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I leapt in place, spinning around, startled. Taking a moment, I swallowed. “Ye—yes.”
“Sorry to alarm you,” the short, stubby brunette with thick glasses spoke softly. “Pastor Williams will be happy you’re visiting today.”
But will she know me?
That was something they said each visit. I knew it had to be a part of their communications protocol, particularly for a segment of their population. I appreciated it. It demonstrated them putting their best foot forward in terms of customer service.
We traveled the facility, which greatly resembled a modern village. There were residential suites planted all over in between miniature shops like an ice cream parlor, nail salon, popcorn shop, and hair salon. They were decorated vividly, going beyond just imagination. Even being warped in utopia, I had gut-churning fears.
Will she be lucid today?
Will she remember?
Along the way, we passed residents and staff, each person smiling with their greeting. It made me wish I’d be running into her on the way to her room. I really needed to visit more often. As the head of her estate, I should lay eyes on her in-person weekly. It was impossible with my distance and demanding job. Sadly, I almost missed her this trip, thanks to being overwhelmed from including Tobias in the itinerary. But my gut told me I shouldn’t. As I ran and had breakfast with Tobias earlier today, the inclination to visit today, before the evening circuit with the girls, grew stronger.
The stout woman knocked on the door, though I could see my grandmother’s legs from the front window, above it a floral awning. They were covered in thick, nude hosiery, a hue too light for her. My stomach roiled even tighter. I followed the brunette inside, being immediately overtaken by a miscellany of scents; one dominating was vinegar.
“Pastor Williams, you have a guest today,” the attendant announced. “Look who’s here.”
My grandmother’s head slowly rotated over to me. Her tapered, gray wig appeared dry. Her caramel skin, bare of makeup, but for the coral-hued lipstick, glowed, blemish-free. The modest-sized pearls gracing her ears were a touchstone of her impeccable style and grace. But her cognac eyes were empty. That’s when I knew.
My grandmother was far away, trapped in her brain, unable to participate in reality in this moment. This wasn’t the case each visit. I’d seen and spoken to her when she had been present and lucid. We’d have lively conversations, making me forget her dementia. But dementia was still our adversary. It had been for at least seven years. According to her doctors, the onset occurred earlier than we recalled her bizarre behaviors. I’d been in North Carolina for about two-and-a-half-years when I’d gotten the call that she’d had a breakdown, crying, shouting, and being distrusting of her pastoral staff.
Once, she had a problem getting inside her home in East Orange. She couldn’t locate her keys. The neighbor watched grandmother shuffle back and forth from her car on the street to the front door of her home, appearing irritated. It went on for so long, they called for help. Neighbors had been noticing grandmother’s odd behavior for a while. Her closest friend, Evangelist Sherri Monroe, the woman she had standing manicure and pedicure appointments with since I could remember, arrived and tried getting her to calm down. However, grandmother didn’t even recall her diva-compadre. She thought Evangelist Monroe was trying to rob her home.
It didn’t take many incidences like that for us to concur, dementia was looming. After tests, fights, and loads of tears—hers and mine—my father moved in with her. Well, he had his own place, but would coordinate nights there along with Evangelist Monroe and another woman from her church. That lasted for a few months before my father realized just how futile their attempts of babysitting her for most of the day had been.
Because grandmother didn’t have the strongest or largest congregation, it did not take long for her church and ministry to wither. They were down to about thirty members, on paper, anyways. I came up from North Carolina to “close her books” one year. While now, at twenty-eight years old, I had no desire for church communities, and no longer found religious organizations appealing, closing down my grandmother’s life’s work was still unbearably painful for me. It had been her blood, sweat, and tears since I could remember.
And now…gazing down at her spiritless shell, it was painful to recall the once spritely diva, who didn’t resemble a pastor at all. Grandmother loved her two-piece suits or embroidered dresses, high heels, costume jewelry, colorful nails, and carefully laid makeup. She was known for her impeccable taste.
Pastors and deacons from larger churches all around loved to see her and her crew of three when she was a guest speaker, and would engage in subliminal coquetry. I understood it before gaining a full vocabulary. The women in those neighboring churches hated her. That could be felt before I understood that jealousy and catty behavior was a thing for some women. But I had zero recollection of my grandmother’s conduct being anything but graceful. She never had a husband or boyfriend I knew of, and she didn’t pine after men.
