“She does,” Lydia notes.
We both peer at Mom as she clutches the butterfly one and one with daisies on it with both of her hands.
I return my attention to rummaging around in the box. I hope to find one or two more to keep here.
I gasp when I find a dark blue journal, the one with stars on it.
“Oh, my God. How did I forget about this one?” I remove it from the box and grip it to my chest.
“Mom, it’sourjournal.” I notice Lydia silently observing me, and I smile at her. “We’d take turns writing in here. When one of us made an entry, then we’d leave it somewhere the other would find it, and they’d know it was their turn to write back. She started it when I was around nine and asked about my father a lot. It was incredibly difficult for me to understand why he didn’t want to be part of our family, why he didn’t want me.”
I turn my gaze to the journal and run a finger over the words on the page. Mom’s words. My words. I look up at Lydia.
“So, a lot of feelings came out on these pages, and we kept it up for years.”
I thumb through the aged pages, then turn to the end to see when we last wrote. What I find confuses me. It’s full of incomprehensible scribbles. The only two words I can make out are ‘joy’ and part of my name.
“What the heck?” I mutter. I flip backward and find several handwritten notes from my mom. Her writing near the end is far less legible than the earlier entries.
“What’s wrong?” Lydia’s voice drips with concern, and I lift my eyes to hers.
“Nothing’s wrong. But… but it looks like my mom wrote to me again, quite often, after her diagnosis.”
I hold the open journal up for a moment so she can see it, and her eyes widen while her jaw drops open. She stares at it for a few seconds, then closes her mouth.
“Wow, Delaney. What a gift,” she whispers. All I’m able to do is nod. Just a few minutes later, Lydia excuses herself, citing plans with her significant other. I suspect she is just giving me some space to process.
When it’s just me and Mom left, I climb off the bed and sit in the chair Lydia had occupied. I open the journal to the first ‘new’ entry. It’s dated November of the year I started college.
Dear Delaney,
Today I got some difficult news. My memory loss isn’t stress or some abnormality in my lab work. I’ve learned that I am in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. It explains why I’ve been struggling to remember things and function normally on some days.
It breaks my heart, knowing how much this will hurt you when you find out. If I could take that away, I would.
Promise me one thing: take a minute to be sad, if you need to, but then promise you’ll allow the notes in here to bring you comfort, not more pain.
What I write in here won’t always be profound, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up, but I will as long as I can.
You have been the greatest joy of my life, Delly—the hands-down best thing I ever did. Remember that.
Love,
Mom
She was right. I was heartbroken all those years ago when I learned of her diagnosis, and it still hurts to this day. Even though I didn’t keep my promise to take care of her at home, I can promise her I’ll do my best to let her words comfort me. This is an oath I can keep.
I dig around in my bag until I find the pen I keep stashed in it. I leave a space after Mom’s first entry, then write the date. Below that, I write in this book for the first time in several years.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for this. You always knew what I needed before I did. I promise, and I remember. I remember you, the #1 Mom, and I remember the memories we made over the years. These two things will always be true.
Love,
Delly
No one has used Mom’s nickname for me in years, and it touches my heart to see it in her handwriting today.
