by Shafer, Gina
I stick my tongue out playfully. “How’d it go today?” The energy in the room shifts enough for me to feel it without him saying a word. Not good. That’s how it went. That’s how it always goes. Because Mama’s condition is only going to worsen. I know this. I’ve convinced myself of this. But still, I can’t keep myself from hoping.
“More of the same, I’m afraid. Dr. Manzano added a new prescription. We can go over it this evening.”
We spoke about this a few days ago, so I’m not surprised. Mama’s been growing increasing agitated before bed. Sometimes it comes out as anger and other times she cries hysterically and can’t identify what’s wrong. We decided it was time to talk to the doctor about anti-depressants to help with her depression and mood swings.
“Bob, can you…. uh. I forgot what I was going to say.” Mama says with a shake of her head.
We try to help her out by guessing for a moment, but it’s not much help.
One of the most frustrating things about my mother’s disease is the constant frustration of unfinished sentences and forgotten thoughts. It’s almost unbearable for me to sit through her ramblings and not be able to help. Sometimes she has an intelligent thought or cracks a joke, and I feel a small flower of hope bloom in my chest. I know I shouldn’t, but it happens, and seconds later she has no clue who I am.
He takes their bowls to the sink and gives them a quick rinse. “That’s okay, Caroline. You said you were tired earlier. Would you like lay down?”
“No,” she says, confused. She frowns. “What did you say?”
I cross the room and kneel in front of her. “Do you want to take a nap, Mama?”
“Yes, I think so.”
At this point, it’s difficult getting her anywhere. Everything takes time. Everything is hard. It’s horrifying how much she’s deteriorated in only a few short weeks.
Dad helps her out of the chair, and I lead the way, helping him get her into bed. She’s distracted by any little thing, and I’ve been meaning to talk to Dad about removing some of her knickknacks from the house. She’s constantly adjusting and moving things around. I think it might bring her some peace to minimalize the space.
I kiss her forehead and leave Dad with her for a while. Her mind wanders. It’s a lot safer if we wait until she’s fallen asleep to leave her alone.
“See you in a bit,” I say before closing the door and retreating to my bedroom.
Coconut greets me, rubbing against my legs, which reminds me of the itching, burning bites that pepper my skin. I retrieve the calamine lotion that I tossed on my bed earlier and use it, thoroughly inspecting the bites.
I’d love to take a steaming hot shower, but I’m not sure how that would feel. I change my clothes, tossing on a comfortable cotton sheath dress and tying my hair into a messy bun. I collapse on my bed and lay spread under the ceiling fan. I drift in and out of sleep for a while, listening to the blades of my fan spin
There’s a knock on the door.
I sit up, confused and slightly drooling. “Dad?” I don’t get an answer. I panic for a moment, thinking it could be Mama. I jump up and open the door, but there isn’t anyone there.
I hear the knock again and realize it’s coming from the window. What the hell?
I tug on the blinds.
“Hi.” Nick’s muffled voice carries through the closed window.
I slide it open, hyper aware of that delicious warm and fuzzy feeling that happens every time I catch a glimpse of this man. “Hi.”
“Were you sleeping?” he asks and I frown. “You’ve got lines on your face.” He points to my cheek and I reach up, feeling the indentations.
I’m sure I blush deeper than the red of a rose, but if he notices, he doesn’t make it obvious. “I guess this afternoon took a lot out of me.”
“In that case, I’m even more sorry to bother you.” He hangs his head and looks like he’s about to go back to his house, but there isn’t a chance I’ll let him escape before he tells me why he’s knocking on my window at—I glance at the clock on the nightstand–five o’clock in the evening.
“Did you need something?”
“You said earlier you’d be willing to help with dinner. I didn’t have your number, or I would have called. Then I remembered your mom saying she was tired, so I didn’t want to disturb anyone. But I’m a little desperate, because Rose gets home in an hour, and I have no clue what I’m doing. Will you come over?”
“Let me get some shoes.” His face lights up like I’ve just agreed to something way more meaningful than preparing a simple dinner. “I’ll meet you over there.”
“Thank you. You’re a fucking lifesaver.”
I laugh and close the window. Coconut whines sleepily, complaining about the commotion. I totally don’t watch him to the very last second. Not at all.
I slip on my sandals and leave a note for Dad, letting him know where I’ll be so he doesn’t worry. Then I take a deep breath and go over to Nick’s house.
“Hello? Fucking lifesaver here to save some fucking lives,” I announce as I strut in through the open back door.
Instantly I note the utter disaster he has created in the kitchen. He looks at me in panic, dicing some kind of mangled root vegetable I can’t identify.
“Why does it smell like burnt sugar in here?” I ask, waving my hand in front of my nose to disperse the smell.
“Oh my god. You can still smell that?” he asks, mortified.
I giggle, loving this peek into another side of Nick. I nod, and he snatches the towel hanging over his shoulder, tossing it on the counter in frustration.
“Hey, wait. I’m sorry.” I say, not realizing that this clearly means something more to him. “What is going on?”
