I stared at the screen, debating whether I had the bandwidth to deal with whatever passive-aggressive bullshit was waiting in my voicemail. The message transcribed itself before I could talk myself out of reading it:
“Hey, Chrissy. Just wanted to remind you we’re doing Christmas Eve at Mom and Dad’s again this year. Try not to let anything get in the way this time, okay? Everyone really wants to see you. Love you.”
This time. Like I missed last year for fun. Like I didn’t spend half of Christmas Eve sitting in the hospice waiting room because Granny Irene had slipped into a fog so thick she didn’t recognize her own reflection.
I deleted the voicemail. It wasn’t even worth a response.
Everyone always wanted something from me, whether it was my time, my paycheck, my focus, or my energy. Show up. Smile. Don’t make it awkward. Be grateful. Be generous. Be better. Be the strong one. Be the one who doesn’t crack.
I rubbed at my temple and dropped my phone back into the cup holder like it had burned me. I just… wanted to escape it all for a while.
There was never a question of if I’d show up for the people I loved. The only real question was how much it would cost me to do it.
Another buzz lit up the screen. This time, it wasn’t family.
Nurse L. @ Bayview Hospice
Hi, Ms. Jones. Just wanted to let you know your grandmother’s having a good day. She’s lucid and asking about you. No pressure, just thought you’d want to know. Hope you’re well.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
Lucid.
God. That word used to mean something else. Now it was a miracle in lowercase letters, a fleeting moment of clarity on a timeline that only ever seemed to move in one direction. There was no undoing Alzheimer’s. No deal you could strike to buy back time. But sometimes, if the stars aligned just right and the meds hit the sweet spot, Granny Irene came back for a few precious hours.
Those hours were everything to me, and they were slipping away more and more.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, ready to pull out of the parking space, to head back to the office like I was supposed to. Like I hadn’t just opened a bill I couldn’t pay. Like I didn’t feel cracked open from the inside out.
But instead of reversing, I just sat there.
I thought about her hands. They were so worn and warm, always moving, always doing. I thought about the way she used to hum to herself when she cooked, every song a hymn or a memory. I thought about the last time I’d visited, when she looked me straight in the face and asked who I was.
I couldn’t afford to miss a good day. Not if I could help it, anyway.
With a sharp breath, I backed out of the parking space, drove halfway around the square, then flicked on my blinker and turned right, aiming my car toward the one person who never made me feel like I had to earn her love.
A gust of wind shook my car when I hit highway 59 and turned left onto the overpass that arched over the train tracks on my way out of Bay Minette.
I turned the heat up, but the air was still lukewarm, wheezing out of the vents like my car hated me personally. I should’ve replaced the filter weeks ago, but it was just one more thing I hadn’t gotten around to yet.
As I drove back into Stonewood, the streets were crowded with half-hearted holiday cheer from twinkle lights strung through azalea bushes, to plastic reindeer gleaming under gray skies, to a blow-up Santa leaning at a suspicious angle on the roof of a seafood shack. There were festive red bows on every lamppost. None of it felt right. It was too humid, too bleak, too much, and it was only December 10th.
I tapped the brakes at a yellow light and glanced at the passenger seat. The hospice bills were still sitting there, crisp edges curling ever so slightly from where I’d clutched them too tight. The topenvelope had a faint smear from my thumb, barely noticeable, but it looked like guilt.
Every month, I made it work. Pulled strings. Shifted payments. Cut corners on groceries or held off on replacing the shoes I’d worn down past the insoles. And I didn’t resent it. Not really.
But God, I was so fucking tired.
Another gust of wind rocked the car as I turned onto Main Street. I dropped a few things off at the office and clambered back into my car, headed for the hospice on Mobile Bay between Daphne and Fairhope. By the time the hospice came into view, I felt hollowed out.
Still, I was here because sometimes love looked a whole hell of a lot like pain. Sometimes it looked like showing up anyway, even when you knew you were going to get your heart broken again, and it was only a matter of time before it happened.
The hospice looked like it was trying too hard not to feel like one with its muted seafoam green walls, cheerful abstract art, and fake poinsettias on the reception counter. All of it was curated to distract you from the truth: people came here to die. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes all at once. But always, eventually.
I signed in with the same pen I always used, the one with the little red bow taped around the barrel. They kept a bowl of peppermint candy on the desk, too. I never took one.
The nurse behind the counter gave me a warm smile and a small nod, like she knew better than to ask how I was doing.
