Toxic (Ruin 2)

“Speak up!” an elderly man called out. “Can’t hear you back here!”

He was in the front row.

Clearing my throat, I spoke again. “My name’s Saylor and — ”

“Do you sail?” A girl in the front clapped her hands and then jumped to her feet and turned around to face the patients. “I love sailing! Who else loves sailing?”

Nobody said anything.

With a happy sigh, she sat back down and started talking to herself. “Sail, sail, sail. How I wish I could still sail. Nice to meet you, Saylor!”

She said my name so loudly that if the elderly man hadn’t caught it that time, there really wasn’t any hope for him — ever.

“As I said…” I offered a weak smile. “I’m Saylor and—”

I was losing them.

Already the eyes were glazing over. I knew some of the patients had memory issues, others struggled with mental handicaps, and I was boring them to tears.

Screw it. I raised my hand, “Who wants to make noise?”

“Me! Me! Me!” The girl from the front jumped into the air and started dancing while cheers erupted around her.

“Awesome.” I smiled and started handing out the different instruments. I had recorders — you know, like the plastic looking flutes you get in fifth grade music class — a cow bell, a miniature piano, a harmonica, and three drums.

Yeah, we weren’t going to be winning any Grammy’s, but I had tried to pick out instruments I knew Eric would like, and although he hated loud noises, he was totally okay with being the one making them.

Last year Mom had bought him a drum set.

My ears had been recovering ever since.

“I want drums!” The old man got up from his seat, hobbled toward me, jerked the sticks right out of my hands, and brought the small drum back to his seat, smiling the whole time like I’d just given him a new hearing aid.

The girl who liked sailing picked out the recorder.

It took me fifteen minutes to get all the instruments out, mainly because every time I offered one, someone else piped up that they wanted it. I broke the groups up. The recorders sat in one section, the drums in another, and so forth.

“What about Princess?” a voice asked.

I turned around and scanned the room, squinting as I tried to identify the person who had spoken.

“Over here,” she said smoothly, her voice was high-pitched but really pretty and clear, almost childlike.

I turned to my right and noticed a girl in a wheelchair sitting in the corner. She had really long blonde hair pulled back into a scrunchie and was wearing an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt.

Her smile reminded me of Eric, innocent and hopeful. Her hands were laid out in front of her, lifeless, and there was a bumper on either side of her head, keeping her facing forward.

“What would you like to play?” I took a few steps toward her. “I have drums left, but if you have any ideas I can get you something else.”

“Guitar.” Her mouth fell open a bit, as if she couldn’t control it, and then her smile returned. “I want to play guitar like my Parker.”

“Parker?” I repeated, my smile widening. “And who is this Parker?”

“Oh.” Her eyes were bright, but there were dark circles underneath them like she hadn’t gotten much rest in the past decade. “He’s my best friend.”

“Best friends are nice,” I said softly, the words clogging my throat as I watched her mouth fall open again and then close. Her eyes struggled to focus on me and then she blinked a few times, like she was clearing cobwebs.

“Guitar.” She coughed softly. “I want to play Parker’s guitar.”