Page 38 of One Wild Chance

There’s something about a hospital room that drains the life right out of people—the colorless walls, the relentless beeping machines, the way time drags on. I noticed it when Mom was there for a short stay, and I promised myself I’d do what I could to change that.

Today when I arrive at the hospital, I pass out flowers to a little girl who’s going through chemotherapy, a new mom whose baby arrived early, and a family whose toddler has a broken leg. If I make one person smile, it’s worth the trip.

But I always save the last bouquet for my mother.

When I get to Golden Haven, it smells like the usual weird mixture of pine-scented cleaner and mystery casserole from the cafeteria.

The woman at the desk signs me in. “Your mom’s having a pretty good day.”

I nod and give her a polite smile. I’ve learned not to get my hopes up. Her memory issues can be unpredictable, and I never know which version of my mother I’m going to get when I stop by.

An aide is adjusting the pillow behind Mom’s head when I come in. “Oh, hello, Summer. Your mother just woke up.”

“Hey, Mom,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her.

The aide bends down to her. “This is your daughter, Summer.”

Mom studies me for a moment. “I don’t recognize you,” she says flatly.

One of those days. The moments when she doesn’t remember me seem to happen more frequently now, but then there are other visits when she’s herself again, and it feels like old times.

I sit at the foot of her bed. “I brought you something.” Then I hold out the last bouquet.

She stares at it before taking it. “These are pretty.”

My mom has always loved flowers as much as I do. Specifically, wildflowers. She’s the reason I’m in this business.

She fingers a petal on a daisy. “Most women love roses, but I prefer wildflowers.” She brings the bouquet up to her nose and inhales. “You must be good at growing things.”

“You taught me how, actually. When I was little, we used to grow them in the backyard.”

She blinks vacantly at me. “I don’t remember that,” she says matter-of-factly, which is how she says most things now.

“I know. That’s okay.” I turn my phone toward her. “I have a few pictures. Do you want to see them?”

Sometimes a photograph will help her remember events and people from the past. I scroll past some recent pictures.

“Who’s that?” she asks, pointing to a little girl.

“That’s Remi. I take her to hockey practice to help her mom out when she works.” I swipe to another picture of her at the rink. “She’s nine and still a little wobbly on the ice, but she loves it.”

Mom shifts to look at the photo more carefully. “I thought hockey was for boys.”

“Girls play now too. She’s one of two on the Golden Springs league right now.”

Mom’s brow knits. “This town has a team?”

“A youth league. We went to a game there once, remember?”

She stares at me blankly.

“You enjoyed it,” I say quietly. “We both did.” Watching Jaxon play had been mesmerizing. No one could ever keep up with his speed on the ice.

I scroll to the next picture of Remi in her hockey uniform. “Their coach just quit a few months ago, and they still haven’t found anyone to replace him.”

I think about what Remi asked me last week, looking up at me with her big, brown eyes. Could you coach us?

I laughed and told her no. But I know someone who could, I said. The problem is he’d never say yes.