by Shafer, Gina
“John!” he calls, and the bartender’s head snaps up. He starts walking over as soon as he sees the man beside me.
The man turns to me again. “So, margarita?” he asks again.
I wrinkle my nose, knowing it’s probably not a good idea that I drink when my parents could need my help at home. I check the time on the simple rose-gold watch on my wrist and turn to the bartender. “I better stick with a soda. Sprite please? And maybe throw a couple cherries in it.”
The man at my side gets my attention again. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Shirley Temple-type of girl.” Margarita Man chuckles.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not much of a margarita girl either,” I say, waving goodbye and moving to the other end of the bar. I plan on asking the bartender to put my soda into a to-go cup so I can start back to the house. Instead of moping, I could make it home sooner and get an early dinner started for my parents.
“What kind of girl are you?” Margarita Man asks, startling me. He’d followed me.
“Smith, leave her alone,” a woman says. She has bright, cherry red hair and the biggest pair of cornflower blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “Hi.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. Smith stands next to her. “I’m Erin. Sorry if my brother was bothering you.”
We shake. I glance between her and Smith, noting the complete difference in appearance and wonder how they came to be siblings.
“Whitley,” I offer, and then I ask the bartender, “Geez, how long does it take to get a soda around here?”
“Oh, you ordered from John?” She laughs. “You wont be getting that anytime soon.
“Why not? What kind of bar doesn’t serve drinks?”
“When John bartends, he pretty much only serves drinks he agrees with, and most of the time, he brings you what he thinks you need, as opposed to what you think you want,” Erin tells me.
“That’s silly. How does he stay in business?”
“Most of the time, it ends up being the right thing.”
“But, I just wanted a drink to walk home with.” I mutter, wrinkling my brows together and glancing outside.
“I tried to get her to go with a margarita,” Smith says, shrugging.
“What’s with you and that drink? Wouldn’t think a slight obsession with an alcoholic beverage could be so annoying,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth, I realize how incredibly rude they must have sounded.
“I’m sorry, I—” I start to apologize, but I’m interrupted by Erin’s laughter. She throws her head back, whacking Smith on the shoulder.
“I like her,” she says. “One of the few people unafraid to put Smith in his place. Wonder how’d she’d fair with Nick?”
It’s silent for a moment. A long, sort-of awkward moment before the discomfort grows, and I excuse myself. “Well, it was nice meeting you two.” I offer a small half wave.
“Wait!” Erin says. “We’re have music night on Saturdays. Took forever for me to talk the owner into it, but he finally caved. You should come sometime. It’ll be fun.”
I can already tell Erin is the type of person that can make friends with anyone. “Okay, thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Tequila sunrise.” John’s voice rings through the bar as he slides the drink in front of me.
Sunrise. Funny. I slap some money down on the bar without touching the drink and leave.
As soon as I’m outside, I go to the grocery store nearby to pick up a few things for dinner. Hearty pasta sounds good. Something with lots of vegetables, butter, and garlic. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it, so it doesn’t take me much time to pick up the few things I need.
I carry the bags back to the house, tired and sweaty by the time I make it through the mile walk.
When I get inside, I find Coconut curled up on the couch, napping in the sunlight streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows at the back of the house.
“Well, as least one of us enjoys it,” I mutter. Seeing that golden gleam always puts me on edge. I end up expecting bad news on days like this.
I find a note by the foyer from Dad letting me know that they went for a stroll down the beach. Mom was apparently getting restless and disturbed.
I go into the kitchen, kicking off my shoes on the way, and place the bags on the counters.
I remove the few items I got from the store: a really good olive oil, a bunch of asparagus, a red pepper, a zucchini, and a small pack of bright, fresh, sugar snap peas. I give everything a nice rinse as the pasta water works up to a boil.
As I start my assembly line of slicing, I hear the back door open and my father speaking in a low voice.
I put the knife down and head that way, in case he needs help with Mom.
