That woman, who repurposed my mistakes and filled our home with color, was the architect of my childhood.
She kept me sheltered in her company in all stages and seasons. We spent long summer afternoons by the lake together, where she’d entertain each of my many, many terrible poems. We shared chilly autumn evenings huddled by the fireplace, listening to Dad playing the piano for us. We sat together on crisp winter mornings, snuggled under blankets with mugs of tea and bellies full of homemade oatmeal. We lost countless hours on hope-filled spring afternoons picking flowers in our neighbor’s unruly field.
That is why I stay,I remind myself.That is who she is.
I stay for the woman who handled me, an exposed nerve in a girlish form, with so much care. A woman who never pushed me too far away from her reach because she knew I was never quite ready to stand steadily on my own two feet. And for the man who loves her too. Because if I left, he’d have no choice but to lose us both.
Alzheimer’s has taken a lot from our family, mostly from Mom, but I refuse to give up the truth of who she truly is.
So, I will keep reminding myself. When I’m picking up puzzle pieces, or cooking soup on a hot day, or repeating myself for the hundredth time. I will continue to close my eyes and imagineher.The mother who held forgiveness, grace, and patience in limitless quantities behind her seashell-colored eyes. And I will try to offer those same qualities back to her in kind.
Iwillkeep this family together.
“How did she sleep?” I ask, placing Mom’s bowl in the drying rack and looking over my shoulder toward Dad.
“All right, for the most part. She woke up a handful of times but settled easily,” Dad says, flipping the page of his paper, his eyes scanning it absently. “She was asking about painting again.”
I sigh out through my nose, pressing my hip to the counter before I pick up another dish. For the last few weeks Mom has been waking at night, desperate to get to her studio. Sometimes she thinks she’s left it unlocked, other times she just wants to paint. Dad always manages to convince her to get back into bed, but she’s growing more and more agitated.
“We can switch beds for a while, if you want,” I offer. “So you can catch up on—”
“No, sweetie. Thank you, though.” Dad takes a long sip of coffee. “I’m going to try and see what I can find later today around the house to tide her over. Maybe we can see if your aunt can come up for a visit next weekend to give us some time to clear out her studio for her.”
The studio has gone unattended for so long that getting it ready for her would be at least a two-day job. Between just giving everything a thorough clean and going into town to replace the supplies, it’s no easy task. But if that’s what Mom’s wanting, that’s what we’ll do.
“Aunt Lucy’s in Wales for the next month,” I say. “But I’ll take care of it. This week. I’ll get the studio cleaned up for her.”
“With what time?”
I can cut back on my writing, for sure. Reading too. If I make an effort to eat more fiber this week, I could gain back some time there as well. I couldprobablycut back to six hours of sleep, maybe even five. “Like I said, I’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe…” Dad clears his throat, and swallows so loudly that I can hear him from across the room. “Maybe, sweet, sweet daughter of mine, we could revisit the conversation around—”
“Don’t try and butter me up,” I say, wringing out my sponge. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Prue…”
“I’ve got it,” I say, turning on my heel to face him, my plasteredsmile dangerously near breaking into a scowl. “Let me take care of it….Please.”
He rubs his chin furiously, then checks his watch when it catches his eye. I see the conversation play out in his mind, the same dance he and I have spun time and time again over the last several months. I feel his resolve settle between us the moment he realizes we don’t have enough time to rehash the same back-and-forth before he needs to leave to open the store.
We need help.
No, we don’t. We can’t afford it anyway.
Prue, you need to get out more. You need a life of your own.
I don’t. I’m good where I am.
Your mom would want you to—
Dad, please. I’m fine. Seriously.
You look tired.
Jeez, thanks.
We cannot do this forever, darling.
