“Wow!”
“It's my mom's birthday,” Colette continued. “She's one hundred and two.”
“Oh, how wonderful!”
“We'll take the free birthday cinnamon roll, please.”
“I'm sure your server will be happy to help you with that—”
“And I'll have a mimosa. STAT.”
“I'll let your server know. Here are your church bulletins.” She handed out menus made to look like old-fashioned, folded bulletins.
They'd be eating brunch family-style, so they hotly debated which dishes to order until their server, a gawky twenty-something guy, approached bearing Colette's mimosa. She grabbed it from his hand before he had the opportunity to set it before her.
He cleared his throat and his Adam’s apple shuddered. “Hello, ladies. My name's Grant and I'll be your deacon”—he gave a tortured wink, then continued the script, deadpan—“that is,server, for today's heavenly dining experience.”
“We're delighted to be here,” Gracie said encouragingly.
“What food requests do you have for the big guy upstairs?” Another awful wink. “And bybig guy upstairsI mean our head chef.”
As usual, Colette spoke for them. “We'll have the sausage casserole, the monkey bread, and the fruit plate. Plus, a carafe of coffee and two glasses of orange juice. And another mimosa. STAT. Plus, it's my mom's birthday, so I want to make sure she gets the free cinnamon roll.”
Gemma scooted closer to Gracie and took hold of her hand. “Has your birthday been a good one so far?”
“Oh yes.” Gracie patted her cheek. “I love you, sugar.”
“I love you, too.”
“God has been good to let me see my great-grandchildren grow.”
Parents had to be sensible and enforce things like bedtimes and vegetables and curfews. Colette had been the type of grandma who'd made her grandkids mocktails and taken them to Bingo nights. But Colette was not maternal. So the unconditional-love role had been wide open for Gracie and Paul.
“What can we do to make this birthday even better for you?” Gemma asked.
“Just one thing.”
“Of course.”
Gracie squeezed her hand. “Remind me of my love story.”
Gemma tilted her head questioningly.
“I have a grand love story with Paul,” Gracie went on. “I know I do, and I know that it's precious to me, one of the most important things in my life. Yet now . . .” Her mouth tweaked, and her white eyebrows drew together. “I can't remember most of it. I want my story back, Gemma. I feel incomplete without it.”
Gemma's heart cracked with sympathy. Gracie had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago. Shortly after, Colette and Grandpa Stevie had moved in with her. That arrangement had worked out fine until six months ago when Colette had found her mother attempting to feed owls in her nightgown one block over at three in the morning. Into long-term care Gracie had gone.
So far, Gracie's diagnosis had not changed her wonderful disposition. She was still kind, still optimistic by nature. However, age and Alzheimer's had faded aspects of her. Her courage, her confidence, and her sense of humor were all depleting as more and more of her memories were lost to her. Loving her felt like a race against the clock.
“You're asking about your love story, Mom?” Grandma Colette asked.
Gracie nodded.
Gemma kept hold of her hand.
“You moved to Washington, D.C., during World War Two,” Colette told her, “to work in a factory that made weapons. You met a handsome young Frenchman named Paul Bettencourt at a dance. He was in Washington as a diplomat at the time, representing the interests of the provisional government of Free France, formed by generals Charles de Gaulle and Henri Giraud. You fell in love but your first duty and his first duty was to serve your countries. You were both aware that he'd be called back to France eventually. And sure enough, he was.”
She paused to take a sip of mimosa and Mom picked up the thread of the story. “You parted from Paul, afraid that you'd never see him again. Your goodbye was very romantic . . .” Her words came more slowly as she clearly ran out of verbal steam. “And heartbreaking.”
