, but my heart is so far behind.

  The elevator arrives, and I ride back down to the first floor alone, surrounded only by the hospital’s stale air. When the doors open, I step out onto the lobby floor and head for the exit. As I walk toward the information desk, the sight of a well-dressed woman standing in front of it stops me in my tracks. She’s wearing a peacock-blue tailored suit. Her hair is side-swept and sprayed, classic Jackie-O style, and her pointy-toe beige pumps are polished and completely unmarred, as if today was the very first time they’ve ever seen the light of day. Wrapped through the bend of her right arm is a large handbag. Chanel, I think. My tears stop immediately, and I swallow hard as I use the back of my hand to wipe them away.

  The woman says something to the desk attendant and turns to face me. I’m thirty feet away, standing stock still in the middle of the room, staring straight at her. She walks toward me, each step crossing over her midline, her slender hips swinging like a runway model. One foot snakes forward after the other, almost in slow motion. It’s a practiced walk. Deliberately attention-grabbing. She approaches me on my left, and as she does, we make eye contact. The electrified sound of “Soul to Squeeze” flutters through my mind, note by breathtaking note. It comes from a lone cello this time, each note in perfect tune and rhythm. The sound is classic and refined. She smiles at me, her impeccable teeth and frosty pink lipstick shine under the fluorescent lights.

  “Hello, dear,” she says as she passes. Evelyn Sinclair flashes into my brain when I hear it. The voice isn’t the same, but the words are.

  “Hello,” I reply, somehow hating the sound of my own meekness and wishing I could say more. She continues to walk, and I can’t help but turn around and watch her go. The click of her heels against the hospital floor causes a rush of nervous adrenaline to kick in. I take in a shot of disinfectant-infused air and close my eyes in a long, doubt-filled blink. When I open them, I can’t stop the words from coming out. “Mrs. Sinclair?”

  The woman stops and turns around slowly, as if she thinks the whole world is watching. Her perfectly coiffed head tilts on its axis, sending the weight of her body over to one hip. Her hands clasp together in front of her waist. “I’m sorry, dear. Do I know you?”

  My feet stay where they are, but my shattered heart starts pounding its way up into my throat. “No, ma’am.” Her gaze narrows in question. “We haven’t met, but I’m…I’m a friend of Adam’s.”

  “Oh,” she says, looking skeptical and perhaps even nervous. I wonder if Mr. Sinclair told her about me. And our deal. “Is he here?”

  “No. Not right now.” She nods at me, her face giving nothing more away. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I continue, “but I recognized you from a photo.” Lie. “I just stopped by to check on Adam, but like I said, he’s not here. I heard about your husband’s accident. I hope he has a speedy recovery.” I know he won’t, but it’s the polite thing to say. And it seems to make her relax a little.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “Will you let Adam know I was here?” If Perry Devine won’t tell him I still care, maybe she will.

  “Certainly.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “And you as well.” Her words and body language tell me she doesn’t know about me. I don’t think Mr. Sinclair told her a single thing about what’s happened here.

  I offer a small smile, turn around, and start walking toward the exit.
/>   “Excuse me,” she shouts behind me. “Tell me your name, please.”

  I pretend not to hear her as I push through the doors and out into the bright sunshine.

  HALFWAY through the bus ride home, my cell phone rings. It’s Susan Campbell. She tells me I’ve been cleared, and I’m to return to Pine Manor first thing tomorrow. I thank her and tell her I’m looking forward to seeing everyone in the morning. She says they’re all thrilled to have me back; the place hasn’t been the same without me. Her words make me happy, because they let me know the work I do there is appreciated. The news of tomorrow’s return fills some of the emptiness and provides a touch of sweetness to an otherwise awful day. I can’t wait to see everyone again. I can’t wait to straighten Mrs. Thompson’s afghan, fix Mr. Ledbetter’s tie, and refill Ms. Sinclair’s birdfeeders. I’m even looking forward to emptying Mr. Rauch’s colostomy bag. It’s been a long five days without the people I love.

