“Well, my grandma doesn’t exactly know what’s good for her these days,” I say sadly.
“Are you coming home, or is this disappearing act permanent?”
“I’m still restricted from driving, but my PT thinks I’ll be cleared next week. I’m planning to head home for a visit, maybe as soon as next week.” I scratch my jaw. I’ll need to work something out with Aspen to get there. With the schedule she works, I hate the idea of asking for more of her time, but what choice do I have? I need to get home, even if just for a few hours, to check up on things and bring the van back with me so I can get around on my own.
“And you’ll stop by to see her?”
“I always do.”
Connie hums her acknowledgement.
I came home after the fire season a few years ago and Connie pulled me aside, worried about my grandmother living alone.
After months of appointments, specialists, and tests, the doctors eventually diagnosed her with dementia. Later, they started using words likeAlzheimer’s progressionandcognitive decline, but by then, none of the labels really mattered. She still needed care I couldn’t give her alone.
For all my faults, I was true to my word. There’d been two non-negotiables for me when I’d moved her out of her house. Wherever she went, it had to specialize in memory care, and it had to be close enough for me to visit when I was home.
Luckily, the facility Connie worked at was the best in the state for memory care. Which also meant that while I was on the road during fire season, my grandmother still had a familiar face around.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Overall, pretty good. She’s been a little anxious today, and I thought hearing your voice might help.”
That vise that sits around my chest tightens. On her worst days, she calls out for people who aren’t alive anymore, or she wanders, looking for rooms that don’t exist in the memory care wing.
I swallow. “Is she . . . upset?”
“No, restless, maybe—” Her tone shifts to something lighter, reassuring. “She’s been asking about you all day.”
Remorse wedges itself between my ribs, sharp as the adze end of a pulaski. Of course she has. Her only living blood relative hasn’t been by to see her in nearly a month.
“And before you go beating yourself up,” Connie adds, “I don’t say that to guilt-trip you. I just wanted you to know she’s thinking about you.”
“You can tell her I’ll see her soon,” I say. “If you don’t think that will confuse her.”
“I think she’d love that,” she says. “Do you want to say hi? She’s right here with me.”
My palms grow damp. Phone calls are harder for her—fewer visual cues for her mind to hold onto.
Hearing her voice would make my whole week, and Connie wouldn’t put her through it if she thought it would do more harm than good.
“Yeah. If you think she’s up for it, put her on,” I agree cautiously.
There’s muffled movement, a distant conversation, and then the shuffle of the phone.
“Hello?” Her voice is whisper-soft but still filled with the same love I remember from the day the social worker brought me to the ranch.
“We don’t know each other yet, and that must be nerve-wracking for you. Hell, I’m fit to be tied at all this, but I’m glad you’re here. It might take some time, but my greatest wish is for you to feel safe and loved under this roof.”
And eventually, I did. Now I just want to give her the same.
“Hey, Grandma,” I manage, voice rougher than I want. “It’s Emmett.”
A soft inhale on the line. “Of course it is. I’d know my boy anywhere.” For one perfect second, it’s just my grandma and me again. It breaks me clean in half, and it takes me a second to work through the lump in my throat. “It’s so good to hear your voice, I won’t even give you grief about how long it’s been.”
“You’ve noticed?”
“Of course I noticed. What am I, senile?” She says it with so much indignation that I have to press my lips together to keep my laugh from escaping. It’s not funny, but it catches me off guard all the same.
