The toilet seat is up and the bathroom light is on. It makes me smile because it offers proof of Jarrod’s patience and concern. Even though it’s been a few minutes since he walked off into the darkness, leaving me standing alone on my front stoop, the remnants of our double fist bump are still echoing up my arms. I feel better. A little less lost.

I walk back to my bedroom and start to undress. My exhausted muscles are screaming at me to let them rest. They’ve had enough for one day. Maybe for a lifetime.

My apartment is quiet as I sink down onto my bed, but the night’s events continue to sort themselves out inside my brain, like a bunch of restless kindergarteners jostling to find their place in the schoolyard rank. I search for reasons and predictions among them, but they’re moving too fast, scattering around, only making more confusion. The one solid thought I can find among them is my promise to Ms. Sinclair. I grab hold of it, knowing it’s the only thing I can control. I will not let the promise be empty. I tell myself that somehow, I will find a way to take care of her son.

As sleep comes, the rest of my thoughts—the ones still left fluttering in confusion—change into birds. Ms. Sinclair’s birds. Chickadees, blue jays, finches, swifts. She’s there with them, watching them circle around her as they carry more of her memories away in their slender beaks and protect her from the pain of tomorrow. This time, though, Adam isn’t the only one standing next to her, holding her hand.

I’m there, too. And there’s a mourning dove nestled like a downy baby in the soft cradle of my arms.

* * *

The accident is all over the morning news, but the images on the television are ones I’ve seen before. The bank sign. The burned-out car. The discarded jacket lying on the street. The flashing lights bouncing off the dark asphalt. It’s daylight now, but the darkness of last night is all I see on the screen.

The reporter announces the victim of this one-car crash, Washington state lobbyist Winston Sinclair, is in critical condition at Penn Presbyterian. She says he’s the principal partner of the most contentious and influential lobbying firm in the state, and ends the segment with, “But at this time, police suspect no foul play was involved in the accident. As we understand, Mr. Sinclair was in Philadelphia to attend to a family matter.”

I feel sick to my stomach.

I turn it off, hoping and praying Ms. Sinclair’s television is tuned to the cooking channel. I should have checked before I left her last night. I want her to learn about her son’s accident from someone who loves her, rather than from a television screen. I’m not sure she’ll fully understand what’s happened anyway, but still…

As I shower and dress, I think hard about what to do and say. I won’t be welcome, but I need to go to the hospital in order to keep my promise to Ms. Sinclair. I need Adam to know I care, and more importantly, I need to see exactly where Mr. Sinclair is. Because when the time comes for me to fulfill my promise, I’ll need to be able to find him quickly.

I don’t know how Adam will react when I walk into that hospital, and the last thing I want to do is make this harder on him than it already is. But I love him. And somehow, I’m going to have to prove it to him all over again by showing kindness and compassion to a man who’s done nothing but try to manipulate and control us both. It won’t make Adam love me again, but at least my presence there today might show him how much I care, in spite of the horrible mistake I made when I took his father’s money.

It takes me a little over forty-five minutes to get to Penn Presbyterian. By the time I step off the bus and onto the hospital’s mellow tan floor, it’s nearly lunchtime. The volunteer at the information desk directs me to the trauma ICU, sending me up the elevator and down a long corridor. At the end is a set of double doors. I push through them and into a waiting area.

The air is warm and dry, and the crisp smell of disinfectant hangs in the air. The room is empty except for a dozen chairs, a few magazine-laden end tables, and a middle-aged woman sitting behind the reception desk. She’s bent forward, carefully examining something on the computer screen in front of her. Her reading glasses sit low on her nose, and she sighs as she types something into the keypad. I walk over and stand in front of the desk. A few seconds pass before she talks.

“Patient name?” She’s sour and unfriendly, only making visual contact with her computer screen.

“Winston Sinclair.” The moment his name hits her ears, the woman’s gaze instantly lifts to meet mine and her eyebrows rise in a silent inquiry. She gives me a quick once-over, as if she’s wondering why someone like me is coming to see someone like him.

One of her pudgy hands whisks the glasses off her face and sets them down next to the computer’s keyboard. She folds her arms together and leans her forearms down on the desk as she tilts forward, toward me.

“Are you…family?” The unfriendliness is gone from her voice. It’s been replaced with snarky cynicism. Great.

“Not yet.” I flash a shining, teeth-filled smile at her. Her mouth puckers in response.

“Young lady,” she says, “this is an intensive care unit. It is not the place for jokes and insolence.”

