I’m overwhelmed and exhausted, having slept poorly, my cramps forcing me out of bed at three in the morning. Thanks to a pain pill, they’re better this morning; only a dull ache remains. I wish to cocoon back into bed and admire my new fig plant. Have another cup of coffee in my pajamas. Allow the aches in my pelvis and solar plexus to dissipate with rest. But life marches on, as they say.
School starts in thirty minutes. We need to catch the train to the city’s center, which is a ten-minute trip. It’s a short walk to our stop, but I know we’re a solid three minutes from getting out the door. Five, if I can’t find the water pack and need to come up with an alternatesolution. Wyatt is better at the morning routine—all routines, honestly—than I am, but he’s already at a jobsite.
“What are you looking for, Tilly?” Shelby asks, coming into the kitchen from her bedroom suite. Wyatt’s mother is seventy, but she looks a decade younger. Trim in her white linen pants and sweater set, her hair already out of rollers and settled into its silver-gray bob.
After Wyatt’s dad died, Shelby began suffering memory loss. Little things at first—missed appointments or lunch dates with friends—then more concerning things, like when she forgot eggs frying in a pan, starting a small kitchen fire. Luckily, Wyatt had installed an automatic fire extinguisher in the range hood during our prior visit.
Doctors declared it “cognitive decline, likely grief-induced and possibly reversible,” and so along with Wyatt getting a fantastic offer from an architectural firm, this diagnosis is why we moved to Savannah. Wyatt converted our town house, a few blocks over from where he grew up, to include an in-law suite so Shelby can live with us. Multigenerational homes are common again. Most everyone I know here, if they’re lucky enough to have still-living parents, have in-law suites in their homes.
“My HydraPod,” Clementine replies to Shelby.
“Oh, I washed it,” Shelby says, opening a cabinet above the sink where a drying rack holds a few drinking glasses and the pack.
I evaluate my mother-in-law for cognitive changes silently, the way I do each morning. Force of habit. She appears energetic today, moving easily about the kitchen without pause to remember why she’s there or what she’s doing.Good.Shelby and Clementine continue chatting while I drink the rest of my coffee as quickly as possible. Clem’s mentioning something about an art project involving vegetable-dyed fabrics. This is the first I’m hearing of it, and I feel slightly hurt that Clementine didn’t talk to me about it, seeing as I’m the one with art expertise.
“Why don’t we work on it after dinner tonight?” Shelby hands Clementine her now-filled HydraPod, then pulls her close for a hug.
“Thanks, Nana.” Clementine goes up on her toes to kiss her grandmother’s offered cheek. Shelby adores Clementine—the two have a special bond, and for this alone I’m grateful every day that we moved here.
“Let’s go, Clem. We don’t want to be late.”
“Again,” Clementine adds, rolling her eyes at me. Fair enough. Usually when we’re late it’s because I’m running behind.
But when did the eye-rolling start?I wonder.
I glance at Shelby and she hides a smile and shrugs. With a sigh I give Stanley a head rub, as he’s glued to my leg hoping he’s going out for a walk. His furry little white body wriggles in anticipation.
“Careful on the stairs,” I say to Clementine, like I always do, a whisper of fear in my voice.
“I know, Momma,” she replies, like she always does. Aware this is important to me, but unsure why. I’ll tell her one day, maybe. Not anytime soon—it isn’t a story for children.
I sling my work bag over my shoulder, bending awkwardly to lace my shoes at the front door, mentally running through my get-out-the-door checklist. The coffee sloshes in my stomach.
Now paces ahead of me, Clementine hopscotches the sidewalk under the large oak outside our home. It’s warm already, but the stifling heat is still an hour or so away. Sun speckles through the tree’s leaves, the moss hanging long from the branches. As Clementine hops from one foot to the other, she raises a hand to touch the silver-gray tendrils.
“Oh, before I forget,” Shelby says, blocking the doorway so Stanley doesn’t run out. I’m halfway down the front steps, holding the railing with a tight grip. The stairs are steep; I like to take them slowly. “I have a message for you.”
Now on the sidewalk, I turn back toward my mother-in-law. “Oh, from who?”
“Margot. She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry. About last night, she said.”
I can’t catch my breath.
“Momma, please, let’s go.” Clementine gestures impatiently at me.Hurry up, hurry up.The Spanish moss undulates with a sudden gust, tickling her cheek, a section wrapping around her neck. She twists to see what’s brushed against her, gently untangling the moss from her neck and the backpack strap where it’s snagged. My heart jackhammers inside my chest. I have the irrational urge to shout at her to get away from the tree.Be more careful near the moss!But instead I turn back to Shelby.
“What did you say?” I ask. My watch buzzes my wrist.Time for breath work, Tilly?flashes on the screen.
Shelby cocks her head to the side and presses a finger against her chin, frowning. Her nails are mauve, freshly done. I see her bio-tattoo on her wrist. The dots are glossy and uncolored—her sugar and electrolyte levels are fine. But she’s not wearing her watch, useful for tracking her other vitals.
“I’m not sure. Oh dear, seems I chose the wrong morning to delay my coffee.” She shakes her head, lets out a small laugh. In it I hear her discomfort.
“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand about. Still, unease coils in my gut. “Don’t forget to put your watch on, Shelby.”
Her hand goes to her wrist, and she looks surprised to find it bare. “Thanks, darling.”
“Of course,” I reply. “Okay, better catch up to Clem.”
“Bye-bye, ladies,” Shelby says. “Y’all have a great day!” And with a kiss blown into the wind toward us, Shelby shuts the door. I’ll send her a note once I get to work, to make sure she put her watch on.
