Or maybe I was just drunk.
8
Alison
“Oh, Ms. Wakely! It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you. How are you?”
I paused at the reception desk of Peaceful Gardens Home for Care, returning the smile of the nurse who sat there greeting visitors.
“I’m fine, thanks.”Except for a slight case of pregnancy . . .I swallowed the words.
Making the trip across the country from Florida to northern California had been a last-minute decision. An impulse, maybe. It had just seemed like serendipity at the time; Dr. Johanson, from whom I’d bought my practice when he’d retired, had stopped by to let me know he was back in town for the winter and willing to give me a hand if I needed him. I could tell that his real reason for visiting was that he was bored, but still, it had been a generous offer. And then, shortly after we’d spoken, I’d gotten a call from this nursing home where one of my foster mothers had been living for many years now.
When Daneen’s doctor had called to let me know that in addition to the progressing dementia that was leading her further into the darkness that was Alzheimer’s, she was in congestive heart failure, I’d panicked. While she wasn’t in any pain or immediate danger, he’d recommended that I consider a visit sooner rather than later, if it was at all possible.
I hadn’t been to see Daneen since before I’d moved to Florida. There were a dozen good reasons why, and most of them centered around the fact that she didn’t know me anymore. My presence was a mystery to her when I visited, and I was afraid that it left her more unsettled and confused than before. So I did the only things I could: I paid the bills, I participated in a monthly online conference with her caregivers, and as her power of attorney, I signed any papers that they needed.
But for some reason, when her doctor had given me the grim news, I’d felt a powerful urge to see Daneen. She and her wife Lana had been the closest thing to family I’d ever had. As my last foster parents, they’d treated me more like a beloved little sister than a daughter; they’d worked hard to help me get into college, and they’d stood by me during my years as an undergrad and in med school.
Lana had passed away many years ago after a grueling battle with breast cancer. Daneen and I had grown closer as we’d both mourned her loss, but then right after Tom had died, I’d gone back to California and discovered that Daneen was suffering from dementia. I’d also found out then that she’d named me as her next-of-kin and as her power of attorney. I had been both touched and terrified by the responsibility.
Now the receptionist pointed down the hallway. “Ms. Rollins is in the Willow Wing. Go down to the end of this hall, make a right, then take the elevator to the third floor. Her room is three-eighteen, but she’s probably in the solarium or the recreation room this time of day.” She pulled a stick-on badge from the small printer on her desk. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” I peeled the name tag from its backing and pressed it onto my blouse, just over my heart. Then I followed the directions to get to the Willow Wing.
As predicted, room three-eighteen was empty. Still, I stuck my head in to check out Daneen’s digs. It was simple, but well-furnished with a single bed, a television housed in a large oak cabinet, and a dresser. The window sill and dresser top were covered with a variety of framed pictures, mostly the ones I’d packed up from her home. There were a few of Daneen as a child or teenager, several of her with Lana, and even a few of the three of us together.
I wandered the floor for a few minutes until I reached the solarium, a bright room with walls of windows that looked out over the extensive gardens. Daneen was sitting in a corner, a magazine ignored on her lap as she gazed outside.
One of the nurses intercepted me as I made my way toward my foster mother. When I explained who I was and who I was there to see, she nodded.
“Ms. Rollins is one of my favorites. She’s pretty quiet, but when you get her talking, it’s fascinating.” The nurse paused. “Not that what she says is necessarily oriented to her current surroundings and situation, but when I ask her about books and authors—oh, she goes on and on. I think she enjoys it.”
“I’m sure she does. She was a professor of English literature at the community college where she lived.” I recalled lively talks I’d had with Daneen and Lana, who was a photographer. They’d both encouraged me to find a source of creativity, even as I pursued medicine. Now that I thought about it, maybe my passion for home renovations was my creative outlet.
“You can sit with her for as long as you like. Dinner is served at five, so you’ve got lots of time. Sometimes, she likes to take a nap in the late afternoon, but if she has company, I bet she stays awake.” The nurse grinned. “I’m so glad to see Ms. Rollins have a visitor. So many of her friends have stopped coming, you know. I think it’s hard for them to see her like this, and if she doesn’t remember them . . .” She shrugged. “I get it. Still, it’s sad.”
I felt a pang of guilt. I’d been so busy building my new life in Florida that I’d made every excuse in the book not to see Daneen. That was going to change now. I had a sudden vision of bringing my little girl to see the woman who was her de facto granny, and the idea gave me a surge of warm anticipation.
You haven’t decided if you’re having the baby yet. Don’t start spinning fairy tales.The chiding voice in my head sang out the reminder.
Ignoring my inner dialogue, I found an empty chair and dragged it close to Daneen. She didn’t look at me, didn’t even seem to notice my approach. Her eyes were fixed on the leaves of a tree outside the window.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, Daneen. I’m Alison. I came to spend a little time with you today.”
At the sound of my voice, she turned her head, a slight frown drawing her brow together.
“Do I know you?”
I smiled, covering the inevitable pang of hurt that she didn’t recognize me. “You did, once upon a time. But it’s okay if you don’t remember me now. I remember you, and I’m so glad that I can be here to see you today.”
Her attention returned to the window, and I followed her gaze.
“It’s beautiful out there, isn’t it? The trees, the flowers . . .”
“But winter’s coming, and soon it will all be bare and brown.” She sounded sad. “I don’t care for winter so much. When I was a little girl, I lived in Minnesota, and we had snow from October through to May. At least the white covered up the bare.”
I’d forgotten that Daneen had grown up in the mid-west. “I live in Florida now, and this time of year, we still have pretty flowers. As a matter of fact, some of my friends are farmers, and they’re just now planting the crops that they’ll be harvesting in January and February.”
