Where's home for you?

A man in his mid-80s lies in a strange bed, staring at the ceiling tiles. One of them has been painted and reminds him of stained glass. While he considers this, four deliberate knocks sound on the wooden door. As it opens, light is cast on the closed vertical blinds. A young man in a short white coat offers a greeting. The man in the bed does not catch it, because the young man's back is turned to open the blinds and wheel the stool to the side of the bed. The man was admitted overnight with ongoing fever and fatigue. In the emergency department, they said it might be leukemia. Yet he seems uninterested. Similarly, he is uninterested in the young man's list of questions. When he hears the young man's speaking come to a stop, he tilts his head from the ceiling to the young man. With this, the young man puts his pencil in the pocket of his coat and begins again, in earnest. “Where's home for you, sir?” “I beg your pardon?” “Home. Where is home for you?” the young man tries again. The man looks at his hands and wrists atop his frail lap; he smooths out a fold in the white blanket. His right index finger is an inch shorter than its contralateral twin, the tip lost to a fit of knotted baling twine when he was 13. His whisper is deliberate: “That's right. I'm not.” “I'm sorry, sir?” the young man asks. He is back to gazing at the stained glass. Beyond it is a hill, green and heavy with August's corn. Beyond the hill, a small yard, a few tomato cages, an apple tree, and several bird feeders. On the back stoop lies a tabby cat, her sagging belly warm in the sun. There are wind chimes above. Then, a mudroom of sunlight and the odor of earth. Five pairs of boots line the wall. Coveralls and a ballcap hang from a hook. Beyond that, a kitchen, the linoleum yellow with time. There is the homenote smell of cold soot, cast iron, and the leaven of this particular family's life together. On the counter rests a milk-glass cake stand, empty. Next, a wicker basket, missing its peaches. Beyond the kitchen, a sitting room; two armchairs, half-done crosswords. On top of the upright piano stands an assembly of framed onlookers, from ancestors to great-grandchildren. And the piano itself, with its worn ivory keys. On the coffee table are several books, two pairs of readers, someone's cross-stitching. The man's mind wanders through another doorway. There is the warm room, the bed, the quilt given by a daughter for an anniversary. A photographic portrait of the couple, taken at a department store, rests on the bedside table. The house is holding vigil in this room. A leaded-glass cardinal suctioned onto the windowpane casts its light upon the floor. Beyond the window, the wind pushes green waves against the high corn. At the top of this hill is a square of tall evergreens. Within that square are the headstones of this place's history: farmers, schoolteachers, welders, mothers, soldiers, nurses, aunts, fathers, seamstresses, uncles, children, and the man's wife. As he looks, he feels his kid brother, seated next to him. He is trying to make him laugh. His father, on the other side, squeezes his leg to pay attention to a sermon. He turns his head toward his brother, who is seated there in a small white coat. “You've gotta stop it, Edwin,” he whispers. The PA student does his best to examine the man. He shines a penlight in his confused eyes, inspects his mouth, listens to his heart and lungs, pushes a thumb against his shin. He thanks the man and goes to meet the rest of the team for sit-down rounds. “Mr. B__ is an 84-year-old retiree with no known medical history who was transferred from an outside hospital overnight with fever, fatigue, and confusion. He's alert but appears to be disoriented to time, place, and person. He seemed to think I was someone he knew. I couldn't get a reliable history. “In the ED his white count was 140,000, hemoglobin 6.5, platelets 12,000. He has blasts on his peripheral smear. According to the notes from the outside hospital, he lost his wife a few months ago. He relocated from Iowa and now lives with his daughter here in North Carolina....” After rounds he writes his student progress notes, assists with several procedures, and is told he can leave early for the day. Before he leaves, he cracks open the door to the man's room. He is asleep, his eyelids gently flutter. The young man stands watching him, wishing he knew more of the man's story.