“Hey, how’d everything go?” I ask when I see them both standing at the threshold. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Dad about the doctor appointment yet. When my eyes meet my dad’s, my stomach drops. Stress, worry, pure sadness—it’s all there on his face.
“We’re good. Your mother has had a long day, so she’s going to watch her favorite show on television,” he tells me, wrapping his arm around her. “I’m just going to the bathroom quickly.”
“Whitley,” she says and stops. Only my name and the distant look in her eyes.
“Sure, Dad.” I take hold of her arm and guide her to the couch. As much as I want to ask what the doctors said, and hear all about how the day went, it’s probably not the best idea right now. I drape a blanket over her and reach for the remote.
“What’s your favorite show?” I ask, struck for a moment with a deep pang of guilt that I don’t actually know what she likes to watch. She doesn’t answer though, she only stares at me, or more like through me.
“The one with that girl, the one….” She trails off, struggling to kick her feet up under the blanket. I help her adjust.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I don’t know what that is.” I frantically search through all the titles they’ve recorded.
“The girl. That one lady,” she says, louder this time, but I still don’t understand what she’s asking for.
“I Love Lucy,” Dad says, joining us and kneeling down beside her. “She’s going to put on I Love Lucy for you, Carol. Your favorite, okay?”
I click through and pick an episode I think she’ll like. As soon as it starts, Mama visibly calms.
“Now, Whitley, what smells so good?” he asks, going into the kitchen.
I’m frozen in place for a moment. Clearly it’s going to take me a while to snap back when mama has her episodes. I gather myself and meet him in the kitchen.
“Making pasta.” I return to the cutting board and continuing slicing the vegetables. I have onions sweating slowly, with olive, butter, and garlic. As I toss in the other ingredients, I ask him about their day.
“It went as well as you would expect. There isn’t anything that’s going to heal your mother or make her better they can only monitor her rate of decline and offer suggestions on how to manage. We do scans and tests and a whole list of other things, but I’m afraid there’s no coming back from this.”
My head snaps up and I nod. I understand what he’s telling me. I have to come to terms with this. I don’t pretend to understand the why’s of Alzheimer’s, but I do know it will eventually take her life. I will do whatever I can to make whatever time she has left comfortable and be here with her every step of the way.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just know that between the two of us, she’ll have the best care possible.” He smiles, popping a slice of red pepper into his mouth.
“Hey, that’s not ready yet!” I tease, tossing a dishtowel at him.
“Oh, Whitley. I thought I taught you to throw better than that.” He chuckles, and I smile.
“Dinner in fifteen.” I mutter, remembering me pelting him in the stomach with a softball the summer before seventh grade.
“Thanks, baby girl. I’m going to go sit with my lady for a while if you don’t need any help?” he a
sks, nudging my shoulder as I continue working. I don’t understand how he can feel so playful and light in the midst of all this, but I can’t deny that his mood helps brighten my own.
“No, I’m good. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” I give the pasta a quick stir. The sunlight glints off something shiny, catching my eye. I walk closer to get a better look.
On the small ledge above the stove, where mama kept her spices, is her wedding ring. It’s just a beautiful as I remember, and I scoop it up. I’ve always admired this ring and the uniqueness of it. The center stone is a nearly perfect diamond, about a carat, incased in yellow gold. Sapphires surround it in a floral design. I hold it close to my chest before returning it to the little dish it was placed in. I’m not sure why my mother isn’t wearing it, but I did notice they’ve replaced it with a thin gold band.
The sun distracts me again, shining through the window above the sink. A small figure catches my eye. I squint, trying to make out the shape in the distance. As it gets closer, it becomes more clear. The man from last night is jogging shirtless across the beach. I look away as soon as I recognize him, embarrassed. I’m not sure why. It’s not as if he can see me. I glance up one more time before he disappears around the side of the house.