  As I watch the city blocks roll by outside the bus windows, a sliver of apprehension pokes at my happiness. I’m worried Ms. Sinclair may not recognize me anymore. At her stage of Alzheimer’s, patients often quickly forget the people and things that don’t fit into their daily routine. Even five days without me may have been enough for her to forget how much I care. I’m worried about everyone, of course, but I’m worried about her the most. Her mind and body are so fragile; I just want her to remember she’s safe and loved when I’m around.

  More worry strikes when I think about what will happen when Adam is there. Everything is different now, but I hope he knows it won’t affect how I care for his grandmother. Aside from Sondra, no one at Pine Manor knows about us, so somehow, I’m going to have to swallow it all down and pretend he’s nothing more than a patient’s grandson. As the bus turns onto my street, I decide I’m going to carry on as if none of this has happened. I’m going to love Ms. Sinclair just like I always have, and I’m going to treat Adam just like I treat all the other family members I encounter on a daily basis. It might kill me, but it’s the only thing I can do.

  Tomorrow is going to be a challenging day. For everyone.

  I WALK into Pine Manor at precisely 7:53. The sliding glass doors open without hesitation or fanfare. It’s a workday like any other, yet it’s so full of personal significance that, inside my head, trumpets sound and confetti falls. Mr. Toftree greets me from his leather wingchair with a brisk hello, asking me where I went on my vacation. He’s wearing his favorite Phillies shirt, and once again, it’s misbuttoned. As I bend down to adjust it, I tell him I didn’t go anywhere, I just took a few days to attend to a personal matter. He tells me I was missed, reaches for my hand, and kisses the back of it. My broken heart sings. It’s brief but so very meaningful.

  As soon as I stand back up again, Mr. Ledbetter rolls by in his wheelchair and asks me if I know where the morning paper is. He says he needs to read about last night’s baseball game because he “fell asleep before the damn thing was over.” Mr. Toftree immediately starts giving him a play-by-play of the last few innings of the game. As the two of them start to chat, I give them each a hearty pat on the shoulder and walk back to the staff room to put my bag away and check the shift change report. It feels good to have some semblance of normalcy back again, even if it’s only for today. When I walk into the room, Susan Campbell is there. She gives me a bright hello, shakes my hand, and welcomes me back. Dr. Kopsey and Marie are also there, looking at a patient folder. Dr. Kopsey gives me a nod, but Marie says nothing. I sign in, read the shift change report, and start my workday the same way I always do. With Ms. Sinclair.

  A massive lump sits in my throat as I head back to her room. The hallway seems endless this morning. Much longer than it did on Wednesday night. There’s no need for sneaking today, so I take my time, saying hello to other patients as I pass by their open doors. I’m so happy I get to see her again, and the butterflies in my stomach are busy celebrating.

  When I step into the frame of her door, I see her, sitting in her recliner. The same one I sat in just two nights ago. She isn’t dressed yet, but the television is on, tuned to Good Morning America. Robin Roberts is chatting with someone about pet care equipment, and Ms. Sinclair’s eyes are glued to the television. She laughs when they show a wiggly Pomeranian getting brushed with a red glove that has some kind of vibrating electric bristles coming out of it. The dog yelps on the television, and she laughs again. I stand in the doorway watching her, wondering what her memory will bring today. I wonder if she’ll remember me. And I wonder if she’ll know what’s happened to her son.

  Across the room, a bouquet of fresh daisies fills her green plastic water pitcher. There’s a new bag of Starlight mints on her dresser, along with an unopened bag of peanut M&M’s. All three confirm Adam’s presence here yesterday. The sight of them nearly makes me lose it. I swallow hard, knowing I can’t cry here. I have to keep myself together, even though my emotions want to cripple me from the inside out. I remind myself that today is not about me. It’s about Ms. Sinclair and all my other patients. It’s about making life better for them. Just like it’s always been.

  Regardless of how Ms. Sinclair handled the news of her son’s accident yesterday, today she seems content. I knock on the frame of her door and ask her if I can come in and help her get dressed.

  “Certainly, dear,” she says. A glimmer of recognition in her eyes offers me hope that it’s going to be a good day. “I’d like to wear my blue blouse today, if I could.”

