Page 127 of Smoky Mountain Dreams
Monique greeted him after a short wait in the receptionarea. Her glossy black hair and dark skin revealed her Indian heritage, andChristopher admired her lovely dark eyes, so warm and liquid. He knew when shespoke that she had been raised in Tennessee, though. The nasal accent wasunmistakable.
“We’re so grateful to you for filling in for Shannon. Theresidents look forward to her visits so much, especially at Christmas. Don’t betoo upset if they’re disappointed to see you at first. They’re very big fans ofShannon.”
“No problem. I’m used to people being disappointed when Iwalk onstage,” Christopher said good-naturedly, continuing on when Moniquelooked confused. “I’m Lash Hinkin’s stand-in on his days off.”
“Oh,” she sighed knowingly. “That’s gotta be tough.”
“But the fun part is when I win them over anyway.” He gave alittle cocky grin.
She chuckled. “I’m sure you can handle this crowd then.” Sheguided him into the lounge, where residents sat around on sofas, soft chairs,and folding chairs, as well as some in wheelchairs.
Christopher wasn’t sure he could handle them, actually. Theyall looked at him with impatient, almost hungry faces.
One old man in a wheelchair took one look at him, a thintrail of what seemed to be drool sliding down the side of his chin, and said, “Ah,screw it. I don’t need no faggot singing to me. I only came to see the blackgirl’s knockers.” He stood up and haltingly left the room with the aid of awalker.
There was a bit more grumbling from the rest of the crowd,but there were no more defectors as Christopher let Monique introduce him tothe group. She took hold of his elbow when he approached the cleared area thatwas supposed to function as the stage.
“When you’re done here, we’d love it if you went to a fewrooms to sing for some of the bed-ridden residents? We’d hate for anyone tomiss out. It’s so good for them to hear live music. It engages their brains inimportant ways.”
Christopher’s throat went a little dry, wondering if Marcy’sroom would be one where he’d be asked to sing. Another facility worker handedhim a water bottle as he turned to the seniors gathered to hear him. He took aswig of it before introducing himself. He opened up with a cover of SaraBareilles’ and Ingrid Michaelson’s “Winter Song.” It was a tender tuneexamining whether light and love lived on even in the darkest death of winter.The seniors coughed and shifted, most of them seeming impatient for somethingmore familiar, so as the song closed, Christopher transitioned withoutcompletely stopping into “Frosty the Snowman,” which delighted the women,especially.
Over an hour later, Christopher considered his nursing homeshow a success. He’d eventually won over the skeptical audience, including oneelderly gentleman who’d shuffled over to the piano in the corner of the roomand added his accompaniment to Christopher’s performance. His improvisationshad been fun to jam to with the guitar, and Christopher had let him take thelead with some of the musical bridges. A few of the more mobile residents hadrisen to dance and almost all of them had sung along at times. One lady didfall asleep in her wheelchair, and another man just sat and stared somewhere tothe left of Christopher’s shoulder, but by the time he wrapped up his set, mostof the others had been coaxed into participating.
Monique was clearly pleased. “Thank you so much,” she said,leading him down an antiseptic-scented hallway toward what she called the “privaterooms” in the back. “It really means a lot to all of them. Shannon will be backnext week on Christmas Day, of course, but today will buoy their spirits. Theholidays are some of the toughest times for our residents.” She paused and puther hand on Christopher’s arm. “I must warn you, the rooms I’m taking you tonow won’t be as rewarding for you, but we try to give all the residents theopportunity to engage with volunteers and performers.”
“I understand,” Christopher said, his voice catchingslightly as he passed a door with a printed name tag next to it readingBirch, Marcy. His heart thudded hard against his ribs andhe cleared his throat.
“Some of these residents will be conscious and some won’t,but—” Her phone beeped, and she glanced at it. “Oh, damn,” she whispered, andthen smiled up at him. “It’s a problem back in the lounge. Mr. Feeney is beingdifficult again. Christopher, would you mind starting without me? I won’t bemore than a few minutes.”
He nodded, his mouth dry.
She rushed on to explain, “These first three rooms haveresidents who are in what you might call a coma or a permanent vegetativestates. The patients can seem a bit spooky at times if you’re not familiar withthe behavior these sorts of injuries can engender.” Monique smiledreassuringly. “Their eyes may open and they may vocalize, but I assure you—”Her phone beeped again. “Oh, hell. Please, just go ahead and choose a room.Leave the door open, of course. Natalie and Jason will be right here at thenurse’s station if you need anything.”
She took off back the way she came after waving a handtoward a couple of young nurses. Both Jason and Natalie looked up at hearingtheir names and lifted their chins at him in greeting. Christopher shifted hisguitar from one hand to the other and smiled at them, but it felt false.
“Um, where should I start?” he asked, his voice feelingweird and not his own. Any second he was going to blurt out that he was JesseBirch’s boyfriend and that Jesse didn’t even know he was here right now. Theurge to confess that he was in love with one of the patient’s husbands wasstrong, as was the need to admit in some rambling, babbling way that it wasprobable that said husband wouldn’t want him here at all.
“Room one thirty-two would be good,” Jason said, glancing atsome monitors. “Looks like Marcy’s awake. But I should warn you, even if hereyes are open, she doesn’t really hear you, dude. So, don’t freak out if shesuddenly makes a noise or something. I dunno why Monique insists on performersplaying for these patients, but…” He shrugged.
“A noise?” Christopher asked weakly.
“Vocalizations,” Natalie said, also studying a monitor ofsome sort. “She sometimes sounds like she’s trying to talk. But she can’t. It’sall instinct, basically, and nothing more. But it can be freaky if you’re notexpecting it.” The pretty young nurse looked up and smiled. “So just don’tfreak out.”
Christopher nodded and turned to the room and the name he’dalready noticed on the door. He hesitated, a heavy, oppressive doubt holdinghim in place.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” Jason asked, a note ofsympathy in his voice. “We shouldn’t have made it sound so creepy. She’sharmless. I promise.”
Christopher threw a tremulous smile at Jason for theencouragement and took a step toward the open door, his gut churning and hispulse rushing loudly in his ears. And then he was in the room. The woman in thebed looked nothing like the beautiful laughing woman in the photograph in Jesse’supstairs hallway. The woman in the bed was terrifyingly thin while also beingblobby in some way Christopher didn’t understand.
Her eyes were open.
There was absolutely nothing in them.
Christopher shuddered, his grip on his guitar sliding as hispalm grew slippery with sweat. He swallowed hard and walked closer, his eyescataloging what he could still see of the woman from the photos. He could seeBrigid’s brown eyes. He could see that she’d once had glossy blond hair. Hecould see that her mouth was the same shape. But that was it. This woman was abody. A shell.
Christopher sat in the chair by her bed and fought down hisrising gorge. He wanted to cry and throw up. He wanted to go back in time andnever enter this room, because he shouldn’t be seeing this, not without Jesse’spermission. He knew now what he hadn’t known before: exactly why Jesse hadn’tinvited him in. It was like seeing a person naked without their consent, onlysomehow worse. He was seeing her, but she wasn’t seeing him. He knew her andhow she fit into his life, and she didn’t know and couldn’t know anything abouthim. He was fucking her husband and she was a corpse that lived.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to figure outwhat to do. He’d been sent in here to sing hadn’t he? How was he going to singnow without puking or sobbing? But he somehow brought the guitar up, and hisfingers stumbled through picking out the melody of “I Saw Three Ships.” Afterclosing his eyes, he managed to sing the lyrics, the hope in them barelysustained by the pain in his voice, bleeding his sorrow and confusion out allover the room.
