And that one word makes her straighten. Her eyes glint. “Oh, he is?”
“Yeah, it’s Friday. He’ll have classes until six.”
She blinks up at me, the look in her eyes all hope. “Can we go?”
I should have known better. She always asks to go to the dance studio when I mention it. Sometimes even when I don’t.
“I have to go back to school after lunch, but we can go on Sunday.”
The hope dims just a little. “Is that tomorrow?”
I stifle a sigh. Impatience and frustration don’t do any good. “It’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, I... I....” She looks down at her plate, spears a piece of her filet, and takes a bite. “Mmm. This is such good… such good...”
“It’s really good catfish.”
After our plates are cleared, I walk her to the courtyard. There’s a path around the perimeter and a network of walkways around benches, shrubs, and a fountain. She’s free to come out here on her own, but her aides say she never does.
I think she’s afraid she won’t be able to find her way back to her room. So I always take her. The sun and fresh air help keep her spirits up. A little.
She squeezes my arm. “Tell me about… Tell me…”
I cover my hand over hers and wait. Screwing up her face, she taps her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“You know,” she prompts, frowning up at me.
“About what, Mom? About school?”
She smiles, relieved. “Yes, school.”
“Well, final exams start Monday. My A-students are upset that I won’t exempt them,” I say with a shrug, and her smile widens.
“I’m sure they’re ready… ready for…” We make the curve in the path that leads toward the fountain. “You know… the… time.”
“Summer,” I say. “Yeah, they’re all ready for summer.”
“And you?” She looks up at me, her brow creasing with worry. “Are you going… back…”
I frown. “Back to Sainte-Anne’s? No, Mom. I did that last year.”
The summer teaching program at Université Sainte-Anne in Church Point, Nova Scotia is a top-notch professional development opportunity for francophone education. Because of a grant Paula wrote, all of the French teachers at Northside took part in the four-week session last July.
While I was gone, Mom drove her car into a dry cleaner’s.
She could have hurt someone, but she didn’t. The physical damage was mostly broken glass and her scuffed up Honda, but she was a wreck.Noncstayed with her until Val could fly in from Atlanta. Before the accident, my sister and I had both noticed her forgetting words. Repeating stories. Seeming a little confused.
But she was only sixty-two.
Sixty-two-year-olds don’t get Alzheimer’s. Except when they do.
Val had forbidden me from coming home from Sainte-Anne’s early, saying she could take family leave for a few weeks to help sort things out. She started making lists of assisted living communities and looking through Mom’s finances.
They were a mess.
Mom had felt so guilty about the accident, she didn’t resist at all about giving us power of attorney or moving her into assisted living.
But she flat-out refused Val’s offer to go to Atlanta.
