“You will.”
“How can—”
“Let’s go upstairs.” She cuts me off before I can unravel further. I want to argue, fight these feelings until I’m raw. This is probably our pattern, what’s led us to where we are. She avoids the discomfort, and I dwell on it, sinking into it like quicksand.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says once we’re at the top of the stairs. “We can be sad about that”—she waves toward the hall of photosbelow us—“later. But right now is not the time.” Her eyes drift to the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall.
Mom’s room.
A flood of grief runs over me, and I feel it deep in my bones—the loss I’m about to face. The mom I remember was healthy. She was taking pottery classes, riding her horse three times a week. In my mind, she was just calling me a few weeks ago, asking how I felt about my pathology class.
We’ve always been close, in that quiet way you’re close with someone who rarely hugs, or shows affection mostly in handwritten notes instead of words. She was always stoic, intimidating. It made dating in high school…an experience. Every girl I brought home left terrified.
It makes me admire Emma even more, knowing she met Donna Jones and stuck around.
But imagining the woman I’ve always seen as unstoppable being anything less feels terrifying. Knowing my mother is now a frail, confused shell of herself threatens to rip me open. I think a part of me has been clinging to denial, avoiding asking Dad for details, skirting around the subject entirely. Shame prickles hot under my skin, racing up my neck and settling thick in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it sticks.
“I’m sure this will be overwhelming,” Emma whispers, “but you have to try to stay calm.”
“Will she remember me?” My voice is barely audible.
Emma’s encouraging smile falters. “I don’t know. But I hope so.”
I nod, dragging the heel of my hand across my eyes as tears soak my palms. “Okay…” I breathe, “let’s go.”
The distance from the steps to the door isn’t nearly long enough. It’s not enough time to prepare myself. Yet, here we are, stepping into my mother’s bedroom, looking exactly like it did when I was seventeen. The pastel-pink curtains and floral quilt are still bright, with the oak vanity still taking up half of the wall.
And there’s Mom, snuggled up in her favorite robe, sitting in her favorite pinstripe chair, gazing out the window.
Emma nudges me into the room, and Mom snaps her attention to us. Her eyes are gray and far away, unrecognizable.
“Mom?” the word scrapes out of me.
She blinks at us, her eyes offering no recognition. I approach slowly and kneel beside her chair, keeping a painfully careful distance. The last thing I want to do is scare her.
Footsteps fall behind us, and Mom’s gaze flickers in that direction, a small smile tugging at her lips. Dad’s musky cologne drifts into the room, but my eyes never leave Mom. The creases around her eyes and mouth, the deep line between her brows…all evidence of life I’ve missed. Her lips twitch, tugging at the smile wrinkles. Something in my chest loosens at them, hoping she’s had more happy moments than sad, knowing she’s still smiling even when she’s lost.
“Donna?” Dad’s voice hovers outside the room. “It’s Steven.”
Mom’s eyes meet mine, searching and assessing, the same look she used to give me as a kid. TheI know you’re hiding something, but I’m your mother, and I will figure it outlook.
Then she gasps. Her hands fly to my cheeks, and a knowing grin pinches hers. “Steven, my boy.”
My arms are around her before I can stop myself. I’m a little boy again, weeping into her shoulder, knowing she’d take every ounce of pain out of my body if she could.
“Mom,” I choke.
“Shh. There, there. I’m right here.” Her frail hands pat my head, rub my back, smooth the tension from me in the way only she ever could.
I cry on her for a solid five minutes, and she never once pushes me away. When I finally peel back, the flesh around my eyes burns like it’s been scrubbed raw.
“Always so emotional,” Shayna, my oldest sister, says as she breezes into the room, dropping onto the bed. The metal frame creaks as she adjusts, propping her chin in her hands. “Hey, stranger.”
I gape at her. Shayna has never believed in subtlety. She just shrugs, completely unbothered by how her words land around someone withdementia.
“How you been, loca?” she teases.
I groan, but warmth sparks in my chest at the sound of her voice. Shayna is a doctor too, internal medicine, meaning she’s busier than all of us combined. But she still makes time for Mom’s birthday party every year. Apparently, I can’t say the same for myself. I shove the guilt aside for now, knowing it will claw at me if I dwell on it too long.
