“You can’t joke about that.”
“I’ve got to joke about it while I still know what a joke is,” she says, a pleasant smile on her face.
“Mom!”
“You’re no fun anymore. You used to be able to handle teasing far better than this.” She raises her eyebrows. “See? I can remember that still, and it wasyearsago.”
“I can handle teasing. Just not memory jokes. Hits a little too close to home, don’t you think?”
She shrugs, moving around to stir the soup again.
I understand that for some people, my mother apparently one of them, joking about the loss of their memory is the only way they survive the fear of their gradual decline. It’s something I read about early on in a few of the Alzheimer’s support groups I found online. I just didn’t realize how mad it would make me. I don’t want my mom to joke about it. I want her to fight it.
She’s fought everything that has come her way and won. I can’t accept this will be any different, even though I know there isn’t anything more that we can do than what we’re already doing. I paid every dollar of savings I had to make sure of it, and I’d spend it all again in a heartbeat to have the reassurance I’m doing everything I possibly can for my mom. Exactly like she’s done for me my whole life.
We work in companionable silence again, her finishing cooking dinner as I set the small dining table with placemats and bowls for two. Just like always.
As we sit down, I dig into my soup, enjoying the savory mix of the pork and potatoes. Regardless of my slow chopping, the potatoes are tender, cooked to perfection.
“That’s a nice shirt,” she says, pointing to my white button-up with her spoon.
I glance down. “I wear a shirt like this almost every day.”
“Yes,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “But this one doesn’t haveMitchell Securityembroidered on it.”
I snort a laugh. My brother, like our sperm donor before him, is obsessed with seeing our last name everywhere possible. It’s on my company pickup, on every black polo I own, and, for Trent and me, on numerous white button-downs to “set the leadership apart.”
“This one is better,” I agree. And I do. I never wanted to be a Mitchell, and I certainly never wanted to work for either my sperm donor or my half brother’s company, but desperate times and all that.
“Maybe you should wear it when you’re out and about,” my mom says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Maybe when you ask Kelsey out on a date.”
I choose not to respond, hoping my mom decides to leave it at that. Unfortunately, a peaceful dinner doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me tonight.
“Are you ever going to ask that girl out?”
“Mom.”
“Fine, woman. I still think of her as the feisty sixteen-year-old girl you almost got suspended for in high school.”
“Mom!” I say again, though this time it comes out as almost a snarl. She knows we don’t talk about that. Ever.
“I know, I know. It’s a secret I shall take with me to the grave.”
I continue eating, making sure to avoid eye contact.
“Your high school crush aside, I’ve seen the way you look at her when we happen to see her around town. If you’re interested in her, I think you should pursue it.”
“I don’t have time for a relationship.” It’s the line I’ve used for years, but it’s true now. My mom is the most important person in my life, and I’m not going to miss out on time with her just to go out with someone. Even if that someone is Kelsey Harper.
“That’s a load of baloney, and you know it.”
“I’m busy at work.”
“So is everyone else.”
“And I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”
She looks at me, her dark eyes overflowing with sadness. “I know, honey, and I love I get to spend so much time with you. But you can’t stop living your life. Take it from me, you never know when you’re going to get news that changes everything. And I don’t want you to be alone.”
