The facility reminds me of a small apartment building, three stories tall with windows banking the perimeter so each room can get natural light. In the spring and summer, flowers line the walk up to the entrance, inviting guests and residents alike. Now knee-high illuminated candy canes replace the dormant floral landscape. Two evergreen wreaths hang from the double doors, and cellophane-wrapped poinsettia plants stand sentry on either side.
A hint of pine scent welcomes as much as the warmth when we enter, and I notice a live Fraser fir in the common room that hadn’t been there the other day.
“Tell your mom I said hi,” Keri says, her focus across the room.
I follow her line of sight to a certain nurse with muscular forearms tucking a crocheted lap blanket over the legs of an elderly resident in a wheelchair.
“Have fun with your vibes,” I tease.
She’s not flustered in the least as she winks at me. “I plan to.”
Mom is on the ground floor, so I make my way to the west wing, where her room is. I lightly knock on her door. “Mom, it’s me,” I say before slowly opening it.
“Mackenzie?” Mom turns from where she stands bent over a table, puzzle pieces organized in a linear fashion. Her eyes mist. “It’s so nice to see you.”
I was here a couple of days ago, but that was a bad day. She hadn’t recognized me, and my presence only agitated her. I left before she got so worked up she needed medication to calm her down. I don’t know if she remembers that or not.
These days, I never know what she remembers and what she doesn’t.
“You look good,” I tell her as I carefully give her a hug.
“I feel good,” she answers, squeezing me back with strength she hasn’t possessed in a while. “How are you? How’s work?”
I set my clutch on a side table and peer at her puzzle. It’s a Thomas Kinkade painting of a Christmas cottage all lit up, snow on the ground and hanging heavy on the pine tree boughs. A snowman stands adjacent to a stone bridge, and the image makes me think of a family all cozied up by a warm fire in that cottage, sipping hot chocolate and feeling secure.
“Mackenzie?”
I look up at Mom and realize she’s asked me a question. “Work is good. I’m being considered for a promotion, actually.”
Her smile brightens. “That’s wonderful.”
I pick up a puzzle piece and test it against another. Not a fit. “I’m not sure if I’m the right person for the job, to be honest.”
She studies me. “If it’s any constipation, I think you’ll do great.” Her brow furrows. “Why are you making that face?”
I guess Keri was right. My face really doesn’t need my mouth to communicate. I try to keep my lips in a straight line but fail to keep the humor out of my voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s the face people get when I say something wrong. What did I say?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Kenz.”
“You just saidif it’s any constipationinstead ofif it’s any consolation.”
Her mouth twitches. I’m not sure if it’s a precursor to laughter or crying.
I rub her back. “Mom, it’s okay.”
She snickers, then full-on belly laughs. “Well, you can’t blame me. Around here, constipation is a frequent problem.”
I watch her, almost afraid to join in her merriment. A part of me feels that laughing would be callous or making fun of her condition. It feels disrespectful.
“Oh, come on, Mackenzie. It was funny. Laughter is good for you. It releases stress. You don’t want to keep everything bottled up inside. You’ll get stopped up.” She elbows me at her joke.
I shake my head at her but let myself feel the joy of the moment. At fifty-eight, my mom is the youngest person at Heritage Hills. One of the youngest people on record to suffer from Alzheimer’s. Just to look at her, you’d say she didn’t belong. That is, until you talked to her and she thought she was a senior in high school getting ready for the prom. Or you introduced yourself and ten minutes later she asked you who you were. Or she didn’t remember her own daughter.
But at this moment, her blue eyes sparking with intelligence and laughing like she used to...
