“Did Max go?” he asked.
“Umm. Yes.” I whispered to Caine. “Max was his dog—a black lab. For some reason, he frequently asks people if Max went to the bathroom. He thinks we were out walking him or something.”
I turned to the ladies. “Hi, Lydia. Hi, Carol.”
Lydia stood and kissed my cheek. We’d become good friends over the last year. I was just about to introduce Caine when Carol took it upon herself.
“Who’s the handsome fella? You a new doctor here?”
I laughed. “This is Caine West, Carol. He’s a music professor at Brooklyn College, where I’m a graduate student.”
Caine delivered a dazzling smile as he extended his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Carol.”
We joined the three of them as they chatted about the movie that had been shown last night. Carol’s Alzheimer’s was less advanced than Umberto’s, so she tended to remember more.
She put her hand on Umberto’s arm. “The Hunt for Red October. Remember, honey? It had that Sean Connery in it.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”
I was certain Umberto didn’t recollect anything about the movie.
Throughout our conversation, Caine was mostly quiet, just observing. I caught his eyes moving back and forth between Lydia’s face and where Carol’s hand touched Umberto a few times. I’d grown used to the unusual trio, but it was definitely something interesting to watch the first time. A woman who didn’t want to claw another woman’s eyes out when she caught her touching the man she loved—a man she had spent fifty-one years being faithful to. Caine was definitely watching for a reaction. But the only one he’d see from Lydia was contentment. She’d come to terms with whatever allowed her husband to feel some happiness.
Eventually, the nurse came to collect Carol for an activity. Lydia had insisted we never begin therapy while Carol was present. She didn’t want her husband to have a memory that made him reach for her and upset Carol. There was a special place in Heaven for Lydia someday.
After Umberto hugged Carol goodbye, he sat back down with us, but seemed agitated.
Lydia reached across the table and covered her husband’s hand. “Umberto, Rachel is going to play you some music. Do you remember that Rachel plays you music sometimes?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”
That was Umberto’s way of saying, I have no idea, but I’m not telling you that.
She squeezed. “Rachel’s going to put some headphones on you. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I placed a set of wireless headphones over Umberto’s ears while Lydia dug into her purse and took out a small case of earbuds she’d started to carry. It wasn’t necessary for her to listen, but she liked to keep in tune with her husband. Realizing for the first time that I hadn’t brought an extra set of wireless buds, I offered to share mine with Caine. It wasn’t necessarily a hardship having to inch up directly next to him so we could each listen through one bud.
I started the music, and Umberto immediately closed his eyes. Within seconds, the tension etched in his face seemed to flee. I glanced over at Caine, who was watching Umberto, and he nodded his head and smiled. At some point during the song, Umberto reached out and took his wife’s hand. It was such a small gesture, but those tiny moments of recognition made a world of difference to a family dealing with advanced Alzheimer’s.
We played two songs, and then I removed the headset from Umberto’s head.
“How are you feeling today, Umberto?”
“Good. Good.” I wasn’t sure if he felt any different than before, but the agitation from ten minutes earlier was gone.
Lydia tried to build on the effect of the music. “Umberto? Do you remember when Francesca used to play this song?”
“Sure.” He nodded. Then he pursed all five of his fingers together in the universal Italian grandmother hand language and said, “Belle parole non pascon I gatti.”
Lydia laughed. She looked to me. “It means Fine words don’t feed cats. My mother-in-law, Francesca, used to say it all the time. I never really understood what it meant.”
We stayed for a few hours, even breaking for lunch and then coming back afterward. But that was the extent of Umberto’s brief burst of memories that day. A second round of music in the afternoon didn’t bring back any specific recollections, but I hoped the music had something to do with the smiles everyone wore.
Lydia looked at her watch. “Umberto, it’s almost time for mass. Do you want to get washed up before the service?”
“Okay.”
She turned to Caine and me. “Would you like to join us?”
Even though I was definitely not a Sunday mass person, I’d joined them on a few occasions to observe Umberto’s reactions to the music.
“I think we’re going to head out,” I told her. “It’s getting late.”
As we were saying our goodbyes, Umberto looked to Caine. “You going to take Max out now?”
Caine went along with it. “Yeah. I’ll take good care of Max.”
After the nurse took Umberto back to his room to get ready, Lydia walked us to the lobby. “Somehow I don’t get offended that my husband has fallen in love with another woman and doesn’t remember me, but every time he remembers Max, I can’t help but be insulted.” She laughed, but seemed only half kidding. “So, I hope our Rachel scored an A today. The musical therapy really seems to be working.”
I smiled. “It’s not like that. Professor West doesn’t give me a grade. He sort of oversees the research I’m doing and the writing of my paper.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, I hope you were impressed.”
Caine looked at me with warmth in his eyes. “I was. Very.”
Lydia gave me a hug. “See you next week?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Will I be seeing you again, Professor?”
“If Rachel will have me.”
Umm. Are we talking literally or figuratively here?
Back in the car on the drive home, I could tell something was on Caine’s mind. He was quieter than usual.
“Did you want to go to mass? I didn’t even think to ask you before I declined, and I’ve monopolized your entire Sunday.”
Caine glanced at me and back to the road. “Haven’t gone to church in fifteen years. Wouldn’t step back inside if you paid me.”
Caine
Fifteen years ago
What the hell is she doing?
I ducked behind a wide marble column to watch. I was later than usual because Liam had been screwing around at band practice, and we all lost track of time trying to learn a new song he’d written while drunk last night. Half of what he’d chicken-scratched down on a brown paper bag was smeared and unreadable. But the other half was pretty damn good. So we riffed and riffed, trying to get the jackass to remember the words he’d written.
I normally showed up at twelve-thirty and set myself up in the confessional to wait. My little friend generally wandered in sometime before one. But today I was late, and she was early. At least I thought she was early. I hadn’t really ever seen her clearly enough to be positive it was her. For all I knew, I could be hiding from some other random little girl who’d wandered into church on Saturday afternoon.
The old wooden confessional was dark to begin with, and the latticed grate that separated us made it even more difficult to make out any detail other than her ponytail. I knew she had dark hair and was tiny—just like the little girl currently peeking into the priest’s side of the confessional. I watched curiously from a distance as she looked around and then opened the door. She stepped inside for a half a second and then darted back out and into the parishioner’s side—the sinner’s side.
Five minutes passed, and she hadn’t opened the door back up, so when the coast was clear, I made my way over and slipped inside for my priestly duty. The booth looked as it normally did, except for two coins on the floor. I figured maybe she was trying to get a peek at the priest.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
It had to have been at least six weeks now we’d been doing this, yet every time she said those words, I felt an ache in my chest. She was carrying too much baggage for a kid. Lately, we didn’t even talk about the sins she thought she was committing. She just showed up and we shot the shit for a half hour or so. I got the feeling I was the only adult she trusted. Which was pretty fucking ironic considering I wasn’t even really an adult yet, and I’d been lying to her since the first minute she stepped into the booth.