Finally Free

by Lynne Gentry

  “Benjamin.” Momma sits beside Itty at a small desk. Though they have their heads together and their backs to me, I can hear him gently coaxing her to move forward with her assignment. Instead of knocking out the simple task, she continues to hold a pencil above a blank piece of paper and fire off questions. “Do you want the clock numbered in Roman numerals or Arabic?”

  Encouraged by the brilliant wit in her latest attempt to clarify exactly what’s expected of her, I’m hopeful Itty’s tests will reveal another reason for her increasing lapses in memory and judgment. A treatable and reversible cause. According to my internet research, there’s a long list of things that can cause or mimic Alzheimer’s symptoms. Perhaps Momma’s medications need adjustment. Or maybe she needs some dietary changes. Or possibly more brain stimulating activities. I’m willing to try anything because moving here to increase her human interactions has not reversed her mental atrophy.

  Itty smiles. “Whatever suits you, Mrs. Slocum.” His exceptionally large hand swallows Momma’s shoulder in an encouraging squeeze. “Like I said, take your time. It doesn’t have to be a work of art.”

  Momma points her sharpened pencil at him. “Benjamin, anything worth doing...”

  “You caught me.” Itty’s rich, deep chuckle fills everything but the bottomless hole I’ve dug in my head. “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

  “Promise you won’t forget that, young man.”

  “I promise, Mrs. Slocum.”

  What am I going to do if my mother has Alzheimer’s? Totally losing her mind is different than wrecking a lawn mower or putting a dent in her car and not telling me about it. How am I going to deal with the increasing lack of judgment that’s sure to come? Already her impulsive behavior has cost me a total change to my life and several thousand dollars. Paying off a yard man is nothing compared to what Sam Sparks might demand. If that real estate developer dares to ask for river access again, I don’t want to be responsible for the damage Momma’s unpredictable mood swings might inflict.

  I don’t want to be solely responsible for my mother.

  The thought hits me hard.

  There is no one else.

  Walking away from Momma would have dire consequences. Not just for her, but for the relationship I long to have with my own daughter. Aria is watching me and I don’t mean just during this exam. She’s watching my every move, listening to every irritable word, and looking for love in every gesture I make toward my mother. I’m so afraid of the impact shirking my responsibility to my mother would have on the shaky relationship I have with Aria that I can’t even consider placing Momma in a home and going back to my old life. No matter how difficult all of this might become, I’m not walking away. My father did that to me and I’ve never been the same. The only way to teach my daughter how to love someone who doesn’t deserve it is to show her.

  Momma jabs the name embroidered above the pocket of Itty’s white coat with her pencil eraser. “Say it, young man.”

  “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” Itty finishes with a blinding white smile framed by a thick mahogany beard. “Now, quit stalling and get to work, young lady.”

  Mother pinches his cheek. “You always were one of my favorites.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up.” Itty rises from the rolling stool and slowly removes from Momma’s sight a small silver tray with the three objects he’d asked her to identify and remember when he first began her exam. She’d easily named the scissors and cotton ball. The tongue depressor had her stumped for a moment. It was as if the word was on the tip of her tongue but ironically being held in place by a plank of wood.

  The flash of terror I’d seen in her eyes, sent a shudder straight through me. But no one was more relieved than Momma when she’d finally found the word. Aria had cheered for her when she repeated scissors, cotton ball, and tongue depressor three times in a row without the least bit of hesitation. Itty explained that he wanted her to remember these items so that she could name them at the end of her exam.

  Itty reaches around me and sets the tray inside the small sink I’m leaning against. Our shoulders brush. My worried gaze shoots up to his.

  “It’ll be all right,” he mouths.

  Because Itty is at least a head taller than me, his breath warms my forehead. It’s hard not to call him by the silly nickname pinned on the skinny boy forced to lug a tuba because Addisonville’s band already had too many trumpets. Momma was incensed at the injustice. Her favorites were not to be deprived of opportunities to further their talents. By the start of our senior year, she’d finally worn the band director down. Trumpet in hand, Itty quickly proved his natural ear. I can’t help but wonder why Itty, who’s no longer bitty, took up medicine instead of music.

