Her dad had taken after his mother in many ways. Both were wise, mellow, friendly. Genevieve had never seen either one of them fly off the handle and lose their temper. Never.
Tall, willowy Gloria Woodward had married a comptroller at a paper factory, raised four children, and taught at her church’s preschool for fifty years. Through it all, she’d dressed sensibly and comported herself humbly.
The death of her husband a decade ago followed by a dementia diagnosis several years later had eventually landed her here, in the home of her oldest child, Jolene.
A pale pink scarf encircled Nanny’s neck. A cream sweater and a pair of brown slacks swathed her body. She wore her white hair trimmed short. Always on the slender and stiff side, Nanny had become both of those things to a painful degree over the last two years.
Genevieve could still smell and taste the butterscotch puddingNanny had made for her every time she’d come to stay at her house when she’d been young.
Nanny’s memories had deserted her. But Genevieve remembered.
“May I hold your hand?” She’d learned not to take Nanny’s hand without asking first. The older woman didn’t have many opportunities to express her will these days. Genevieve wanted to give her as many chances to do so as possible.
Nanny turned her chin to Genevieve slowly.
Genevieve rested her hand on top her grandmother’s wheelchair armrest, should she want to take it.
Grandma looked at her as if she couldn’t place her.
“I’m Genevieve. Judson’s younger daughter.”
“Judson.” Recognition sparked in her face.
“Yes.” She’d stated her identity when she’d first arrived, but this time it seemed to penetrate better. “Your son, Judson. He’s doing well, and I’m doing well. And you’re doing well, too, here at Jolene’s house. You’re safe and well cared for.”
Her grandmother wrapped her bony hand around Genevieve’s.
Genevieve tried to pour all her affection into the simple touch. “Do you recall Judson’s college years, Nanny?”
No answer.
“He went to Mercer,” Genevieve said. “I’m guessing he occasionally introduced you to friends and girlfriends.”
Nothing.
“Perhaps you met my mother then? Caroline?”
No reply.
So much for the hope that a memory of her parents’ college romance might shake loose from Nanny’s brain.
They’d learned that they could sometimes connect with Nanny through songs, so Genevieve started singing “Amazing Grace.” She moved her grandmother’s hand gently from side to side in rhythm with the song.
Nanny’s attention stayed on Genevieve the whole first versebefore it drifted away. Across the second and third verses, her grandmother’s lips moved every so often, framing one of the familiar words.
Tears sheened Genevieve’s eyes. It was beautiful to sing of God’s grace with Nanny and so difficult, at the same time, to see her in this condition.
Nanny’s caregiver was preparing lunch in the kitchen. The sounds of her movements formed a backdrop as Genevieve sang “The Old Rugged Cross” and then “How Great Thou Art.”
Near the end of “How Great Thou Art,” her grandmother slipped her hand from Genevieve’s and returned it to her lap.
“Are you feeling all right?” Genevieve asked when she finished the song.
“Yes.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
No answer.