Today, she was in a floral dress. It was one I didn’t recognize, but better than the sweatpants they had her in during one of my first visits. Grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in sweatpants. In fact, she only wore pants on occasion when vacationing, which was rarely. I had to be sure my father wasn’t approving any and everything just for a smooth ride. Grandmother’s dignity had to be preserved.
“You look pretty,” I finally found the words.
Grandmother didn’t respond. Her attention stayed below at the stereo playing one of her favorite gospel artists, Albertina Walker. I was sure it was in rotation with other musical favorites I made sure she had here. I just wanted her safe and healthy. At seventy-two, grandmother was still young. However, those were the only two desires I could come up with for her. Her brain returning to the function it once had would take a miracle, and I was low on the expectation of wonders meter these days.
“Would you like to take this in the kitchen with your snack?” the brunette asked grandmother.
That’s when my attention was drawn to the plate of sliced cucumbers drenched in vinegar and sprinkled with salt and pepper. The dominating scent of the place now made sense. The fork, laying next to the plate, appeared dry and unused. It was a sign of despondence. I turned away, subconsciously checking out her place, which was tidy and resembled her home in East Orange.
Just when I thought I’d have to participate in a one-way conversation, I heard a spritely soprano pitch, “Oh, my! What do we have here?” Grandmother smiled and my heart jumped to my throat. She peered over to the brunette. “Do we have someone in need of prayer again?” Those fiery irises appeared on me. “You’re the young lady from laundry. Am I right?” Her smile, though less vibrant than once revered, had arrived. “I never forget a face as pretty as yours.”
Grandmother’s wrinkled, veiny, caramel hand went to the center of her chest. “Awwwww! Baby, I can see it. I see all around you. Looking like log weights all over your head…on ya shoulders. The Lord said to cast your cares upon Him, for He cares for you. And here you are, carrying them around.” She smacked her lips together, something she was known to do. Then grandmother pointed toward the adjacent sofa. “Dear,” she referred to the brunette. “You mind handing me the altar blanket right over there.”
“Oh, sure!” the brunette chirped, leaping on her toes. She turned to me with an apologetic smile.
I nodded my consent to adjust to my grandmother’s reality of the hour. It was clear to me the staff allowed her to pray for people. I couldn’t be more grateful, understanding how much people’s spiritual beliefs varied. And nowadays, the topic could be offensive to many. So, yes, I’d go along with this role grandmother conjured for me today.
The woman retrieved the blanket and opened it on grandmother’s lap with practice. Then grandmother clapped her hands together. “Come, my child. You thought I didn’t recognize you, but I did.” She winked beautifully. “Now, come on. Kneel before me so we can petition The Great I Am.Haaaaallelujah!” she began her chant. I recognized that, too, as I lowered to my knees. “Hallelujaaaaah!” her preacher connotation, merged with her impeccable singing voice, kicked in. “Oh,gloray! Thank you, oh, God!”
She clasped me at the back of my head, inviting me to lay my head on her lap. That didn’t feel unnatural at all. An imminent emotion stirred in my belly as I took to an intimate, beseeching posture at my grandmother’s feet. Instantly, it felt like a forfeiture of sorts. As though I was actively seeking refuge or transferring powers. I hadn’t felt this tease of lightheartedness in more years than I could count. As she spoke in tongues over my head, I began to cry, another thing I didn’t allow myself to do much of lately. I figured Tobias’ spanking broke a dam. It was a prelude to this moment where I could embrace my grandmother in her “other” mind. She hadn’t prayed over me in years. But today, even if she thought I was some random laundry staff member here, I’d let her do what was innate to her existence. Pastor Clara Williams was a prayer warrior and, therefore, a woman of faith.
My life was a mess. It was something I didn’t count on. Something I would have never chosen had I been given better counsel, and had simply taken the time to think. Rushing towards something that isn’t ready for you is like choosing to run a marathon wearing shoes two sizes too small. You burn out fast and will endure inevitable pain. I’d been running the marathon with the wrong equipment.
“You’ve been willfully carrying these logs for too long,” grandmother spoke with confidence. “It’s your decision to drop them right where they belong.” Seamlessly, she continued with her praying.
