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He was in the car, outside of the new facility mom was in. I’d wished he’d come in with me, be the strong, comforting and unyielding presence at my side. He would’ve if I’d asked, in an instant. But this was something I needed to do on my own.
I walked through the doors. Signed in. Walked through more doors, these ones with locks on them and a burly security guard standing outside, nodding to me as I went past, looking bored and half asleep.
Beyond the locking doors, the place was nice. In the middle of nowhere, just an hour outside of St. Louis. My father had wanted mom in the same state, but in the best facility that was on offer. And this place was pretty good. There were fountains. Calming shades of white, tasteful artwork, comfortable looking chairs. But I couldn’t get my mind off the security guard, the locking doors, and the smell of stale air that even the expensive oil diffusers couldn’t mask.
People had been milling around the common area when I arrived. Most sitting, reading, staring out the window, playing board games and cards. I didn’t know why I expected people talking to themselves in a corner or rocking imaginary babies, but I was angry at myself for doing so. I’d prepared for the worst.
My body was wound so tight during the walk to my mom’s room, I thought I might snap.
It was big, her room. Had a wonderful view of a carefully tended garden, the blue, cloudless day. Her room was decorated in various patterns, colors and textures. A lot of purple. My mom loved purple. She had photos on the walls, of me when I was a teenager, graduation, very few of me and her because we didn’t have that over the years. Because most of the time mom was convinced that cameras were trying to steal her soul.
“Pooh bear?” Mom asked, blinking at me.
She was wearing a purple velour sweat suit, her hair pulled back off her face. She looked young and vulnerable.
I smiled, tight, trying my best to swallow the nerves I was feeling, the awkwardness. I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, where to stand, how to be. The last time I’d seen my mother was Thanksgiving before last, before Jay. She had been quiet, sullen, on medication that made her vacant and confused, which had also made her angry. She hated not being herself. Hated that the drugs made her numb to everything that made her her. Which was why she had so many episodes over the years, why she didn’t get better or at least improve her quality of life like a large majority of people with the illnesses did. The dementia made everything worse.
She looked ten years older than she did when I saw her last and her eyes emptier than I’d ever seen them, even when she was on the strongest medications.
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me,” I said, trying my best to keep the shake out of my voice. Uncertain, I crossed the distance between us and pulled her into a hug. She smelled of Jasmine, like always, but she seemed so frail and small. I worried that hugging her too tight might break some of her bones.
When I let go of her, she cupped my face with her hands, her eyes lighting up in familiarity.
“Darling, you are beautiful,” she said on a whisper. Her eyes—my eyes—searched my face. “And you’re in love.”
I blinked at her. “How do you know that?”
“A mother knows.”
She let go of my face and smiled at me, open, loving—a kind of smile that made my heart long for the kind of mother she might’ve been. The kind of mother I knew she would’ve been if her illness hadn’t stolen her from me. From us. Because she was beautiful, even with the years that had been added to her, even with the slightly gray pallor to her face. Even with all of that. There was something about her. Something that made me understand why my dad fell in love with her.
“Sit down,” she urged, gesturing to the plush purple armchair in the middle of the room. “I’ll make some tea.”
I sat gingerly, putting my purse on the side table that held a framed photo of her and my dad on their wedding day. They were kissing, my dad holding her tight to him, white taffeta exploding around him. My heart clenched thinking of the happiness they must’ve been feeling on that day. The love. Things they thought would last forever.
My father had not stopped loving that version of my mother, I knew that. And I was sure that my mother loved him right back. Love had nothing to do with what separated them. Despite what popular culture liked to portray, there were a lot of things stronger than love. I felt sick at the feeling that all Jay and I might have one day are photos where our love was immortalized for how it was before life tore it apart.
