Beautiful Mistake(26)

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.”

That was Umberto’s way of saying, I have no idea, but I’m not telling you that.

She squeezed. “Rachel’s going to put some headphones on you. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I placed a set of wireless headphones over Umberto’s ears while Lydia dug into her purse and took out a small case of earbuds she’d started to carry. It wasn’t necessary for her to listen, but she liked to keep in tune with her husband. Realizing for the first time that I hadn’t brought an extra set of wireless buds, I offered to share mine with Caine. It wasn’t necessarily a hardship having to inch up directly next to him so we could each listen through one bud.

I started the music, and Umberto immediately closed his eyes. Within seconds, the tension etched in his face seemed to flee. I glanced over at Caine, who was watching Umberto, and he nodded his head and smiled. At some point during the song, Umberto reached out and took his wife’s hand. It was such a small gesture, but those tiny moments of recognition made a world of difference to a family dealing with advanced Alzheimer’s.

We played two songs, and then I removed the headset from Umberto’s head.

“How are you feeling today, Umberto?”

“Good. Good.” I wasn’t sure if he felt any different than before, but the agitation from ten minutes earlier was gone.

Lydia tried to build on the effect of the music. “Umberto? Do you remember when Francesca used to play this song?”

“Sure.” He nodded. Then he pursed all five of his fingers together in the universal Italian grandmother hand language and said, “Belle parole non pascon I gatti.”

Lydia laughed. She looked to me. “It means Fine words don’t feed cats. My mother-in-law, Francesca, used to say it all the time. I never really understood what it meant.”

We stayed for a few hours, even breaking for lunch and then coming back afterward. But that was the extent of Umberto’s brief burst of memories that day. A second round of music in the afternoon didn’t bring back any specific recollections, but I hoped the music had something to do with the smiles everyone wore.

Lydia looked at her watch. “Umberto, it’s almost time for mass. Do you want to get washed up before the service?”

“Okay.”

She turned to Caine and me. “Would you like to join us?”

Even though I was definitely not a Sunday mass person, I’d joined them on a few occasions to observe Umberto’s reactions to the music.

“I think we’re going to head out,” I told her. “It’s getting late.”

As we were saying our goodbyes, Umberto looked to Caine. “You going to take Max out now?”

Caine went along with it. “Yeah. I’ll take good care of Max.”

After the nurse took Umberto back to his room to get ready, Lydia walked us to the lobby. “Somehow I don’t get offended that my husband has fallen in love with another woman and doesn’t remember me, but every time he remembers Max, I can’t help but be insulted.” She laughed, but seemed only half kidding. “So, I hope our Rachel scored an A today. The musical therapy really seems to be working.”#p#分页标题#e#

I smiled. “It’s not like that. Professor West doesn’t give me a grade. He sort of oversees the research I’m doing and the writing of my paper.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I hope you were impressed.”

Caine looked at me with warmth in his eyes. “I was. Very.”

Lydia gave me a hug. “See you next week?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Will I be seeing you again, Professor?”

“If Rachel will have me.”

Umm. Are we talking literally or figuratively here?

Back in the car on the drive home, I could tell something was on Caine’s mind. He was quieter than usual.

“Did you want to go to mass? I didn’t even think to ask you before I declined, and I’ve monopolized your entire Sunday.”

Caine glanced at me and back to the road. “Haven’t gone to church in fifteen years. Wouldn’t step back inside if you paid me.”





Caine

Fifteen years ago



What the hell is she doing?

I ducked behind a wide marble column to watch. I was later than usual because Liam had been screwing around at band practice, and we all lost track of time trying to learn a new song he’d written while drunk last night. Half of what he’d chicken-scratched down on a brown paper bag was smeared and unreadable. But the other half was pretty damn good. So we riffed and riffed, trying to get the jackass to remember the words he’d written.

I normally showed up at twelve-thirty and set myself up in the confessional to wait. My little friend generally wandered in sometime before one. But today I was late, and she was early. At least I thought she was early. I hadn’t really ever seen her clearly enough to be positive it was her. For all I knew, I could be hiding from some other random little girl who’d wandered into church on Saturday afternoon.