Some Possible Solutions by Helen Phillips Page A

lemon bar! The tang flips around in our hot mouths, burned from the mushroom soup.
    *   *   *
    After lunch the old people are lined up in the hallway of the Life Care Center. They all sit there in their wheelchairs, big around the crotches due to diapers. Some of them stand out. A woman who is bald but for a hundred white hairs. A man whose skin is so pale he looks dead. I can’t believe they let a dead man sit there alongside the others! A woman strapped to her wheelchair with twelve bright orange straps. A woman with an eager smile who says to everyone walking by, Did you bring it today? Did you bring it? A man who is able to ask us, How is she doing? and to whom we are able to reply, She is finally eating again.
    Yet these distinctions between the old—perhaps they are mostly imagined. In truth they are lined up there in the hallway like one enormous, indistinguishable beast that smells of urine and overcooked fish.
    Passing them is like passing down a gauntlet. We cannot decide if it is better to avert our eyes or to smile. We cannot tell if they are staring at or through us. Do they know that they are old, and that they stink?
    It’s like something from a fairy tale: Once upon a time, in the castle of the ancient ones. At least this is what we try to tell ourselves.
    *   *   *
    My sister does not exactly belong here. She is five decades younger than the others who live in the rooms lining this hall. Yet she is retarded enough to fit in. (Please don’t use that word. Please don’t even think it.) Yet she is (handicapped? disabled? crippled?) enough to fit in. Yet she is ________ enough to fit in. Like them, she cannot walk. Cannot feed herself. Wears diapers. Sickens easily. Is prone to fatal pneumonia. Because she cannot talk, we have nothing to await aside from her smiles. This can cause boredom, impatience.
    Yet she is magical enough to fit in. Yet she is mystical enough to fit in. A beautiful anomaly in the stinking castle of the ancient ones.
    Before she was quarantined in her room, the old folks fawned over her, or so the nurses tell us.
    *   *   *
    Once upon a time, a beautiful young woman married a handsome young man. They had a splendid baby girl, but the baby was cursed.
    Here’s what happened: the baby girl was born normal—perfect, precious, flawless, adorable, charming, cute, cuddly, lovely, sweet, dear, darling, delightful, beautiful, winsome, bonny—but just before her first birthday she forgot the few words she had learned. Her legs went limp. Her eyes crossed. Her hands wrung. Her tongue lolled.
    It was difficult to get excited about the offspring that followed.
    (A medical explanation, please? Eventually the girl was diagnosed with Rett syndrome. Reye’s syndrome? No, Rett syndrome. Tourette’s syndrome? No, Rett syndrome . Like Rhett Butler? Sure, minus the h . I’ve had Rhett syndrome my whole life! So, what is it? A neurological disorder occurring in one in twenty thousand live female births. Only girls? They’re born completely normal, then stop progressing. Life expectancy? Unknown. Likely causes of death? Pneumonia; compromised lung function due to scoliosis and difficulty swallowing.)
    *   *   *
    Now, my husband and I are identical to what my parents were then. Just as beautiful, just as hopeful. Newlywed . A buoyant word.
    I have no appetite here.
    It smells like pee. My hair smells like pee.
    It could happen to us.
    We wish to bestow upon my parents a possible night from three decades ago. Make them young again. Put them on our cheap sun-stained couch. Wrap them around each other. Interweave their fingers. On TV, a black-and-white movie. In mugs, thick hot chocolate. October darkness beyond the window. The warm weight of an Indian blanket.
    Her favorite movie: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers .
    Her age: 29 years, 26 days.
    Number of calories consumed today: 225.
    Description of