Chimae

As the elevator doors slide open, I feel the rush of hot air brushing past my exposed ears. My eyes take a brief moment to adjust to the bright white lights positioned about the hallways in fancy lamps. I remove my shoes and enter the first room on the left, hiding my face behind my tightly wound scarf. The air in the room is even hotter than in the hallways—almost like in a sauna during mid July. All I can smell is the heat. The room has eight beds laid out equal distance from one another, and in each bed, old women are kept captive underneath the identical blue sheets.

“She has chimae,” I overhear.

I turn to ask, “What does chimae mean?”

“Alzheimer’s,” they reply with a frown.

The next day, I reach the second floor and am greeted by a long sigh of warm air. I keep my coat on and my scarf wound as I turn left into the first room of the white hallway. I feel the skin on my back cling unwillingly to my first layer of clothing. I notice the small, rectangular windows at the end of the room for the first time as I walk past four beds, one empty yet, cleanly made. The signs of struggle absent. And behind me, I hear the word chimae being uttered.

“What does that mean?” I ask while staring at the small windows.

“Alzheimer’s,” they reply.