He takes a shaky breath. “My sister and I had a huge fight last night. She accused me of not giving a shit about her, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. She thinks she’s a burden, and for once I want her to feel good about this new situation we’re in.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I want her to have something nice and not feel like it was this big difficult production I can hardly pull off.”
“She lives with you right?” I ask the obvious question.
“She came to live with me after my parents died.” I gasp, hating myself immediately for not being able to hold it in.
“I—“
“It’s okay Whitley,” He says.
I see a completely new side of him again, and this is the one that makes my heartbeat intensify. He wants to make his sister feel wanted. No matter what my issues are with Rose, I can respect that.
“She hasn’t lived here long?” I ask.
“A couple of months. She was staying with our aunt, but when she started skipping school, our aunt decided to send her with me. I took over the family business when they died, and I was bogged down with all the changes at first. Now, I guess she thinks I can manage Rose better.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your parents?” I fight back a wince because I’m worried I’ll offend him.
“It was a car accident years ago,” he says almost uncomfortably.
“Oh. Nick I—.”
He holds up a hand, stopping me again. “I just really need this to work.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. Understanding. “What are you cooking?” I take stock of ingredients.
“Beef Wellington is what I attempted.” He points to a pan on the counter containing a half burned, bubbling mess of gray meat and something that resembles puff pastry.
I’m concerned it may grow teeth and attack me. I walk the pan over to the trash and dump it. I look up and catch Nick’s jaw hanging. Oops. “I’m sorry.”
He lets out a chuckle that sounds like a mix of torture and astonishment.
“What else do you have?”
He walks up to me, stopping close… so close I stop breathing.
Is he going to kiss me? Holy shit, he is going to kiss me. Wait… do I want him to kiss me? He pushes me against the coun
ter, and I abandon all reasonable thought. I lick my lips and then he’s gone. There one minute and across the kitchen the next. What just happened?
I look at the object he retrieved from behind me and nearly pass out from embarrassment.
“I have one steak left.” He holds up the package and smiles.
“I can make that work,” I say, proud of my nonchalant tone. Shit gets serious when the buzzer dings on the oven. We both startle, and he rushes to silence it. I get into the zone and put together a recipe using the ingredients on hand.
“I think I’ve got it. You have just enough puff pastry left for a play on Beef Wellington your sister might enjoy. We sear the steaks on high and finish them in the oven with a pad of butter, throw together a quick mushroom reduction, and top it off with a flat, crispy, buttery puff pastry chip.” I calculate the time in my head to make sure we’ll finish in time.
“I have no idea what the hell you just said, but it sounds delicious.”
I smile at his compliment, and we get to work. I set him to slicing mushrooms and dicing onions.
While he does that, I divide the little bit of pastry left and lay it flat on a new baking sheet, sprinkling the top with salt.
We work together for the better part of thirty minutes, shuffling around each other, more and more in sync. Nick takes direction well, and it’s adorable to see his excitement when things start coming together.
When the steak is done, I thinly slice it and slide it onto a plate, topping it with a dollop of the mushroom sauce. Nick then places a crispy puff pastry piece and a pinch of fresh chives on top. We stand back, leaning against the countertop.
“I can’t believe we pulled that off. You have a serious gift with food,” Nick says before he grabs the plates and sets the table.
I do enjoy this, and people seem to like my food. Why haven’t I realized this before?
He looks preoccupied as he tries to make everything perfect.
“I’m gonna get going.” I rinse the last couple dishes and leave them in the sink. Rose should be arriving any minute, so I better make myself scarce. I head out the way I came.
I make it halfway across his deck he runs out, stopping me. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“There’s no need.” I mean it. I think back over the last thirty minutes and realize that not once did I worry about my parents. I escaped my uncertainties for a moment, and that’s the best thing anyone could give me right now.
Nick wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in a hug that fills me with everything I didn’t know I needed. It crushes the emptiness inside me with ease, and I’m nearly breathless when he lets go.” Well, now I owe you. Seriously. Things have been stressed between my sister and me, and I’m hoping this dinner can open the door to a better relationship with her.”
He wants to go inside, he needs to finish things up for his sister. He also wants me. For the first time I see it, plainly. It’s not just a joke or a harmless flirt between neighbors. I wonder if he can see it in me too? His eyes flicker down to where I gather my bottom lip between my teeth. A car pulls into his driveway and the spell is broken.
“Go!” I say quickly and he listens. “Good luck,” I add before ducking down and returning home.
I close my eyes and slump against the cool glass door after I make it inside, resting my forehead against it. I cannot spend more time alone with that man. He’s got me all worked up, and I don’t think clearly around him.
I don’t have the time to let my heart get tangled up in someone else. I’m not even sure I have the space to let someone in. Can you open your heart to someone if it’s broken?
“That bad, huh?”
I almost scream when I hear my dad’s voice. He’s sitting with Mama on the living room couch. I didn’t even think to look around when I got home.
“What’s bad?” I ask, tearing myself away from the door and playing it off like I’m cool and collected and literally no one could tie me up in knots. I even add a little hair flip, flicking the stray ends falling out of my bun off my shoulders. That last part was overkill, and I can tell Dad isn’t buying it, but he lets it go anyway.
