The Ordinary Times

Visitation

There were ghosts, certainly, in the voice of the man by the window, asking for leftovers, and ghosts in the eyes of the thin boy with the ball-cap, just sitting there. There were ghosts in the motions of my brother’s arms, scars of over-medication in his musculature, surely, and ghosts in the tired voices and tortured steps of the nurses and assistants.

I came with gifts — two Mountain Goats CDs and a cheeseburger (apparently there is something of a fast foot black market in there — the woman with wild eyes and always headphones came into the kitchen as we were eating and placed what I assumed was an entirely fictitious phone call to a friend to order a Whopper). I came with expectations, vague ideas about what the place would be. I have been there before, but never in the main areas, and never by myself. I came on the bus, with my music loud.

I met Jimmy, the big man with the small voice who follows my brother around like a puppy, angels in his eyes. I met my brother’s budding love interest, whom the nurses said I resembled, much to my embarrassment. It was our cherubic cheeks, they said. I blushed.

We played cribbage and drank decaffeinated iced tea. A man yelled in broken English about Catholic church. Jimmy wanted a dollar for a Diet Coke.