Today, Janey’s hand is warm and reassuring in mine.
My mom looks surprisingly young for her age, even now. Her hair is still mostly dark with silver threads woven through it, and her face hasn’t lost its softness. She’s sitting by the window in a comfortable chair when we enter, sunlight resting across her lap.
“Hey, Mom,” I say quietly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Brought someone with me today.”
She looks at Janey for a long moment, her gaze intense in that way that makes my breath catch. Then she smiles faintly.
“Hello, dear.”
“This is Janey,” I tell her. “She’s important to Mason and me.” The words are simple, but they settle deep once they're out loud. Janey’s fingers tighten around mine for the briefest second, and I feel it all the way through me. It was the right thing to say. “Janey, this is Angela Fletcher.”
Janey steps forward to offer her hand and Mom takes it, leaning closer to study the pretty stranger in front of her.
“It’s good to meet you, ma’am,” Janey says softly.
Mom’s lips part but she doesn’t respond and my heart sinks. Is this what the whole visit is going to be like? Silence and vagueness.
We sit across from Mom. For the first few minutes, she’s quiet, but then, it’s like the sun peeks over the horizon and clarity emerges. She asks about the ranch, the horses, andwhether we fixed the fence. I answer patiently, grateful for one of the rare windows when she's close enough to reach, even if the questions might be spoken out of a habit that hasn’t yet been lost to her illness.
“The fence is fixed, Mom. Mason cursed at it for two hours, so you know it’s holding.”
A small smile touches her mouth. “That boy always did make more noise than necessary.”
Janey laughs softly beside me, and the sound warms the dull corner of the room.
Then Mom’s gaze drifts back to her. “You brought Melissa,” she says softly.
I tense. “No, Mom. This is Janey.”
She stares harder, her brow furrowing. “Melissa.”
“Mom,” I say gently, resting my hand on her arm. “Melissa was your mother. She’s passed. This is Janey.”
Mom’s brow furrows, and she shakes her head. “Not my mother,” she snaps like I’m stupid, pointing a slim finger at Janey’s middle. “The baby.”
Shock renders me still, and Janey’s hand flies to her stomach, her eyes wide and fearful. She isn’t showing much yet, but under the loose shirt she’s wearing it would be impossible to make out the soft curve of her belly. Mom is staring right at her stomach like she can see the secret plain as day and has confidently given it a name.
For a second, I can’t speak. I can only look from Mom to Janey as a strange energy surges around us.She can’t know anything. It’s the dementia speaking. She’s not lucid enough to have worked anything out.
A soft knock sounds at the door before we can respond, breaking the intense silence. A nurse steps in, and I’m relieved that it’s Brandy, my favorite of my mom’s nurses.She always has the biggest smile and a deep well of patience that I’m in awe of. She manages to make Mom smile with a kind, encouraging word. She’s even helped us out by shopping for Mom when she needed new clothes and underwear, and we were at a loss on what to purchase.
“Angela,” she says in her warm, caramel voice. “Aren’t you lucky to have guests this morning?”
She bustles in, her tightly coiled, black curly hair bobbing as she refills Mom’s water jug and pours a fresh glass.
“Brandy?” Janey says. “Is that you?”
Brandy turns from the sink, and her eyes widen when she sees Janey, surprise turning quickly into recognition.
“Janey? Is that you? It’s been forever.”
Janey rises, still a little pale from my mom’s declaration, and they exchange the quick, slightly awkward hug of acquaintances who have met after a long absence.
“Brandy and I went to the same high school,” Janey explains.
“Small world,” I say as they take each other in.
Mom repeats herself, louder this time. “The baby. She’s having a baby.”
