Would you like to use the bathroom?”
Mrs. McLaughlin shakes her head no. She slides her legs over the side of the bed. When she is standing, I hold on to her elbow to help her balance, and she slides on her shoes. I hang her cardigan around her shoulders. I hold a hand mirror up to show her that her white curls look just as crisp and neat as before her nap. Together, my hand still under her elbow, we head out of the room. We navigate the stairs slowly, and I use my shoulder to push open the outside door.
Only when we are out in the sunlight and freshly cleaned air, do I feel myself relax for the first time that day. I tip my head back and feel the sun warm on my face. Then I remember my duty, and look down at Mrs. McLaughlin. She is squinting against the light, an expression of sleep and confusion still on her face. Perhaps I rushed her out of her nap because of my own eagerness to get out of that room.
“We’ll take it slow now,” I say. “Just to the parking lot and back.”
“I never saw the children in my dreams before,” she says in a groggy voice. “I’m usually awake. I see them around the big tree outside my window. They’ve always left me alone when I sleep.”
“Did you dream about your children?” I ask. “Kelly and Meggy and Ryan?” I add the specifics to try to bring her back to reality. We are taking slow steps down the path. I think now that it was a mistake to bring her outside before she was truly awake. Most falls take place when older people are tired and distracted, unable to concentrate on each step. Mrs. McLaughlin’s recovery from surgery is too recent to be jeopardized by a fall. I should have known better. I am rarely this careless.
“No,” she says. “I saw you, and your brothers and sisters.”
I stop walking and look at her with real concern. I have never known her, since she went off the strong pain medications, to become altered. “Maybe we should turn back,” I say. “It’s not as nice out as I thought it was.”
“No,” she says, and shakes her head. With the gesture, some of the fog seems to clear from her eyes. “I have to explain this to you. I knew, when I opened my eyes and saw you standing there, that it was time to tell you.”
We are at the top of a small incline in the center of the path. Mrs. McLaughlin turns around, so she is looking back toward the Christian Home for the Elderly. I am already thinking of calling her doctor upon our return to her room. It can’t hurt for her to have a checkup. Perhaps she has a blocked artery to her brain. It is a common problem with the aged, and easily fixed.
I put my hand on her arm. “Let’s head back, shall we?”
She says, “My husband gave me visions when he died. I’ve had the chance to see my mother and my father, and the children I lost. I’ve spent time with them. I see them more and more frequently now.”
She speaks so quietly, I have to strain to hear her. But the slight hot wind has died down, and I catch each word. There is no one else in sight, and I have the odd sensation that Mrs. McLaughlin and I are alone in our own bubble of space at the top of this hill. I think of my husband, and his boss, Louis, and this job. I wonder if these connections have been there all along, and if it is only now, months after the loss of Eddie, that my heart is open enough to see them. Is life made up of strands that link us all?
“That must be nice,” I say.
“My twins were just babies when I lost them. They were . . . stillborn.” Stillborn seems to have been lodged deep in her throat—it creaks out. “But I will see them again in this life. I’ll see them in Gracie’s baby.” Her face lights. “And my little girl will be there, too.”
I know how to listen well. It is an important part of nursing, an important part of providing comfort. I bend my head toward Mrs. McLaughlin and let her go on.
“I was afraid to tell anyone about the visions for a long time. I was afraid they’d