Doesn’t matter how hard I try to keep myself from noticing, there is no denying it. This man is in insanely good shape. That’s where I stop myself. This is absolutely not the time to be checking out men.
Get it together, Whitley, I think harshly. I get back to dinner and don’t give it another thought.
I love coffee.
I’m kind of weird about it. I’ve actually gone to coffee tastings, bought the really expensive stuff, and hoarded it like it was my precious. I also have a favorite mug. It’s white and plain, but I love the way it fits in my hand. The weight is perfect, and the handle sticks out just far enough to slip my fingers in. I got it at a thrift store when I went to New Orleans with Maggie after we graduated.
And now I’m sad to say I had a favorite mug. I stare at the pile of broken pieces on the kitchen floor. It slipped out of my fingers when Coconut ran through the room and got tangled in my feet. Luckily it wasn’t full of coffee yet, or I may have given up on the day completely and gone back to bed.
As I kneel, scooping up the largest shards of porcelain with careful fingers, I imagine them as the pieces of my mother’s brain that have slipped away. If only this were real, if only I could fit her mind back together, like a jigsaw puzzle.
I grab the broom and sweep up the pieces, tossing them into the nearest trashcan.
“I’m sorry, Bill, I’m not going to make tee-off today.” I hear my dad’s voice and join him in the living room. “Yeah, you know. It’s just not a good day for Caroline,” he says, and I look at him as he says goodbye and hangs up the phone, slipping it back in his pocket.
“Were you supposed to go somewhere today?” I ask.
“It’s nothing. Sometimes on Mondays your mother and I would go to the golf course and have lunch. But she isn’t feeling well today, so I have no problem staying home.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Go,” I tell him, but I’m met with a look. “Seriously. Go by yourself. I’m here, and I can take care of Mama for a few hours. Go.”
“I don’t know. You aren’t acquainted with everything about your mother’s care yet.”
I slap on my most confident and convincing voice. “Dad, you have a phone in your pocket. I promise to call if I have any issues or questions, or anything else for that matter. But you should go. That’s why I’m here.” I add, “I insist.”
“I’ll call Bill,” he says, his lips lifting in a halfhearted grin. He turns to leave but stops, looking over his shoulder at me. “You know, I would stay here every single day if it meant she’d get better. I would never leave,” he admits.
Part of me wishes this thing with Mom wasn’t real. Or that I could pretend she could get better. But, I’ve done that. I’ve ignored her disease up until it demanded to be acknowledged. “I know,” I say.
Dad nods, leaving the room with the phone already pressed to his ear.
I find my mother in the sitting room that extends off the foyer. It’s small but cozy, decorated in jewel tones. This part of the house doesn’t match the beachy theme in the rest of the house, but I never realized until now how much I loved it just the same.
A small eggplant-purple couch is against the far wall, peppered with gold throw pillows. Mom sits in one of two emerald wingback chairs that flank either side of the couch. Her feet are tucked under one of the pillows, and her eyes look…. I’m not sure how they look. Is it possible to be completely blank yet also so full of passion and history and love, so much that you feel it but cant remember it? And if you can’t remember it, does it matter that it happened?
I take a deep breath. “Hey, Mom,” I announce in a soft voice so I don’t surprise her as I cross the room. “Looks like it’s just the two of us girls today.” I kneel in front of her, taking her cold hands in mine. She smiles, but I can tell it holds no weight. There’s nothing behind it.
“What do you want to do? We can take a walk on the beach and then come back and make some breakfast. Does that sound okay?” I rub her arms. She only smiles, and I know I won’t be getting the answer I so desperately wish I could pry from her.
I stand and fetch her flip-flops from beside the front door, slipping them on her feet. Dad must have helped her dress already, because she’s wearing a pair of thin linen capris and a peach V-neck T-shirt. The color puts the pink back into her cheeks.
