We drive in silence and I glance back at the trunk as I park at the nursing home where Mom lives.
“I hope this doesn’t take too long—I have milk, cream and butter back there.”
“If we’re more than twenty minutes, I’ll come out and start the car,” he says.
God, he’s sweet.
“Thanks.” We head inside and the attendant at the desk recognizes me.
“Hey, Summer.” She gives me a tired smile. “Mom is up in her room. They were trying to convince her to take a shower, but she wasn’t having it.”
“I’ll go up.” I look to Tate. “Why don’t you wait in the solarium? People are in there playing cards, games, it’s pretty relaxed. Just watch out for Irma Beth—she’ll beat the pants off of you at poker.”
He laughs. “I’ll be careful. Go take care of your mom.”
We exchange a look I can’t quite decipher, as if he’s letting me know he has my back, and I don’t know why I suddenly want to cry.
Probably because I’ve mostly borne this burden alone since Mom’s diagnosis.
My college boyfriend and I were planning to move to Philadelphia because he got a good job and I had some prospects too. Once Mom got the official diagnosis, I couldn’t leave her because she was already showing signs of not being able to take care of herself.
When the disease progressed, I discovered that the places that cater to memory care are way out of our budget and the only reason they took her at this local nursing home is because it wasn’t too bad in the beginning, and because I’m close enough to come by on the days when it is.
Patrick, my ex, broke up with me after three months of doing the long-distance thing. And every guy I’ve dated since either got annoyed by my responsibilities or walked away because it was too much for a new relationship.
I know Tate has to go back on the road.
I know this isn’t his circus and I’m not his monkey, yet he’s more supportive than almost anyone has been since I had to move her here four years ago. Dolly is great about it if I have to leave occasionally to deal with Mom, but that’s not the same thing as having someone to help me shoulder the burden.
Tate just reminds me of what my life might have been like if this hadn’t happened.
It’s not my mother’s fault—she can’t help being sick—but it’s so hard to deal with sometimes.
“Hi, Mom.” I smile as patiently as I can when I get to her room. There’s a nurse with her, who looks relieved to see me.
“Hey, Summer.”
“Summer, where is your father?” Mom demands, hands on her hips. “And why does this woman keep trying to touch me?”
“You had an accident,” I say gently, putting my hand on her shoulder. “You’re in the hospital and the nurse is trying to help you take a shower.”
“An accident?” That always seems to make sense to her, and she immediately relaxes. “Oh. I guess I need a shower?”
“Yeah. You want me to help you?”
“Yes. That would be good. Do you have school today?”
I never know what era Mom thinks we’re in when I arrive, so I always go with the flow.
“Nope. It’s summer vacation. Remember?”
“Oh, yes. Right.” She sighs, her brows knitted together. I can tell she’s trying so hard to remember things her brain refuses to allow her access to. And I truly hate watching her struggle.
“It’s okay, let’s just take a shower.” I help her undress while the nurse gathers her bathrobe and toiletries. It’s a shared bathroom so we keep Mom’s things in a plastic basket and her robe on a hook on the door.
It only takes a few minutes for Mom to wash up—she’s still pretty good about hygiene as long as someone is with her—and I blow dry her thinning hair. She was a beautiful woman just five years ago. Now she’s aged exponentially and it makes me so angry that there’s nothing I—or even modern medicine—can do.
She was only forty-eight when she was diagnosed, so it was frustrating for all of us. There were a lot of tears in the beginning, from both of us, but eventually it got to the point where she doesn’t even realize she’s sick and I’m simply determined to make sure she’s okay for as long as she’s around.
