We can. Mom would.
Yes…But—
Dad, I promise I’m fine.
And then, regardless of whether weactuallyhave the conversation or not, he will sigh and say, “Tonight, Prue. You and I need to sit down and have a real conversation about this. I mean it this time.”
Wait, no…That’s not how it’s supposed to—
“Good morning!” Mom singsongs, turning the corner from the bottom of the stairs toward us. She practically waltzes into the center of the room in her white silk robe and matching fluffy slippers, smiling and chipper and so…her-like. “Something smells good!”
“Julia,” Dad whispers in the same hushed, mesmerized tone he does anytime Mom shows up more like herself. As if she’ll startle and leave as quickly as she appeared. Or, as if he’s dreaming and afraid to wake himself.
My heart clenches too tight alongside a sinking feeling, knowing that Mom’s clearer days tend to mean our routine goes out the window. Remembering the grief we will experience tomorrow, when she’s left us again. I force a smile, dropping the sponge into the sink before I turn around to greet her, leaning my lower back against the counter. “Hi, Mom.”
She stops, tilting her head curiously at me as she lets out a restrained laugh, her playful eyes looking between Dad and me. “Mom?”
Oh.
She giggles dryly, greeting my dad with a kiss on his cheek as he rises to stand beside her. “Luce, did you just call me Mom?”
Thank you for joining us for another kitchen recital, ladies and gentlemen. This morning the leading role of Aunt Lucy will be played by her niece, Prudence Welch, once again.
It doesn’t hurt as much anymore, not like it used to. I do see the resemblance. Lucy and I share the same tightly coiled brunette hair, bushy brows, and pale skin. Whereas Lucy’s features are just right for her face, I think our similar lips are far too big for the narrower face I inherited from Dad. Additionally, my vivacious aunt can pull off the doe eyes we share. Unfortunately for me, they give the impression that I’m approachable. I’m not.
The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn over the past four years is that when someone begins losing their memory, it’s the short-term that goes first.
Imagine a home,Mom’s neurologist had told us,wherethe basement is the present and the attic is as far back as memories go. The homebegins to flood, from the ground up.Like with a flood, some items will be salvageable, but most things will be lost. Similarly, some memories will survive whereas most will not. Level by level, you’ll see the water rise, irreparably damaging each room on its way.
Thankfully, days like this are rare. Occasionally, Mom will be confused as to why I look older, but we can usually get past that. But others, like today, when she hasn’t slept well or when she’s had a hard day the day before, her mind takes her to another time—a time, typically, before I existed. It’s her brain’s way of protecting her from her current reality.
Dad and I exchange brief, messaging glances. His sayssorry.Mine saysdon’t be.
What, exactly, he’s apologizing for I’m not completely sure. It could be because he still gets days with Mom that I don’t. Or, because I’m not as good at pretending it doesn’t weigh on me as I’d like to think I am. Maybe he’s apologizing for this dreadfulreal conversationhe’s decided we need to have later.
“Did I?” I squeeze out a laugh from the hollow of my chest, turning back toward the sink to shut off the running water. “Whoops!”
The most important rule when caring for someone with early-onset Alzheimer’s is and willalwaysbe: Play along. If you threaten their understanding of their current reality, they will panic. You want to avoid panic.
“I was just about to go open the store, Jules,” my dad says, bending down to kiss her, cradling her face in his hands. “But I’ll be right out front if you need me.”
“Ha, ha…Very funny.” Mom rolls her eyes, gently smacking him on the shoulder. When Dad hesitates, her face falls, and she brings her hand to hold his wrist, squeezing him as he rubs his thumb over her cheek. “You’re not serious, right?” A short,scattered, verging-on-hysterical scoff. “You’re notreallygoing to work on our wedding day?”
I groan internally, allowing my eyes to shut as the exhaustion threatens to pull me under.
Three long seconds. Then my father releases a deep, clipped laugh. “Of course not, my bride. Of course not.”
And with that, our day just got awholelot longer.
“You…” She shakes her head, smiling brightly up at him. “You tease too much!” She turns her attention toward me. “Why does everyone look so sad? It’s a wedding for Christ’s sake, not a funeral!” Her laugh is effervescent, sparking memories of loud townie Christmas parties, midnight cookie-dough feasting, and happy birthdays sung out of key.
I shake myself. “Sorry,” I say, walking over to them, reaching out for her hand. I take it tightly in my grasp, feeling her cool skin against mine. I make a mental note to insist that she wear a cardigan with her dress. “It’s just, I’m going to miss you…” I inhale, letting the truth exist for a brief second between us. “Two weeks in England is a long time.”
The VHS among the books on the living room shelves reads:England, 1993: Our honeymoon. I used to make my parents do a double feature on every anniversary. We’d make snacks, get dressed up, and then watch their wedding video. Then, Dad would cook a full British roast and we’d watch the memories of their honeymoon. Most years I would fall asleep to him softly playing her “Julia” by the Beatles on the piano as she danced for him. Just as they did the first night they met.
I wish I could tell her that.
I wish I could show her the video.