  Shifting away from a sudden longing to tickle a keyboard, I mouth back, “Should Aria and I step outside?”

  “You’re fine,” Itty whispers. “Let’s see how well she concentrates with distraction close at hand.” He turns and leans against the counter with me.

  Shoulder to shoulder, we watch Momma start to write, then stop. I’ve not had someone solid to lean against in so long, I hope Itty’s keen ear isn’t picking up the panic pounding in my chest.

  Itty tilts his head toward me and whispers, “So, you’re painting the house?”

  The randomness of this question works like a speed bump that slows my racing worry. “How did you know?” I whisper back.

  “White paint in your hair.” His arm wraps around behind me and he pulls a paint-splattered strand from my head.

  My hand flies to my head. “Ouch.”

  “Diagnostics are my specialty.” The toe of Itty’s shoe hits the lever on the trash can. The lid pops open and he drops in a white hair, then dusts his hands with a satisfied smirk. “You’re stressed.”

  “What makes you think that?” I whisper between clenched teeth.

  He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “House painting is about as far from lawyering as it gets.”

  Mother taps her pencil on the table. “Is this part of the test, Benjamin?”

  Itty rips his intense gaze away from me. “Ma’am?”

  Momma’s frustration drills us both. “I don’t think anyone could concentrate with all this blatant flirting going on not three feet away?”

  Heat speeds up my core and spreads to my face. “We were just catching up, Momma.” I inch left until Itty and I are no longer touching.

  Mother lifts her pencil over the blank sheet of paper. “How big do you want the numbers, Benjamin?”

  I can’t help but worry that the tiniest of distraction has hindered her concentration, so I make a silent pledge to ignore my crazy desire to confide anything more to Itty. No matter how spot-on his deductions are about me, I don’t want my mother’s doctor making an erroneous diagnosis because he was distracted.

  “Well, the goal is to number the circle like a clock,” Benjamin repeats kindly.

  Mother looks down at the paper then back at us. “What circle?”

  “The one the doctor asked you to draw.” Aria’s empathy for her grandmother sounds more like disapproval of my comfort with Itty. “A clock. Like the one on your kitchen wall.”

  It’s all I can do not to jump in and defend my right to have a friend. “Ari, let’s all try to give Nana a quiet moment, okay?”

  “I’m not the one chatting up the doc.” Aria pulls out her cell, turns her back to me, and frantically begins typing with both thumbs.

  Momma hunches over her project and finally lowers her pencil to the paper. She’s scrapes the lead along the paper so hard it snaps. She stops and calmly says, “They don’t make pencils like they used to.”

  “Here,” Itty pulls the pen from his pocket and clicks it on. “Try this, Mrs. Slocum.”

  Momma lets out a long, slow breath. “I have my own pen. Is there a rule against using one’s own pen when one’s future is being tested?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Momma motions for A
ria to hand over her purse. She digs through its contents until she finds a pen, then sets the purse on the small desk to block our ability to see her paper. “Keep your eyes on your own work,” she says, as if we are taking the same test and might be trying to cheat by getting a peek at her answers. A few clicks of the pen and she finally sets to work.

  I hold my breath. Aria clutches her phone to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself back. Benjamin casts a supportive nod my way. I’m grateful, but there’s nothing he can do to take away the pounding in my chest.

  Minutes tick by at a snail’s pace.

  “There.” With a smile, Momma holds up her answer sheet. “The student has failed to trip up the teacher.”

  I can’t move. I can’t blink. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  Not only is the circle horribly lopsided, twelve odd-sized numbers are written in three shaky rows of four, and most of the numbers are out of numerical order. The woman who used to solve complicated algebraic equations in her head cannot properly number a clock.

  Aria lowers her phone. “Oh, Nana.”

