Garland lived with his sister, Ginger, in a duplex, crouched down under two or three tall pines,the last of five houses on a one-block dead-end street. Their roadway ran into a busy thoroughfare, intersecting it about two blocks from a rail transit station. A thin copse of trees and bushes separated them from a city park encompassing a ball field and swimming pool; the small dwelling adjacent to theirs lay at the end of a long driveway amongst a few scraggly trees and shrubs. Ginger rented the left-side apartment in a white house with a pale brown roof, which shekept uncluttered and clean. I often walked in on her mopping the floors with antiseptic soap, leaving a medicinal odor throughout the place. Garland slept on a single bed in front of a dresser holding a small TV turned on every time I visited him.

In 1989, I became a hospice volunteer out of a desire to assist persons with AIDS. This sentimentcentered on the view that being with people as they confronted death could teach me something about living. I dithered about signing up, worried I couldn’t handle death, yet if I did not step forward, I brooded I would miss an opportunity for a vital experience. I made the commitment, but the program didn’t have a PWA for me to serve when I began, so I agreed to visit persons with other afflictions. My fourth hospice patient was the first I had with what the experts called “full-blown AIDS.” After witnessing three older men die from cancer, I embarked on a different undertaking with Garland—a young person losing his life to a tortuous disease, whom many in his community and family shunned.

Working for a public health agency, I gained a limited understanding of the disease and its progression. I knew persons with AIDS remained lucid and active in the early stages but lost their mental acuity and strength as the malady advanced. Notwithstanding their inability to affect his prognosis, his doctors referred Garland to hospice late in the illness. The person I met on a clear winter day couldn’t convey his feelings and thinking, and I suspected my presence didn’t register with him. Hospice workers told me this belated referral fit the norm for the hospital’s infectious disease physicians, who kept patients out of palliative care until their last days. They conjectured these doctors saw themselves in heroic terms, not wanting to give up.

Besides Garland, Ginger’s five-year-old daughter, Jamika, lived with her. I don’t recall her mentioning other family members, but the hospice background information divulged theirbrother George “comes routinely to visit…between his [two] jobs & helps financially.”

Ginger gave me a cordial welcome and told me Garland—about five-ten, slender, and per my contact sheet, twenty-nine years old—had worked in a shoe store before getting sick, but she disclosed little else. I commenced coming by on Saturday afternoons for an hour and made fruitless attempts to interact with him. The notes I had indicated Garland communicated by uttering “yes” or “no” or with gestures such as a nod, shake of his head, or occasionally a smile. Yet he seldom responded to my voice except to stare at me. While Ginger would make small-talkwhen I arrived, she went back to her chores—laundry, washing dishes, scrubbing floors—as soon as I settled myself in a chair by his bed.

Garland would scrutinize me in the indirect light, his thin, mahogany face without expression buthis brown eyes alert, his mouth slightly open. The hour slowly passed as we watched a basketball game or an old movie, and sometimes I struggled to stay awake. I inspected pill bottles by his bed, knowing he had a prescription for AZT, a recent medication touted by researchers, though I didn’t see a drug label I could abbreviate to those three letters. Cautious, I was wary of physical contact, and I was curious, but his condition didn’t allow me to engage with him or offer a diversion. I sat by his bed, embarrassed by my uselessness. I didn’t want to shortchange him, but after sixty minutes, I said goodbye and headed for the front door. We stuck to this routine each week except for one.

I showed up at the usual hour but had to wait at the entryway longer than usual for Ginger to let me in after knocking. Her eyes wide and brow furrowed, she said, “I’m out of gloves. I used the last pair this morning. I can’t give Garland a sponge bath or change his diaper.” A hospice worker wouldn’t be coming until Monday. She hesitated a moment and then asked in a marginally raised voice, “Could you stay here while I go to Grady to get some more?” I said, “Can’t you get gloves at the drugstore? It’s a lot closer than the hospital.” Her eyelids lowered, her reply softer but more intense, “I don’t have to pay at Grady.”

My gaze moved to the floor, my mind swirling around the possibilities of what could happen if I stayed—diarrhea, vomiting, an onset of delirium. Ginger stepped to the side with her shoulders slumped in an uncharacteristic stance. Her anguish gnawed at me. For an uneasy minute, I considered my chances of finding help at the enormous facility, bothered I’d waste hours on afutile task. Though doubtful of the outcome, I stated I could go to the hospital for her. She thanked me and said since the hospice office was closed, I could get latex gloves at the emergency room.

At Grady, I had to determine which of the two emergency rooms—medical or injury—I should enter. The near emptiness of the waiting area puzzled me, with not more than half a dozen persons on the medical side and no one on the injury side. But glancing out a window, I noticedvehicles come and go in the ambulance bays. After an unsuccessful search to find an employee to aid me, I cautiously crossed the threshold to the medical treatment space. Nurses in pale green scrubs scurried back and forth in the hallway outside a row of exam rooms. Standing there, I felt invisible, and when no one acknowledged me after a minute, I interrupted a woman to ask for assistance. I hastened to identify myself and said I needed gloves for an AIDS patient’s caregiver. I could tell she had to attend to more important matters. She went to a cabinet on the wall and pulled out an opened, almost full box of gloves, and handed it to me. Although holding the box relieved my anxiety, I couldn’t figure out what to do next: Should I sign for them? Should I take all of them or just a few pairs? I peered at her for a second and mumbled, “Can I take the whole thing?” She said, “Sure,” and turned to follow a gurney down the corridor.

