“Hey, Hannah Banana,” she says, using the name she’s had for me since she started working for us five years ago. It was the day after I dropped out of college at Middle Tennessee State University, giving up my pursuit of a bachelor’s degree in nutrition and food science because I realized that my mom’s early-onset Alzheimer’s was progressing to a point of no return. If I didn’t get her full-time care and myself a job to bring in cash, I was going to have to put her in a special facility and sell our house. And given that my dad built this house with his own two hands shortly before he passed away the summer I turned ten, that wasn’t an option.
My mom is most comfortable and happiest here anyway, in her own space with her own things. Even though her mind has lost most of her memories, it’s like this home—her safety net for a lot of her life—still speaks to her soul, constantly whispering flickers of her past life and wrapping her up in a security blanket of nostalgia and love.
“How’s she been today, Lovie Dovie?”
“Good.” Lovie smiles at me and brushes a few pieces of her auburn hair out of her eyes. “Really good. She’s been in her element now that Ziva’s joined the cast again. She never likes to see Kate get killed off, but you know how much she loves seeing Tony and Ziva flirt.”
I laugh.Oh yeah, I know.I know all about how Special Agent Caitlin “Kate” Todd gets killed off at the end of season 2, and how uncomfortable it is when her killer’s sister, the mysterious and alluring Ziva David, first joins the cast in season 3. I know about Tony and Ziva’s flirtation and Gibbs’s always-reliable gut and how Timothy Farragut “Tim” McGee goes from a newbie to a seasoned member of the team with some tough love from Gibbs and a lot of nurture and care from forensic specialist Abby Sciuto. There are no spoilers for me whenit comes toNCIS. I’m pretty sure my mom has watched every existing season in its entirety at least three hundred times.
Which is quite an impressive feat consideringNCIShas been on the air for almost as long as I’ve been alive and has hundreds of episodes. But who’s counting, right?
Sherry May has always loved crime drama and true crime documentaries, but I never imagined a single show would become her entire personality one day. It’s almost all we talk about. For some reason, now that her mind is pretty much gone, it’s her comfort.
“I’m glad,” I say, glancing back at my mom as she leans toward the TV intently. She hasn’t realized I’m back yet, and I suppose that’s a good thing. Some days, it’s upsetting when she tries to figure out exactly who I am and reconcile that with the twelve-year-old girl her remaining memory has latched on to. I guess it’s easier to remember the kid I was before the Alzheimer’s started than to piece together the slivers in time when she couldn’t tell I was growing up.
“How’d the job interview go?” Lovie asks, and I swallow down a dramatic, traumatized sigh.
“It was ... unexpected,” I say, sugarcoating the truth with powdered, refined, brown, raw cane, and every other freaking form of the sweet dust I can think of to spare Lovie all the things someone as wonderful as her should never hear.
Nineteen phone calls with men from every sexual cave or corner of the earth kept me on my toes so much, I almost appreciated it when the last caller described his fantasy for sucking them off.
“Thank you for staying a little later so I could start today,” I add. “I had no idea she was going to hire me on the spot, but the money was too good to turn down.”
I mean, I might’ve sold my soul to the phone sex devil, but no big deal, right? Surely I’ll find a way to compartmentalize all this new trauma that’s about to be shoved into my ears on a daily basis.
“That’s incredible news, Hannah.” Lovie’s mouth curves up with compassion. “I know that’s been such a load on your mind.”
Lovie knows there’s financial stress, but I haven’t exactly shared all the sordid details. For one thing, it’s not her responsibility or worry to carry, and for another, much more selfish, thing ... I really don’t want her to get scared she won’t get paid and end up searching for another job. I’m barely hanging on as it is. If I lost Lovie and had to find someone else ... I don’t know if I could manage.
As a fun bonus, her saying the wordloadmakes me think about my second sex call—a man named Les who was consumed with how much semen he could produce at one time. He said more about volume than my high school math teacher.Ugh.
“And Norm was golfing with his buddies anyway,” Lovie adds, a smile still on her lips and her mind clearly devoid of the gross things rolling around inside mine. “He always runs long when he’s playing eighteen with a group. Something to do with the cart girls, if I had to guess.”
I smile and round the island to the stove, where a pot of bubbling sauce simmers behind her. Lovie and Norm have been married for thirty-three years and have two grown sons. If Norm were really out there flirting with the cart girls, I’m pretty sure Lovie would have kicked his ass for it by now.
“Garlic bread is in the oven, and the noodles are ready to get added to the sauce,” she instructs me, picking up the spoon to stir as I lift the lid and take a whiff. Lovie is a great cook anyway, but she does an even more outstanding job incorporating the MIND diet I put my mom on years ago to delay and mitigate Alzheimer’s symptoms as long as we could.
I have a suspicion this diet is the only reason I ever get any glimpses of lucidity anymore—as rare as they are.
“Thanks, Lovie. I can finish everything up if you’re ready to take off.”
Lovie nods, hangs her black apron in the pantry around the corner, and then grabs her purse and keys from the laundry room just off the kitchen. She stays here most nights but has a rotation of time offthat includes two nights this week and then the following weekend to herself.
Ideally, I wouldn’t have started a new job on one of the days she leaves early, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I dump the pasta from the stainless steel pot into the sauce and stir them together, then pull the bread from the oven before waving to Lovie as she makes her way down the stairs to head out the front door.
I check diligently to make sure that everything’s turned off, and when I’m sure it is, I dish some spaghetti onto a couple of plates, add a piece of fresh garlic wheat bread to each, and then carry them to the dining table. My mom’s attention finally comes around as I set everything down, the latest episode of herNCISsecurity blanket rolling into the credits.
“Hey, Sherry.” I greet her with a smile, knowing that using her name the first time we see each other after several hours apart is always the best practice. If she doesn’t recognize me as her daughter right away, calling hermomonly sends her spiraling through a bout of anxiety.
“Hi, Ziva!” my mom says excitedly.
I have to suck my bottom lip to the side and gnaw on the delicate flesh to fight the sting of emotion in my nose. It’s not surprising that she doesn’t recognize me, but I can’t in good conscience say it gets any easier.
I miss the woman who used to braid my hair and read me stories in bed at night. I miss the mom who knew my deepest secrets because she could recognize them before I did. I miss the woman I used to lean on for strength, knowing she wouldn’t sway, no matter how strong the wind.
It’s the most painful kind of paradox to miss someone who is with you every day.
