“How is she?” I ask.
“She’s fine. This is an adjustment period. There will be many more as her condition progresses. You asked me to keep you updated, so I was just letting you know she’d been asking about you.”
I nod. “Thank you. She’s in her apartment? I can go up and see her?”
“Of course. You remember the way to her room?”
“I do. Thanks.”
Maggie reaches out and squeezes my arm. “There’s the call button right by the front door if you need anything. I’ll stop by in a half hour or so to check in. Book club is at four, if she feels like participating.”
I thank Maggie, then continue down the hallway. There’s an elevator, but Mom’s room is only on the second floor. I opt for the stairs instead, pausing at the first step to knot my sneakers’ dirty laces.
The carpet that runs the length of the hallway is a cheerful blue, the exact shade as the sky on a sunny day. Yellow walls are barely visible beneath the display of artwork created by residents. I toured five facilities before putting Mom’s name down here. It wasn’t just the neurologist’s recommendation. Echo Glen reminded me most of a home. Of a community, not a glorified hospital.
Mom’s door is the last one, a corner unit. I suck in a deep breath, hating the apprehension that appears. This is mymom, the person who knows me better than anyone else. That version of her remains, always, even when she acts differently.
I knock before punching in the code that unlocks the door. Mom has a key to use herself, but each apartment has an auto-locking mechanism that can be deactivated by staff in caseof an emergency. Or an unannounced visit. Since I can hear music playing inside the apartment, I doubt Mom can hear me knocking.
“Mom?” I call loudly, shutting the door behind me and toeing off my sneakers in the entryway.
No answer.
I continue walking, rounding the corner. The apartment’s layout is simple. A living area connects to the dining room, then continues to a small kitchen. The bedroom and attached bathroom are across from it. It came partially furnished, the decoration a mix of generic and Mom’s favorites we brought from the house.
I pause by the CD player to lower the volume of her favorite Tom Petty song.
“I’m working, Claire,” Mom says, not glancing up.
“I see that,” I reply, approaching the dining room table, which she has converted into an office.
Piles of papers cover every available inch of the wood—some printed text, some handwritten.
Mom’s huddled at one end, jabbing her laptop keys with a voracity that has her loose curls bouncing in time with each tap.
She sighs when I press a kiss to the top of her head, reaching up to pat my hand with hers. “I guess I could take a quick break. Tea?”
“Tea sounds great,” I reply, lifting a couple of notebooks off a chair and setting them carefully on the floor.
Mom leaps up with an agility I’m envious of, bustling around her kitchen with brisk efficiency. I take a seat, wincing when one of the table legs connects with a bruise on my shin.
“I made you shamomalay,” Mom says, setting a steaming cup down in front of me.
My eyes sting as she purposefully mispronounces it, the same way I did when I was younger. “Thanks, Mom.”
Her nose wrinkles as she sits back down in front of her laptop. “You smell, Claire.”
I let out a watery laugh. “I know. Sorry. I came straight from practice.”
“Did you have fun?” Mom asks, lifting and lowering the tea bag in her mug.
The question she posed when she picked me up from my first summer camp and every time after. Never,Did you score?or,Did you win?A gift I especially appreciated when I called her on my way home from Paris, when it felt like I’d let everyone down. Mom never made me feel like I let her down.
I hope I still haven’t. Here, she’s surrounded by stability. By routines and activities and specialists and other things I couldn’t provide. Mom was adamant about this move when she first received her diagnosis. But planning ahead was different from it actually happening. From me having to make the decision.
“Claire?”
When I look up, she’s focused on me, not her tea or her laptop.
