Page 64 of The Cannon
“Me too. It’ll be fine. I’ll be right by you.”
“There it is,” he says.
I don’t want to mention the place looks rundown and the very opposite of a place you’d come to heal. But I don’t have to, Brick’s face says it all.
“What a shithole. Crap.”
“I’m not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. It looks worse than the photos.”
He parks the car in the adjacent empty lot dotted with potholes. It’s painfully obvious these patients don’t get many visitors.
“She’s not staying here, I’ll tell you that,” he says firmly.
“The insides won’t look any better, so brace yourself,” I say getting out of the car.
He takes my hand and we walk to the entry. The glass door is so dirty you can’t see through it. Only a sliver of clear glass reveals the so-called lobby.
Walking in is like entering your worst nightmare. Some rehab facilities are truly that, maybe one or two floors of a retirement home. Sometimes they’re part rest home part rehab. But this, this is hell. A tired assistant or tech or nurse sits at the front desk. She’s wearing a tracksuit. Her eyes take us in as we approach, but quickly look back to her phone.
Brick speaks up. “Anne Bradley. Where can we find her?”
There’s no rush to the woman’s answer. She finishes her game or text or whatever the hell she’s doing. “Is she a patient?” she says not looking up.
“You don’t know who your patients are?” I couldn’t help myself.
“I haven’t been here long. And I doubt I’ll be here much longer.” When she finally looks at our faces she adds, “Booooring.”
There’s a handwritten list on a worn piece of paper which she scans. “Oh yeah, she’s here. Room one one three.”
“Which way?” Brick says without an ounce of patience.
“Um, let’s see,” she stumbles on her words.
“We’ll find it,” he says taking my hand and leading me away. There’s no waiting.
As soon as we turn the corner he lets loose. “She’s fucking out of here today. This is criminal.”
We’re eyeing the room numbers as we walk.
“Calm down. It’s not that easy. I know the system and sometimes there’s a waiting list or application process. It may take weeks.”
“Fuck. If Anne doesn’t go along with what I think is the best option, I’m going to figure it out. Money always talks.”
“Here it is,” I say stopping short of the door.
His face flushes with the realization what he’s waited for all these years is just inside the door. “Okay. I’m good. Here we go.”
He knocks on the door and walks in ahead of me. We discussed it in the car and decided it was his face she should see first. But I’m right behind.
The moment is monumental. There on an uncomfortable looking bed lies Anne. Arm and leg in casts, jaw still wired shut, a bruised body head to toe. But her hair is freshly washed and brushed, most likely a job done by her friend.
The look in her eyes is sheer joy. Like in her mind she’s running into his arms. It rises above the physical and flows from her to Sawyer. Tears. All three of us are crying. And she’s making the only sound she can. Kind of a whine like a wounded animal. But I’m pretty sure she’s calling him.
My hand lifts to my mouth, covering the sob that wants to escape as Sawyer goes to her side. He sits as gently as possible on the creaky bed and lifts her good hand. He kisses it.
Oh God, I’m dying here. It’s so poignant.
Anne is saying everything with her eyes. The same color as Sawyer’s. She’s been waiting forever too. It’s obvious she never stopped thinking of him all these years apart.
