My big sister is a fool. She’s on the other end of the phone, asking me for money. Again. Why doesn’t she believe me when I tell her I don’t have a single dime to spare? She says she’s calling me from a “friend’s” phone, yet I hear a man’s voice in the background. He’s telling her what to say. No, change that. He’s not telling her, he’s ordering her. I don’t like it.

“I’m sorry, but I told you the last time you called, Charlie, I’m barely making my rent. I want to help you, really I do, but I can’t.”

“What about selling Daddy’s wedding ring? You still have it, don’t you?”

If she thinks for one second that I’m going to sell my father’s wedding ring so I can send her a couple hundred bucks for some man to gamble away, she’s an even bigger fool than I thought. I hear the man’s voice in the background again. He sounds even angrier than he did before.

“There’s no way in hell I’m selling Daddy’s ring. And whatever man you have there with you—bossing you around like you’re his to boss—needs to shut up. You are not his bank, Charlie, and neither am I.”

She’s just like Jarrod. She doesn’t see that she deserves a perfect life. Even though our daddy tried over and over again to show her she does. Charlie’s just different like that. Some shrink would probably say it has something to do with low self-esteem, but I think it’s just ’cause she’s lost without our momma. No matter how hard Daddy tried to fill in the blank, it wasn’t the same as it was when Momma was around. Not for Charlie, anyway.

“Listen,” I continue before she can argue, “I love you. You know I do. But you have to stop listening to the what’s-his-face standing next to you and start listening to your own common sense instead.”

There’s a long pause before she offers a reply. “I know,” she says softly.

In those two words, I hear so much. I hear resignation and exhaustion. Maybe even a bit of comprehension. But I hear no bitterness or anger. Maybe I got through to her this time. Maybe she’s starting to understand.

“Do yourself a favor and dump the what’s-his-face, okay?”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Do it, Charlie. I’m serious.”

“Bye.”

Before I can say a goodbye of my own, she’s gone.

* * *

Ms. Sinclair is bright-eyed when I get to work on Monday morning. In fact, she’s more active than I’ve seen her in a long time. When I walk into her room, I’m surprised to see she’s already managed to get herself dressed. She looks sweet in her bubblegum-pink sweater set with matching polyester pants. On her left side, just above her heart, is a gold brooch. It’s an owl with big, sparkly eyes. It’s a costume piece, but it glistens in the light as if it were made of solid gold and real diamonds, instead of gold-plated nickel and rhinestones.

“Did you hear the news, dear? He’s coming to see me today.” She looks at me, and I feel sad. I don’t want her to be disappointed when “he” doesn’t show up. Again. But I also can’t bear to be the one to have to tell her “he” isn’t coming because “he” probably doesn’t even exist. I think for a moment about what I should say next. I need words that will neither encourage her delusion, nor tear her down.

“Would you like me to comb your hair and put some blush on your cheeks?”

“Oh, yes, dear. I would like that very much. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Sinclair.” I straighten her hair with the ancient tortoiseshell comb she brought with her when the county moved her in. Then I brush a streak of pink powder across her pale cheeks from the compact in her bathroom drawer. She’s wearing the biggest smile when she looks at herself in her hand mirror, and it breaks my heart to know no one is coming to visit her today.

“Would you like to go and see your birds now? I think there’s been a woodpecker at the feeder the last few days. Would you be able to tell me what kind it is?” I’m trying to distract her with a change of subject. Trying to distract myself.

“I bet it’s a downy woodpecker. Or maybe a red-bellied. They’re beautiful birds, you know. Let’s go see, shall we?”

I help her take a seat in her wheelchair and push her out into the lobby, situating the chair next to the front window and listening to her describe each of the birds as they come and go. I sit with her for a good ten minutes before Sondra nods at me from across the room to let me know it’s time to get everyone to the cafeteria for breakfast and bingo.

* * *

In the afternoon, most of the residents like to take a nap. It’s a good time for me and the rest of the aides to catch up on our paperwork and do a little housekeeping. I’m realigning the wingchairs in the lobby when the glass entry doors slide open. Every time I hear the familiar whir of the door, I instinctively look. Just in case one of the residents has lost their bearings, or they forgot they live here now, instead of in their two-story Colonial over on Maple Street. I want to make sure no one wanders off and gets lost. Intentionally or not.

When I look toward the door, I don’t see any of our residents. Instead, there’s a man there, looking back at me. He’s young. And he looks a little lost himself. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and there’s a small bouquet of daisies tucked into the breast pocket of his plaid button-down. I immediately think he looks like the kind of guy who listens to Death Cab for Cutie or The Shins. The kind of guy that’s not overly interested in fitting in, but yet doesn’t wanna step too far out of the box. The hair on his head confirms the same. Controlled bed-head, Jarrod calls it. Purposefully disheveled.

Once he’s inside the door, the man looks over at the front counter as if he doesn’t know what to do next. I’m guessing this is his first time at Pine Manor…or any other assisted living facility, for that matter.

“You have to sign in here, sir.” Apparently Marie has noticed he’s a first-timer, too.

