Free The Sweet by and By by Todd Johnson

arms and putting them in the empty cardboard box that originally contained all the supplies.
    The door to Jamie’s room is closed. That most likely means he’s sleeping or getting a bath or having a diaper changed. We start to go back to the dining room when the door swings open and Lorraine puts a rubber wedge under it to hold it.
    “What are y’all doin? I thought you was decorating the dining room this morning,” she says.
    “We’d like to decorate in here, Lorraine. Are you with us or against us?”
    Bernice pipes up. “We’re giving him the whole party.”
    Lorraine is standing in the doorway. “Ada Everett knows what y’all are doin?”
    “No ma’am, without question, she does not,” I answer.
    “Hmm.” Lorraine steps aside. “All right then.” She can’t help grin- ning in spite of herself.
    Bernice starts riff ling through long strands of crepe paper, while Lorraine tries to keep it untangled. I attempt to direct them. “Now don’t put too much pink, Bernice, he’s a boy.” I hesitate. “I don’t know, never mind, maybe he likes pink, so just do what looks good.”
    Bernice says to Lorraine, “We need you up high,” pointing to the ceiling.
    “Yes Lorraine, please,” I add.
    “I got to put on some lower shoes before y’all get me climbin up on things.” Lorraine scurries out. “Y’all wait for me, I mean it now.”
    Jamie is wide-awake, his eyes darting, dancing. I could swear I see a smile. I lean down to him. “We’re giving you all the valentines in this place, honey.”
    Bernice leans down too. “Won’t you be my valentine? I will be your valentine,” she sings. Jamie’s eyelids f licker, and Bernice takes hold of his limp hand and sings again. I tape our construction paper and lace cutouts all over the wall, and a potato-shaped heart onto my blouse. The party is starting early this year.

    ch a p t e r s e v e n
    April

    T

    he Asian woman at the desk said, “You go right back, it fine. You find her back there,” without looking up from her
    work, which seemed to be dominated by a large chart and Sharp
    -
    ies in several colors, all very neat and orderly. “She working on B Hall. You find her.”
    “Which one is B again?” I asked, leaning slightly over the top of the high reception desk. I had forgotten the layout.
    She burst into a giggle, then composed herself immediately, “Over there, no problem. You see?”
    Whenever I came home from Shaw on a weekend, Mama let me use her car on Saturday to run errands as long as I promised I’d be on time to pick her up after her shift. On this rare occasion, I was early. I thanked the receptionist and pointed again to B Hall to reiterate, waving to her as I walked away.
    The hall was lined with railing to prevent falls, and a linoleum f loor was easier to clean than carpet, as well as being an optimal surface for wheelchairs. Some patients pulled themselves along in their chairs via hand over hand movement, clasping the rail as tightly as they could with arthritic wrists and fingers. Less skilled drivers often banged into the wall, which was why the f loor mold- ing was brown rubber, marred by countless bumps and bruises.
    I had been here so many times that the smell didn’t bother me the way it used to, as if it were something that one could ever
    really become accustomed to. The most pronounced odor was that of a strong citrus-infused bleach that masks the ubiquitous presence of urine. It is a smell that is found in this particular form of offense nowhere, as far as I can tell, except nursing homes.
    On each door was a Magic Marker cartoon drawing—a star, a teddy bear, a rainbow, there may have been other shapes as well. Mama told me the importance of these when I was still in grade school after I had managed to take some of them off the doors and was adding my own creative expression via crayons. I understand now that they are a code to remind nurses and clue new staff into special needs or problems of the patients. A