  Momma’s gaze surveys our stunned expressions. The smile slides from her lips. She places the paper face down on the desk. “Go ahead and say what we all know. I’m losing it, aren’t I?”

  Itty comes to our rescue. “Let’s finish up the test before we start handing out grades. Okay, Mrs. Slocum?” He plops onto the rolling stool and wheels up beside her. “Remember the tray I showed you earlier?”

  Momma’s bottom lip is quivering and her rapid blinking tells me she fighting tears. “Yes.”

  “Can you name the three objects on the tray?”

  Her hands search the surface of the tiny desk. “Where is it?”

  “Take your time,” Itty reassured. “Think about what was on the tray. I’m going to give you a clue.”

  “No!” Momma snaps. “A clue would be cheating.” She pulls her hands into her lap and makes a clenched fist. “I’ve never been a cheater and I’m not going to cheat what’s happening inside my head now, am I?”

  It’s Itty who finally breaks the deadly silence. “Remember how you used to give me a little help whenever I got stuck on a multiplication fact?”

  “That was different.”

  “How?”

  “You didn’t really need my help,” Momma conceded.

  Itty gently places his hand over Momma’s clasped ones. “The items on the tray were all things you’d find in a doctor’s office.”

  Momma looks around the room, as if she’s hoping to spot what’s missing.

  “Geez, Mom,” Aria says. “If you’re not going to help her, let me.”

  I grab Aria’s arm and shake my head. “She has to do this.”

  Momma’s gaze travels from Aria to me. At my encouraging nod, defiance fills her eyes. She withdraws her hands from Itty’s grasp. “Charlotte’s obsessed with painting. You really should let her paint this place, Benjamin.” Momma snatches her purse from the table. “Her efforts to gloss over things is as unproductive as subjecting me to these ridiculous tests.” She threads her arms through the stiff straps. “I may not be able to draw a clock, but I’ve never been late and don’t intend to start now. My granddaughter and I have an appointment with the infallible Wilma Rayburn.”

  Chapter 10

  SARA

  I let my gaze dart in and out of the honeycomb of empty storefronts on Main Street as Charlotte passes the stack of my new prescriptions to the gray-haired woman working the drive-thru window at Penny’s Pharmacy. This drug store has been on the corner of Main and Third for fifty years.

  When the founder, Ezra Penny, died behind the cash register, his daughter Gertrude took over management of the family-owned business. Even in her younger days, Gert was never much to look at. Thirty years of standing behind the drug counter has dragged her bosoms to her waist and flattened her feet. From the scowl on her face, it has also stomped out her hope. If she died with a half-filled pill bottle in her hand, there would be no heir to cry at her funeral or carry on the family legacy.

  I cut a sideways glance at Charlotte. Life has snatched so much from me. It’s only a matter of time before it takes this daughter. Since I don’t have a piece of paper to record the blessing of having her and Aria with me now, all I can do is pray silently that I never forget them.

  Several vacant doors down from Penny’s is the office of the Addisonville Herald. Mitty Stringer is the only employee left at the county newspaper. A few years ago, he started working from home. His office lights are only on one day a month, the day he fires up the small press. Across the street, at the Addison National Bank—the one my father started and my older brother Burl, Jr. inherited—all of the lights blaze. Junior wants everyone to believe money is not a problem, but his new pickup is the only vehicle parked out front. When the big-box store popped up in the next county, Burl Jr. did nothing to help the local businesses survive the economic blow. In fact, most everybody in this town believes he made a tidy profit selling the land upon which the store was built. Except for me, everyone in this town has a long memory. Maybe the good thing about losing my mind is that someday I might forget what Burl Jr. did to me.

  If what Benjamin says is true, my brain is like Main Street. Something’s attacking my once thriving mental real estate. It is creating small holes in my memory’s economic flow. As information travels along the cracked neuro sidewalks in my head, it falls into these tiny caverns. Once a thought disappears, it is as impossible to retrieve as a small town’s viability.

