Grand-Daddy Day-Care: Part Two

I don’t hold it against them. Not the piss, or the vomit or the poor manners, the lapses in thought, the absence of silence. It’s only Week 2, after all. I’m optimistic at 8 AM.

Unlike the rest of the hospital, the waiting room on our floor is bathed in beautiful natural sky-light. It dances off the light pink walls, the ever unmanned piano, and the glossy table-reads stacked in front of the wall-mounted, flat-screen TV. I guess that's important. That the visitors feel comfortable.

“Hola, Juan Carlos,” I chime once the automatic doors slide open and the smell of antiseptic soap greets me in the hospital foyer. It’s a new day and his fresh haircut shows it.

Mrs. Carlos hunches over the reception desk and scribbles her name on a form, very businesslike. The flash of a new text on her phone adds to the effect. She doesn’t speak to me. I get that. Juan Carlos barely speaks at all.

“I’ve got him, Mrs. Carlos,” I say to her with the brightest smile I can manage under fluorescent lights. She only hoists her purse higher on her shoulder, engrossed in the Sign-In sheet reading material. My eyebrows raise a little, but then I look at Juan Carlos in his clean shirt and pressed pants and close-cropped hair. He is loved.

“Por favor, permítame,” I say to Juan instead, who is fidgeting with his alarmed bracelet. Everything in the hospital is beeping or alarmed. We can hear them, even at reception, bleating from every room down this hall. Could be worse. Silence is worse.

Juan looks up at me, startled to see me loosen the tight clasp on his wrist, but returns my smile with one of his own. Juan smiles at anyone who looks in his direction. They never reach his glassy eyes.

When I take his arm in mine, I can tell by the new pungency of hospital smell, unbroken by the scent of Chanel No. 5, that Mrs. Carlos is gone.

“What did you do this weekend, Juan?” I speak to him in Spanish. Nurses float in and out of our path, carrying trays and charts, their swishy hospital clothes announcing them. Last week Jan shit her pants and she didn't have any spares so we dressed her up in scrubs. She was happier calling herself "Nurse Jan." That swishing sound is fucking annoying. But silence is worse.

Our walk to the Day-Care room from reception is two hallways long. Sometimes longer.

“I was a teacher... I was a soldier.” Juan says after a moment. He speaks staring straight ahead of him, sure of himself. A gurney is almost wheeled into us. You’d think they’d move a little slower on this floor. The sign over our heads blinks “Hospice Care.”

“And what do you do now?”

We’re almost to the Day-Care room. Juan rounds the corner one step ahead of me. I think it feels good to know where he is.

“I was Spanish soldier.” He enunciates these words in English and his grip on my hand is firm.

"What was that like?" I find myself asking and it takes him a moment to answer.

"Some of the days, I know," he says. "Today..." He shakes his head, resigned and I nod, understanding.

His voice is quieter when he tells me, "Not all days I want to know."

It's more than I've ever heard him say to anyone. The smile is gone. We walk in silence for a while longer. I don't know why I’m proud of him.

In the Day-Care doorway, the patrons who know where they are swivel their heads in our direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mr. Charleston dragging his hands along the yellow wall, muttering to himself, but it's (Nurse) Jan's wicked smile I see first.

“Goodmorning, Shanell.”

That’s not my name.