III

The hospice contact sheet indicated, “Ginger is frightened but loves her brother.” The social worker wrote she “knows Garland wants to be at home & she would like to support his wish but gets overcome w/ her…helplessness.” Although he had AIDS, in my presence, she would act as if he’ll return to his old job at some indefinite point in the future. And one evening, about a month after I started visiting, she uncovered proof to bolster her belief he would get better.

I made a routine call to Ginger to let her know I’d see them that weekend. In an excited tone, she said, “Garland is talking.” I hesitated, not understanding her point since grunts, single syllables, and visage constituted Garland’s means of expressing himself. Elated and maybe detecting myskepticism, she said she would put him on. “Okay,” I said, doubtful he would utter anything besides “yes” or “no.” However, he astonished me by speaking in complete sentences, though I soon comprehended he was echoing words embodied in Ginger’s questions. She would say, “How are you feeling? Are you feeling better?” He would answer, “I’m feeling better,” in limpid phrasing without pause or mumbling as if engaged in a casual conversation. It was the first I had heard him speak a complete sentence, albeit only two or three words longer than his usual diction. Still, the short, simple vocalizations impressed me. “See, he can talk. He’s getting better,” she said in a burst of joy. I came back to reality after a few moments.

Ginger’s enthusiasm began to concern me as it bordered on frenzy. Because we were on the phone, she remained oblivious to my comedown. “He’s better. He can talk,” she said again, slowing to catch her breath. Not wanting to dampen her mood, I said, “He sounds better,” and reminded her I’d be by Saturday. Forty-two hours after this exchange, I went to their house. Following a short chat with Ginger, I sat by Garland’s bed. Neither of us brought up his budding recovery then or at any other time.

A few weeks later, on a cold March afternoon at the end of a workday, the volunteer coordinatorcalled to let me know Ginger had sent Garland to the hospital. He had become feverish and recalcitrant. Ginger couldn’t make it though I don’t recall why, so the coordinator asked if I could check on him. Unsure about what to expect, I rushed to the ER and spent the next two hours in a waiting room with pale yellow walls and a large window revealing the darkening sky.The resident who had been caring for Garland came out. About Garland’s age, he had a thick neck, short brown hair, and pasty arms with tree-trunk dimensions. He bore the mien of a drill sergeant wearing a surgical shirt two sizes too small. He looked for a family member and, finding no one, settled for me.

In a hurry, he told me they had stabilized Garland. Seated in a chair next to mine, he spokelouder than necessary for someone six inches away. After his report, he asked,” Why doesn’t he have a DNR?” His pallid features frozen in a glower, he waited for my reply. Startled, I didn’t have an immediate response. I glanced down at my hands, clasped together, and avoided his eyes. My face became hot.

Discovering the family hadn’t agreed to a do-not-resuscitate order flustered me. I could do nothing but shrug, saying, “His sister made that decision.” He sighed and jerked his head back, looking at the ceiling. Bewildered at first, I became indignant as I grasped how he judged me: ado-gooder who hadn’t counseled the family on their loved one’s terminal condition. My resentment extended from the doctor in front of me to Ginger for refusing to accept Garland’sfate. Did I have a responsibility to convince her Garland would die, probably in the next few months? Hospice staff tried to do that. Even though, since this episode, Ginger stoppedmaintaining that Garland would recover, she didn’t consent to a DNR or an advanced directive.

Distressed from confronting the frustrated bodybuilder, I grew self-conscious, fretting about how Garland’s medical providers saw me. I stewed and regarded myself as more a hindrance than a support. I had known Garland for two months. Getting a box of gloves from the hospital was my sole tangible contribution to easing his plight.

In mid-April, Garland died at home. His funeral took place at a church located in a more affluent neighborhood, paid for by a congressman’s donation. I sat in the rear of the sanctuary, in which a backdrop of cream-colored walls and oak pews induced a calming effect, soothing my nervousness. My attention wandered from the eulogy and hymns as snippets of memory surfaced, including the young doctor’s antagonistic manner, Garland’s brief dialog, and his sister’s excited assertions he will recover. Images from quieter times ensued: Garland’s bleak room with the faint smell of disinfectant and his rare smile. Mulling over these scenes kindled areverie. In this fanciful daydream, I listened to Garland tell his story.

Tom Wade is a retired state government employee. He lives in the Atlanta area and volunteers with the American Civil Liberties Union. His essays have appeared in Canyon Voices, Dr. T. J. Eckleburg Review, Lunch Ticket, Inlandia, Harmony Magazine, Rivanna Review, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, 805 Lit+Art, William and Mary Review, Black Fork Review, Bookends Review, and other publications.