I thought Mom was being her normal, flighty self. And when symptoms occurred that I couldn’t brush off as just Mom, I thought maybe she was faking. Being Brian’s mother, after all, was far worse than being Brian’s sister. I think Mom handled it worse than most mothers would, considering she was always so image conscious. I thought her early episodes were nothing more than an excuse to trick everyone, including herself, that she wasn’t fazed by the evil crimes her son committed.
Five years ago, not long after Danny and I moved to Victory Hills, she almost burnt down her apartment complex by leaving the stove on. A neighbor called the fire department. When they arrived, she claimed my father was at fault, then blamed Brian. Neither man had lived with her for over a decade at that point. Thankfully, if there’s any thanks to be found, the incident took place during summer vacation. I stayed with her for two weeks, which presented event after event highlighting Mom’s weakened state of mind. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her alone again; that’s when we decided to move her into Melody Springs Living Facility. It didn’t even bother her she was moving, although I did receive several calls from the nurses in those beginning weeks. Apparently, Mom demanded Brian pick her up and take her home.
Now, I’m sitting in her bedroom. The walls are lavender with white molding, and the barren fireplace is in the center. This could easily pass as a suite in some fancy hotel, and it never has that dank smell so many other facilities have.
Mom and Violet, her nurse, walk into the room.
“There’s my baby girl,” Mom says, coming in for a hug.
I stand and embrace her. I’m always comforted by how little she’s changed. Her mind might be going, but she still has the same friendly eyes and wildly curly hair.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, breathing into her neck. When she pulls away, I look at the nurse. “Nice to see you, Violet.”
“That’s funny,” Mom says. “Violet standing in a violet room.” She kicks back her head and laughs. She makes the same joke every time, but it’s not some side effect of the disease. She always found something funny and said it over and over again. If I were to visit and she didn’t say it, then I would be worried.
Violet laughs. “I’ll let you two visit. Call me if you need me,” she says, exiting the room.
Mom waits for Violet to be out the door before she speaks again. “Call if we need her.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m some deranged citizen.”
“She knows that, Mom. Violet is just being helpful.” Violet started working at the facility a few months after Mom arrived. They hit it off, and I think they both benefited in making the other feel comfortable, but typical Mom means if she really likes you, it’s only a matter of time before she also finds reasons to not like you.
“Where’s Danny Boy?” she asks, leaning back and propping her feet on a tiny stool.
“He’s golfing,” I say, twirling my wedding band with my fingers. “You know he loves the courses around here.”
“Yes, he does,” she says, with a disbelieving tone. Again, Mom’s not that out of it. He’ll be here around Christmas; any other time, I keep him away. “How’s school?” she asks, graciously changing the subject.
“Only two weeks left.”
“I guess it is May, isn’t it?” she says. “You and Danny going anywhere this summer?”
“I think Europe,” I say, and I ramble off the list of possible destinations I’ve still not taken the time to plan, let alone book. The conversation bounces back and forth. She tells me this story about when she and Dad first started dating and went to France. They missed their train and ended up spending a bulk of their vacation in the countryside as opposed to Paris, as they’d planned.
She smiles as she speaks, and there’s a renewed life to her face. She always gets that look when she talks about Dad, and I can’t imagine the pain she must feel knowing he’s gone. I feel it too, but it’s different. I imagine Dad strumming his guitar strings in some flower field while Mom got drunk off a bottle of wine. These are the best visits, when we can talk back and forth about material things; it’s what our relationship has always been about.
“Who needs the Louvre?” she asks, still laughing about the missed train all those years ago.
“Well, let’s hope we don’t have any traveling snafus.”
“Let’s hope you do,” she says. “Those make the best memories.”
“They do,” I say, trying to discreetly look at my wristwatch. I’ve been with her for almost an hour, which is what I promised Danny I’d do. He’s not actually golfing, instead he’s going to the store and buying a few groceries for the weekend.
I feel guilty, wishing away my time with her so I can go relax with my wonderful husband at a secluded cabin. Talking to her about my summer vacation, knowing she’ll never have a trip so wonderful again. Or a man as wonderful as Dad or Danny. But then I remind myself we probably wouldn’t even be this close if it weren’t for the dementia. Our bond was strained growing up, and her diagnosis gave me the incentive to strengthen it.
“You feel all right, darling?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ears. “Just tired.”
“Your color is off,” she says, squinting.
“We’ve barely eaten,” I tell her. “I think we’re going to grab lunch soon.”
“You need to eat. Are you eating well during the week?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Grab dinner with friends. That’s what I used to