I look down, realizing I’m still in pajamas. “Looks like I need to get some clothes on.” I laugh, though the sound hits deaf ears. She sits, staring at that same place, unmoving. I dash to the bedroom and throw on a pair of ripped Boyfriend jeans and an old Star Wars tank. I’m slipping on my sandals when I hear Dad’s door close. I stick my head out and see him going down the hall.
“Are you out of here?” I ask, and he smiles.
“Just have to grab my clubs from the garage.”
“Mom and I are going for a walk on the beach before breakfast.” I tell him, and he stills.
“Just be careful with her, Whitley. I know it’s tempting to try and pry her back into her mind, and I know it’s easy to get lost in your memories of your mother, but she needs a role reversal now. I know it isn’t fair, and I hate that we have to ask this of you, but it might be good if you put yourself in the position of mother, and she is the child.” As if in shame, he lowers his gaze, not looking at me. Before I get the chance to tell him I understand, he trots down the hall. I follow and watch him bend down and kiss her goodbye. And then he’s off.
I kneel in front of her again, taking her hands reverently in mine, like I’m holding a priceless artifact or the literal cross of Jesus Christ. I’m not a religious person, but I can appreciate the meaning behind something like that. I kiss her knuckles before standing.
“You ready, Mama?” I ask, though I get no answer, and I don’t expect one. I pull her up, holding onto her elbow until she has her balance. “I love you,” I say, expecting no answer again. And she says nothing… again.
* * *
“Oh, here’s a nice one, Mama!” I say, holding up the shell for her to see. She giggles like a little girl and claps her hands. I shove it in my pocket, and we continue our search.
“This one.” She points, and I pick up a small black shell, tucking it away for later. It’s been an hour or two of this, and my pockets are getting full.
“How about we go find a jar to put these in? I bet they’d be pretty on the back porch,” I say, taking hold of her hand. I’ve found the only way to get anywhere with her is to guide her where I want her to go.
Out of nowhere, she shoves a seashell into her mouth and clamps her jaw down so hard I can hear the thing crack between her molars. My eyes fly open wide as I gasp. Shit.
What do I do?
I can’t let her swallow it. I gr
ab her jaw. She winces, and I know my forceful grip cant be comfortable, but when I search her eyes, I don’t see understanding or recognition there. I’m near panic, unsure how to proceed. I don’t want to hurt her.
“Mama, spit it out.” I order sternly. She doesn’t register any of my words though, her jaw still locked in a vice grip.
“That isn’t food, do you understand? You need to open your mouth,” I shout. She tries to wrench free of me.
I’m so wrapped up in the situation that I don’t notice a presence behind me until the person speaks.
“Mrs. Hadfield, I thought I saw you down here,” a deep male voice says.
At once she opens her mouth, and it doesn’t take me more than a second to reach in and pull out the pieces of shell. She does nothing, not fighting me anymore as I fish out the shards. I search her teeth, looking for chips or breaks, but they seem to be okay. I don’t look at the man, too embarrassed to meet his eyes or thank him for the distraction.
I guide her back to the house, rushing away. He doesn’t follow, letting us retreat. My heartbeat slows enough to let shame creep up my spine. It tingles like a poison, and I hang my head as Mama goes through the sliding glass door that leads into the living room.
I can’t believe I let that happen. I’m supposed to be taking care of her.
I dump out the seashells in my pocket over the side of the deck, kicking sand on top of them until I feel like they’re dispersed enough. I don’t give the ocean another glance.
“Mama!” I call once I’m inside, but it’s Dad who greets me.
“Whitley, where the hell have you too been? I’ve been calling you for an hour. And what the hell happened with your mother? She looks distraught.” His voice isn’t any louder than usual, but the tone he uses makes me feel like a teenager again.
I look around the room, searching for her, but I don’t see her.
“She’s okay. I helped her lay down.” Dad says.
“I’m sorry….” I sink into the couch cushions, defeat weighing me down like a wet blanket.
“She tried to swallow a seashell,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper as I rake my palms over my face, unable to meet his eyes.