“I made some pasta,” Dad says, and I eagerly use the excuse to disappear from the room and fix myself a plate, getting myself under control before bringing my bowl to the coffee table and sitting down on the floor as I eat.
Mama stares a lot at this time of day. She doesn’t have much else to do. Fidget or stare. Stare or fidget. Sundowning at it’s finest. She watches me eat and listens to Dad, and I have a conversation about what we plan on doing tomorrow.
I spend the rest of the evening in my parent’s presence and think, hard, about why I never came home after I learned Mama was sick. I can’t understand the gravity of that mistake fully yet, but I know that one day I’ll be faced with the longing to spend more time with them. One day I’ll remember this moment, laughing with Dad, Mama beside him, a bit confused, unable to follow along, but here.
I’ll remember this forever.
Three more weeks pass.
I’ve made a list.
I’m good at lists. I’m good at jotting down every little task that needs to be addressed. Something about having them all written neatly and organized on a clean sheet of paper makes me feel like I’ve somehow organized my life a little bit more. I haven’t, but I like the feeling.
It isn’t a happy list. It isn’t a to-do list with check marks. It’s divided into two separate categories:
Alzheimer’s essential home care safety.
I flip the page over to the backside of the paper to the other half of my list.
2. All the things I wish I would have told my mom before she got sick.
Two very different sides of the same coin. I ignore the second list and turn the page back over.
I did some more research last night, feeling uninformed and overwhelmed with all that goes into Mama’s care. I’m fucking shocked that Dad was able to keep up with everything so far. He’s kept her happy and safe, but as her disease progresses, it’ll only get worse.
I focus on the first and second things on that list. I want to make things safer for her. We’ve already put small childproof locks on most of the cabinets in the kitchen, the refrigerator, and medicine cabinets and bathroom. Most days we remove two or three things from the house and store them in the garage in boxes—knickknacks and things that can be a disturbance or confuse her. The garage door is locked and Dad keeps the key in one of the drawers in the kitchen.
I’d like to take it a step further. I’d like to install outlet covers on every plug in the house and place extra lighting along the baseboards in the hallway. The rest of the house bleeds natural light, but the hallway is painted navy blue and has no windows, of course.
There’s still a ton of things to do, but I don’t want to bombard Mama with a bunch of changes. I want to slowly incorporate safety without her becoming fixated on the differences in her home.
I pick up my cellphone and throw it into my purse, which is hanging on the back of my chair. After sliding on my shoes and scratching Coconut’s sleepy head, I let Dad know I’m running to the store. He’s folding a load of laundry at the table, and Mama is helping. Sort of. She folds and unfolds the same two hand towels, stacking them and then starting over.
I throw my purse over my shoulder and say, “Call me if you need anything while I’m gone.”
“You’re leaving?” Mama asks, her unfocused gaze trained on me.
“I’m just going to the store. I’ll be right back.” Dad places the last towel on the top of the pile. “Do you want to sit outside, Caroline? It’s a lovely day.”
“I don’t know. I just get so… scream. Scrant. I don’t know.” Her mood plummets when she knows what she says doesn’t make sense. She can’t remember the word. I think she wants to tell us that she’s scared.
“Everything will be okay. Let’s go outside,” Dad says.
Redirection is a powerful key in fighting Alzheimer’s. Along with
distraction and keeping our communication very simple, but it’s a daily struggle. She nods, and Dad helps her up, taking her outside and sitting with her on the tangerine-colored chaise lounges on the deck.
I’m thankful Dad’s tactic worked. He and I are constantly adjusting the way we communicate around Mama because she can easily get worked up over any little thing. Clearly I still have a lot to learn.
I step outside and the bright day greets me. I hold in a grumble of annoyance. Can’t a girl get some rain once in a while?
I fail to avoid looking at Nick’s house. His car is gone, so he must have already left for the day. I pretend like disappointment didn’t just hit me.
After a quick drive to the hardware store, and walking up and down the aisles for a good twenty minutes, I finally find what I came for. I counted each outlet this morning and pretty much cleared the shelf, getting enough covers for them. I also found a nice set of rope lights to install in the hallway. My arms are full as I carry the items up to the register.
“Damn.”
I hear a snicker from the end of one of the aisles. What the hell was that? I almost stop and look around, but choose to ignore it. I keep walking.
“Damn, baby, that ass looks good.”
This time I stop. I probably shouldn’t, but I do.
I see the guy. Greasy hair and worn jeans, cowboy boots, a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing an impressive farmer’s tan. He’s muscular and in shape everywhere except his belly, which tells me that he most likely spends a lot of time with a beer can in his hand.
Gross.
I give him a look of disgust when I realize he’s looking at me. It was my ass he was talking about.
“Come on over here, honey. I ain’t gonna bite you. I’ll show you what a real man can do.” He smirks, waving me forward. I swear he’s seconds away from grabbing his junk and offering it to me, like I’ll just kneel right here. Is this guy for real? Dream on, dude.