Like the Sun Holds the Moon by Joy Elisabeth Waldinger

Author:Joy Elisabeth Waldinger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little Creek Press

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Dad, Ray, and I enter the rehabilitation center through the automatic doors. As soon as we cross the threshold, the air becomes stagnant like we entered a pit. It is unsettling yet familiar. It reminds me of descending Mom’s basement steps. I feel like I’m breathing in all the germs from everyone who ever stayed here. From ahead come muffled voices: Some sound angry, and others placating. A wave of coughing bursts from an old man in a chair in the lobby. I wince.

I walk the halls of the rehabilitation center as if I am an inspector or Realtor, scrutinizing Mom’s new temporary residence. There aren’t enough hand sanitizer pumps on the walls. I wonder how this place prevents the spread of germs. Maybe they don’t. I shudder at the thought. I avoid touching any hand railings. The carpeted hallway looks like it is holding onto a lot of memories. The number of stains is concerning. The walls are covered in a tan, marbled wallpaper that has a texture to it, like something I remember seeing at my grandmother’s place a decade ago. The memory is hard to access—thick with cobwebs and hard to break through.

At the top of the wall is a floral border. I’m beginning to miss the white, sterile hospital, even though it had as much personality as the interstate and patients were delivered like parcels. At least it overwhelmingly smelled like bleach, and that gave me some reassurance that it was regularly disinfected. There is just way too much flavor in this rehabilitation center.

I whisper to Ray, “Is this the best Mom’s insurance would cover?”

“Yeah, this is beat. She deserves better than this.”

I drift ahead as we weave our way through the hallways. I reach her door first and push it open with my foot since my arms are full. I need both arms to carry the huge bag of Mom’s requests. A wave of artificial air washes over us, an attempt to mask the smell of a fresh turd. I step closer, and the floral scent makes me lightheaded. I want to hold my breath, but this is not going to be quick. Mom’s visits never are. I struggle to smile as I take in her new surroundings and hold my nose. The room is dim, since the sun has gone down. The rehab center was farther away than we expected, and it took us a while to get ourselves together.

The walls are covered in a currant red wallpaper with an ivy border. Teal curtains frame the only window in the room. There are a few sparse objects: a hospital bed with an overbed table, a dresser, a door to the bathroom, three chairs, an end table, and an old TV that hangs from the ceiling. Mom doesn’t hear me enter. She is in her wheelchair staring at a portrait painting of a woman with piercing eyes that hangs above the dresser.

“What did you spray in here?” I ask as I put down the bag of items.

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