“Better. A lot better. I haven’t had to take any medicine in a few days, so Uncle Silas said I could finally come back to work.”
“When’s your first hike?”
“Tomorrow. Just an overnight.”
His eyebrows, once dark and now threaded through with gray, pinch together with concern. “You sure you’re ready for that?”
“More than ready,” I assure him. “I’ve been going stir crazy.”
Honestly, that’s only partly true. I’ve missed working, but I haven’t been as lonely as I expected. Jack and I really haven’t spent that much time together, but it’s almost…comforting to have him around.
“Be careful, okay?”
“I promise.”
He pats my knee again. “Good. Do you want to see if your mom needs any help finishing dinner? Mom is with her.”
“How is she today?” I ask.
His smile is relieved. “She’s having a good day. She helped your mom cook dinner and called her friend Joyce.”
My grandma’s Alzheimer's diagnosis was a surprise. She had been healthy and active until my grandpa died a few years ago. At first, we thought she was forgetting things and getting confused because she wasn’t sleeping or eating well after he passed. But then she started getting lost while driving, forgetting that she’d already bought groceries and coming home with another load. She was forgetting to pay her bills and losing her phone, so no one would be able to get a hold of her for days.
So last year, we packed up her things, sold her house in Virginia, and moved her in with my parents. Her disease is still only in the early to middle stage, but it wasn’t feasible for my parents to care for her the way she needed from so far away.
I follow the scent of roasting vegetables to the kitchen. Mom is pulling a dish from the oven with a dish towel wrapped around her hand. Beside her, Grandma is assembling a salad, humming softly to herself. It’s quiet, calm. None of the frantic energy of when Grandma is confused or upset, and it settles some of the anxiety in my stomach.
“What can I do to help?”
Mom turns around, a smile on her face. My mother has always been stunning in the natural sort of way fitting of a farmer. Her light brown hair is starting to gray, and she rarely wears makeup, but she takes excellent care of her skin, so it’s always glowing beneath the smattering of freckles covering her nose and cheeks. Her hands are work worn, but her nails are always manicured, the dirt from her garden scrubbed from beneath them. She’s wearing an oversized button up, rolled to her elbows, over a plain white tee and a pair of practical utility pants.
“Hey, Stevie girl.” My mom’s voice is always the loudest in any room, but she has learned to soften it slightly since Grandma moved in with them. Still, it’s booming, enthusiastic, and always full of joy. “We’re finishing up, so you can just tell us how you’ve been.”
I take a seat at the island, leaning my elbows on the tile countertop that hasn’t been updated in at least twenty years. “I’ve been good. Mostly just resting up so that Uncle Silas would give me the all clear to come back to work.”
Grandma turns her focus on me, eyebrows knit in concern. “Why haven’t you been able to work?”
My eyes flick to Mom’s, a wordless conversation passing between us. “I had an accident in my Airstream a few weeks ago, remember?”
“Oh, right, right,” Grandma says, waving me off.
“Are you excited to get back to work?” Mom asks.
A soft laugh chuffs out of me. “Very.”
“And you’re still enjoying the cabin? It was very nice of Wren to let you stay there.”
“Yeah, it’s great. Cozy.”
“Does it make you want a place of your own?”
My parents have always been supportive of whatever I do, but they’ve never fully understood why I purchased and renovated the Airstream instead of building something more permanent on my land. And I’ve never really had a solid answer for them either.
I lift my shoulder in a shrug, tracing a line of grout on the countertop. “Not really. It is nice to have a full kitchen though.”
Grandma flashes a smile at me, one that looks so familiar it’s almost like she hasn’t changed at all. “I’m sure. You always have been such a good cook.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