  Eventually, my entire brain will become a honeycomb, darker than Addisonville’s struggling Main Street. The malevolent gene moving in is a big box store hell-bent on starving me out. It is only a matter of time before I have to close up shop.

  Anger stiffens my spine. I’ve been a fool to trust medical advice dispensed from a deserted strip mall. These unsettling lapses in my thinking are from having too much to think about. Not dementia or early-onset Alzheimer’s. I can prove it.

  While Gertrude and Charlotte exchange pleasantries, I study each of the three remaining downtown businesses. I mentally repeat their names, then shut my eyes tight. A black and white imprint of the two-block heart of the city appears on the backside of my eyelids. But upon making a closer examination of the picture I see not the decrepit Addisonville of today, but the vibrant hometown of my childhood.

  It’s summer and I’m clutching the dime my father gave me before he shooed me from his office and sent me to buy a root beer float at the pharmacy. His wink told me he was only acting cross for his customer’s sake. In truth, he swelled with pride when I correctly compounded loan interest in my head and spit out the answer a full five seconds before the adding machine.

  That memory I can see clear as a bell. I can even taste the fizzy ice cream and hear the honk of cars as I dart across the street with the heat of August burning my skin. My new memory, the one I’d just entered in my mind, is gone.

  I squeeze my eyes tighter. My mind mentally wanders the street in search of what I’d asked my brain to do. But it’s like walking down the hallways of the school long after the janitor has turned off the lights for the day. Familiar, yet totally unsettling.

  Gert Penny’s unusually thick southern drawl snatches me from the past and drops me smack dab in the seat of my struggling Ford Escort.

  “I’d heard you’d moved home, Charlotte.” Gert shouts over the squeal coming from under the hood of the Escort. The scowl deepens on her brow as she shuffles the pile of prescriptions. “I can see why.”

  Charlotte’s everything’s-fine smile appears so fast I wonder if she’d been anticipating questions about my health. “Mother’s just feeling a little run down,” comes out of her mouth, but the worry on her face tells the truth. She believes Benjamin. And she is scared. Maybe as frightened as she was the day her sister died. The day everything changed. And now, just when she’s remodeled her life once again, Alzheimer’s has changed everything. “How long will this take?”

>   Gert’s brows rise above her half-glasses. “I’ll need an hour.”

  “We can stop by after we tour the school.” Charlotte drops the shifter into drive, lurches forward, then slams on the brake. She throws her arm over the seat and backs up until she’s once again even with the window. “Oh, LaVera asked if we could pick up the order she called in?”

  “Bo usually picks up whatever his mother needs.”

  “LaVera asked us to help because Bo has the engine of Winnie’s VW scattered all over his shop. Her tummy’s a little upset and I think she doesn’t want to wait until this evening to get an Alka-Seltzer.”

  “Should I send someone out to check on her?” Gert asks.

  “That’s up to you, but our next errand won’t take long.” Charlotte cranks the window back up. “What’s the matter, Momma?”

  “Wilma Rayburn will know I’m on crazy meds before we get to the school.”

  “Gert knows better than to breach a patient’s privacy.”

  “And yet, somehow, everyone in town knew Cora Jenkins was losing it long before Cora’s kids put her away and forgot about her.”

  “Momma, everyone knew Cora was losing it when she rode a bicycle through town stark naked.”

  I turn to my daughter. Worry lines pinch Charlotte’s brow. This is going to be hard on her, which is exactly why I have hidden my concerns for so long. I don’t want Charlotte ignoring her own problems to assume my burdens. Charlotte deserves her own life. A happier life.

  But if she isn’t going to live her own life, at the very least, she deserves support. A family to help her navigate the potholes in her mother’s brain. I hadn’t thought it possible for anyone to miss Caroline more than I, but Charlotte’s face tells me I am wrong. There’s nothing to do but accept that Caroline hadn’t meant to die and leave all of this on Charlotte. But Martin...now that is a different story entirely. His decision to dump his family obligations was a great selfishness I can’t forgive.