“Ah, yes. Thank you. It’s my first time visiting. I wasn’t quite sure what to do.” He walks over and signs his name on the clipboard sitting on the counter in front of Marie. “I’m here to see Evelyn Sinclair. Can you tell me where I might find her?”

My heart leaps into my throat.

“She’s around the corner and down the hallway. Room 112.” Marie’s voice is as surprised as I’ve ever heard it. She’s usually an emotionless robot, so frankly, any inflection in her voice is a surprise. Even Marie knows this is Ms. Sinclair’s very first guest.

“Thanks.” He puts his hands back into his pockets and walks right past me on his way to her room, smiling and nodding in greeting as he passes. As soon as he rounds the corner, I’m practically running to read the sign-in sheet.

“Is that Bradley? How did she know he was coming?” I ask, mostly to myself, because Marie’s already turned her back and walked away. I look down at the most recent name on the sign-in sheet.

Adam Sinclair.

It’s not Bradley, but at least he’s got the right last name.

I’m glad I combed her hair.

Ms. Sinclair has a guest! After four months without a single visitor, she finally “gets company.” I want to smack the guy for taking so damn long.

I know I shouldn’t, but a few minutes later, I find myself walking down the hallway and stopping just outside her open door. Eavesdropping is against the house rules, but this isn’t really eavesdropping; it’s a safety check. I’m just making sure Adam Sinclair isn’t stealing her owl brooch or something. As I stand in the hallway, completely out of their sight, all I can hear is the unwrapping of a peppermint candy. No voices. No television. No other movement. It’s quiet, except for the crunchy cellophane symphony of one of Ms. Sinclair’s candies.

I look down at my shoes, suddenly ashamed to have followed him back here under the guise of a safety check. The poor guy is probably just trying to visit his Great Aunt Evelyn in peace, and here I am, treating him like he’s some kind of a thug. Nothing about him seemed suspicious, yet it took him so long to come see her that I can’t help but be guarded. I just don’t want her to get hurt.

Me and my nosiness are just about to leave when Adam Sinclair comes out of the doorway, rounding the corner like a shot of lightning and running smack into me, nearly knocking me on my ass. He grabs my upper arms to keep me from falling backward and continues holding on to them until I regain my balance. Then he lets go.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were out here. Are you okay?” The daisies in his pocket have been smashed flat; their little necks broken and flopping forward, reminding me of life’s frailty and causing Miriam Hansen’s death to poke at my heart yet again.

“No. It’s my fault, really. I’m fine. I was just coming to give Ms. Sinclair her medication. I shouldn’t have been walking so close to the door.” Good save, K’acy. Better than declaring it some bogus safety check.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” His breath smells like peppermint.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Are you one of my gram’s nurses?”

Oh. Adam Sinclair is not her nephew. He’s her grandson. I didn’t even know she had any children. All she ever talks about are her birds and her students. And someone named Bradley.

“No. I’m an aide.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for taking such good care of her. She looks pretty comfortable in there. She’s out like a light. I was gonna go get a cup of coffee or something until she wakes up. I didn’t want to disturb her, but if you have to wake her for her medication…”

“No. That’s all right. I can wait until later. Whenever she wakes up is fine.” I’m standing in front of him, not knowing what to say next. I wish I was still out in the lobby straightening the leather wingchairs. “The coffee pot is in the back of the dining hall. You’ll see it.”

“Okay. Cool. I’m Adam, by the way. Adam Sinclair.” He offers a hand for me to shake, and the instant our palms connect, I hear the bass riff from the bridge of “Soul to Squeeze” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers in my head. It’s more thought-provoking than I want it to be.

“Nice to meet you, Adam Sinclair. I’m K’acy McGee. Chief wheelchair pusher and sponge bather.” He smiles and tilts his head, looking at me as if I belong in a 1920s Ringling Brothers sideshow. Then, because I can’t help myself, I shrug and add, “Someone’s gotta keep these people in line.”

He doesn’t miss a single beat before opening his mouth and saying, “Gram always has been a rebel.”

I’m considering asking him if it runs in the family, when I hear Ms. Sinclair’s voice.

“Bradley? Is that you?”

Adam raises his eyebrows at me, quickly puts his hands in his pockets, and turns away, walking back through the doorway and into her room. “No, Gram. It’s me, Adam.”

“Oh, Adam!” There is unmistakable joy in those two words, and a jolt of happiness runs through me. But an instant later, when the next string of words comes out, her voice contains more confusion than joy. “Why are you here? Where’s your father?”

I hear Adam sigh. “I came to visit you, Gram. Because I haven’t seen you in a really long time, and I missed you.”

“Where were you?” she asks. I can’t believe I’m still standing in this hallway, not eavesdropping. There’s a long pause before he answers.

“In Seattle. At grad school.” His voice is tentative.

“Oh, yes. Yes. Now I remember.” She seems to have forgotten her inquiry about Adam’s father, and his obvious avoidance of the question gives me the impression that it’s something he himself would rather not discuss.

“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.