This time, the woman nods and quietly says, “My hair.”
I stand, and we help her up together, each of us taking one of her hands and leading her into the small bathroom a few feet away.
“We’re brushing my hair,” she mumbles, grasping what we’re doing, and I hum in response.
I watch Miss Riley as we walk, feel her strength behind each step, and I can’t help but wonder how old she is. She’s thin but not quite frail. Her short hair is mostly grey, but it’s blended with a dull brown. Her skin is smooth, and there’s a sharpness in her blue eyes even when she’s not present.
We reach the counter, and the caregiver gestures toward the top drawer. I pull it open to find a small black hairbrush. When I remove it and close the drawer, I look at Miss Riley, who’s watching her reflection.
“Miss Riley,” I ask. “Would you like to brush your own hair?”
Still gazing into the mirror, her lips lift into the tiniest smile. “Yes.”
I gently clasp my hand over hers and guide it toward the hairbrush until her fingers wrap around the handle. We move together as we lift it, and we do the motions slowly, pulling through the thin strands once, then twice, then three times. Her eyes are bright. When her hand begins guiding the brush more than mine, I release my grip, letting my arm fall to my side as she continues on her own.
The caregiver catches my eye, and she places a hand over her chest. “Good job,” she whispers.
After we help get Miss Riley settled in her chair, the caregiver and I exit her room, closing the door and stopping in the hall.
“You did great,” she says. “Will you be coming back?”
I beam, already feeling amazing at being able to help. “Every Sunday, if that’s okay.”
“Honey, it’s more than okay. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re understaffed around here. And Miss Riley ...” She hesitates, glancing over my shoulder, then leans a little closer like she’s sharing a secret. “She has dementia. She’s been suffering from it for a while now, and, well, it’s one hell of a beast to deal with.”
I look toward the woman’s door, a tightness wrapping around my chest as I picture her sitting there. “Isn’t she kind of ... I mean, I don’t know much about the illness, but isn’t she kind of young?”
The caretaker’s lips purse, and she nods. “She’s fifty-five, so, statistically speaking, yes, it’s a bit earlier than usual. But then again, I’ve heard of some cases starting as early as thirty, so I’m counting her blessings.”
We’re both quiet as her words sink in, and I miss Mom more than ever. She’s thirty-eight, a lot younger than Miss Riley and the other residents, so I’m not really worried about her health, but ... I can’t shake the feeling that there is something my mom hasn’t told me. I swallow, the faces of each new person I’ve spoken with today flicking through my mind, one after the next.
I just miss her.
After a minute, the lady before me asks, “So next Sunday? You’ll be here?”
“Definitely. I’ll be here.”
I smile as we part, already digging my phone from my hemp bag and pulling up Mom’s number.
Hunt
My palms dampen as I straighten Henry’s tie, guilt coiling around my stomach. If it were anyone else I had to dupe, it’d be a hell of a lot easier. But Mr. Everest ... he’s a good guy, and it kills me to lie to him like this. Unfortunately, I’m all out of options, so I gotta suck it up and put on a show.
Henry stares at me, his chin angled up since I’m taller, his expression serious. Focused. “You good?”
I give a tight nod and release his tie. “You?”
“Good as I’ll ever be.”
I double pat his crisp shirt sleeve, looking him over head to toe, and I can’t stop the smirk that tilts my lips. “Hell, I know I said this last time too, but you clean up good, man.”
“I know,” he says, giving himself a once-over. “I’m a catch.”
I chuckle and shake my head. He refused to cut his hair, and I couldn’t exactly argue since mine’s overdue for a cut too, but he did comb it and slick it back. After a long shower, he used my razor to shave his beard, enhancing a prominent nose and square jaw. His button-down and slacks are freshly dry-cleaned; his black shoes are polished. It’s the same outfit I dressed him in last time, but that was four months ago, so I’m hoping Tim and Rebecca won’t notice. I can’t afford to buy another.
Squinting, I stare at the new him.
Or, rather, the old him.