  I know exactly which blouse she’s referring to. I step into the room and head for her closet, shifting through the hangers until I find it. “Is this the right one, Ms. Sinclair?”

  “Yes, of course. Has it been pressed?”

  I hold it up in front of me so she can have a better look. “I believe so, yes. Would you like to wear your gray pants with it, or your brown ones?”

  “The brown ones. They look better with those silly shoes.”

  “What silly shoes?”

  “The ones they make me wear so my feet don’t swell.” She’s coherent. At least for the time being.

  “Ahh,” I say, nodding and walking around her bed with the clothes in my hands. As I pass the dresser, I see the photograph there, now slightly crooked in the frame. I try not to look at it, but I can’t help myself. It’s only a second’s glance, but she notices.

  “That’s me and my grandson,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she, too, stares at the picture, probably remembering something about the day it was taken. “He was six.”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “Yes, he is.” She pauses for a long second, thinking hard before continuing. “He’s in love, you know. With a girl.” She whispers the last part, as if it’s some kind of secret.

  “How old is he now?” I tell myself I’m not prying, I’m just trying to engage her in an active conversation.

  She looks very confused. I shouldn’t have asked her something so difficult. She puts her fingers to her forehead and bows her chin.

  “Oh my. Why, I’m not sure. He’s a grown-up now. He just got out of school.” She drops her hands back down into her lap as I finish walking over to her side of the bed. “Graduate school, I believe.” She’s not talking about Bradley. She’s talking about Adam.

  And she said he was in love. With a girl. My broken heart skips a beat.

  “So, he’s probably in his mid-twenties by now.” I take the blue blouse off the hanger and lay it down on the bed. My fumbling fingers struggle to unfasten the buttons.

  “Yes. I believe you’re right. He comes to see me quite a bit, you know. You’ve probably seen him here before. His name is Bradley.”

  I take the pants off their hanger and lay them down next to the blouse. Then I kneel down in front of her to take off her bed slippers and socks.

  “Do you mean Adam?” I try not to look at her so she doesn’t see the tears gathering in my eyes.

  “Yes, yes. Adam. You’ve met him before, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He
comes to see you every day. He’s a very nice man.” I get up and put her slippers in the closet in an attempt to hide all the deep breaths I’m taking. I steady myself and come back to help her dress. “You mentioned one time that Bradley is Adam’s little brother. Do you ever get to see him, too?”

  “No. No…” She bows her head again and stares at her fingers as they fidget with a Kleenex in her lap. “He died a long time ago.”

  My breath leaves me in a hot rush. “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that, Ms. Sinclair. That must’ve been very difficult for your family.”

  She raises her chin to look at me. “It was only difficult for me.”

  A few seconds pass as I think about how far I should take this. “What happened to him?”

  “There was a car accident. An awful accident. His mother died, too.” There’s a softness in her face now; it’s telling the story of all she’s lost. Grief and sorrow are bubbling up through the Alzheimer’s as the birds bring back scraps of her memory and drop them into her waiting hands. I should chase them away before they hurt her, but I think she’s welcoming them. I think she wants them to come. “She shouldn’t have even had him in the car with her. But I let him go. Because she was his mother…” She trails off to a long, difficult silence.

  “Ms. Sinclair, does Adam know he had a brother?”

  She softly shakes her head. “Winston said it was to protect him.”

  “From what?” I ask her, already answering my own question with “from the sins of his father” inside the silence of my head.

  “I don’t know. But he gets mad when I talk about it. He yells at me.”

  “Who yells at you?”

  “Winston. He gets mad and tells me to shut my mouth.” Her voice is quiet as she says the words. Her chin drops to her chest, and she starts twisting the Kleenex around itself.

  Winston Sinclair has made his own mother feel humiliated. He’s made her ashamed of her inability to keep his secrets. He’s made her feel guilty for having Alzheimer’s. I think of him then, in the hospital’s soaking tub, getting scrubbed with a stiff brush, the nurses sloughing off all his dead, burned-up skin as his nerve endings scream out with pain. I think of it and consider negating my promise.