I straighten my back and plump out my chest, standing tall. “I wasn’t aware that smiling was considered disrespectful, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrow. “Only family is permitted to see Mr. Sinclair. At the request of his security detail.”

“Ahh,” I sigh, tilting my head back and glancing at the ceiling before continuing. “Well, then I’d like to change my answer to yes. Yes, I’m family.” If she wants insolence, then insolence she shall have. And, with any luck, that insolence will get me exactly what I want.

She rolls her eyes and asks my name.

“K’acy McGee.”

“You sure you don’t want to change that to K’acy Sinclair?” More conceited sass from a woman whose over-inflated sense of self-worth comes solely from her ability to control who walks through a hospital door. I don’t want them to, but her words hit hard and deep. The sound of my first name followed by the second half of Adam’s pricks me with an intense sting of sadness.

“Maybe someday.” I smile at her again, this one even bigger than the one before.

The woman picks up the telephone on her desk and dials a number that’s handwritten on a piece of paper taped to the desktop. Someone answers quickly.

“Mr. Devine? This is Lois at reception. There’s a young woman here to see Mr. Sinclair.” She stares wryly at me as she talks. “She says she’s family.”

A second of silence passes while Perry Devine asks her my name.

“K’acy McGee.”

More silence as he tells her he’ll be right out.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She puts the phone down in its cradle, and I instantly know I’ve gotten what I want: a conversation with Perry Devine, and hopefully, a visit with the Sinclairs. “You can have a seat, Miss McGee. Someone will be with you in a minute.” There is so much snark in her voice, it makes me want to laugh. She thinks Perry Devine is going to come out here and kick me out. But instead, Perry Devine is going to come out here and let me in.

A minute later, he comes through the set of double crash doors at the opposite end of the waiting room. He’s wearing the same dark suit as last night, only his crisply ironed, white shirt isn’t so crisply ironed anymore. He tucks his cell phone into the breast pocket of his suit coat as he walks over to me. He doesn’t look at the reception desk as he passes, nor does he say a single word to the woman sitting there. I stay planted in my seat, even as he stops and stands directly in front of me.

“What can I do for you, Miss McGee?” The diamond in his left earlobe looks smaller than it did before.

“I need to see him.”

“He’s not here right now.”

If Adam’s not here, then where is he? I hope he’s with this grandmother, gently telling her about the accident before she sees it on the news.

I immediately switch my focus to finding another way to see Mr. Sinclair.

“I’m not talking about Adam.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and the smell of now-stale cologne wafts through the air. I stand up in the snug space between his body and the chair behind me. Over his shoulder, I see the receptionist staring at us from across the room, no doubt straining to hear our conversation. I glance over at her before looking straight into Perry Devine’s fierce-yet-familiar long-lashed eyes.

“After seeing Adam walk out of the bar last night looking so deflated,” he says, “I’ll assume you followed through with your end of the deal. Is that why you’re here today? For the rest of your money?” He looks peeved. Like he’s upset that he might be correct.

“No. That’s not why I’m here.” My voice is solid and sure.

“Then why are you?”

“I’m here because I heard about the accident on the news and thought I might be able to help.”

A look of intense surprise flashes across his face. “You want to help? You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m not kidding.”

Perry Devine’s loud, clear laugh causes the receptionist to nearly jump out of her seat. “You’re not here to help, Miss McGee. You’re here to see how bad it is. ’Cause you think if he dies, you won’t get the rest of your money. Or you think you might be able to get Adam—and his trust fund—back.” He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands into his pockets. I don’t argue with him, or even disagree. Even though none of it is true.

Obviously he doesn’t know Mr. Sinclair already told Adam about our deal.

“I tell you what…if you really wanna see how bad it is,” he continues, “I’ll show you. But don’t tell me you’re here to help, ’cause you and I both know you ain’t here to help.”

“Yes, sir.” I say it because it’s what he wants me to say.

He turns and starts walking toward the reception desk. I follow close behind. When we get to the sour woman sitting there, Perry Devine doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even blink. He says nothing and keeps on walking. I do the same.

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.

But then, I wonder if Adam is watching his father suffer. And what he’s thinking as he does.

I decide to ask Ms. Sinclair one more question before I chase the birds away.

“Ms. Sinclair, when did Adam tell you he’s in love?”

“Let’s see…” she says, “…it was when he brought me those flowers.” She turns and points at the daisies in the green plastic pitcher. I can’t help but smile. “He also said Winston’s gone home. And he’s never coming back here again.”