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She shakes her head and comes to sit beside me. “Dad’s settled. He’s reading a book, but no doubt he’ll fall asleep soon.”
I sit forward slightly, looking down at her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Would it be easier for you if I moved back here again?”
She frowns, and then sighs, and then moves closer, taking my hand in hers. “It’s not as bad as all that. Honestly.”
“Really? You said earlier that Dad yells at you, just for trying to help him.”
“No, he yells because he’s frustrated. I wanna yell too, sometimes, but it’s like howling at the moon. It wouldn’t do any damn good. We both want things to be how they were, Livia. Only that’s not gonna happen.”
“I get that, Mom, but my question stands. If it would make life easier for you, I can move back.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it. We didn’t raise you to look after us. We raised you to have a life of your own. You’ve already sacrificed enough by not going to college, and there’s no way I’m gonna let you give up what you’re doing now. Not when you’ve worked so hard for it. I might worry about you, and I know I fuss, but that’s my job.”
“I worry too, Mom… about both of you.”
Her eyes glisten and she blinks hard a few times. “We’re fine, Livia. It’s just that some days are harder than others. Most of the time, I’m too busy to think, and when I do, I’m just grateful that your father is still here, and that he survived. Although I’ll admit that, every so often, I sit in here and wish we’d gotten on and done something with our lives, instead of planning and talking.”
“Like what? What do you wish you’d done?”
She smiles. “All kinds of things. Your dad always said he’d take me to Europe… to some of the places he visited when he lived over there. We used to sit in here in the evenings, and he’d tell me about Paris, and London… and especially Florence. He used to come alive, describing the paintings in the Uffizi Gallery, and how he’d stood for hours, just staring at a particular Botticelli.” She laughs. “He used to say he’d take me there and show it to me, and I used to tell him there was no way I was standing in front of a painting for hours on end, no matter how good it was.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me to wait until I’d seen the painting first.” Her smile fades as she’s speaking and she falls silent.
“Couldn’t you still go? I know the practicalities are daunting, but…”
She shakes her head. “It’s not just that. I—I worry that he’d get there and the frustration would be overwhelming. Not just for him, but for both of us. He always talked about it as something romantic for us to do together. But I know we’d end up worrying about transport, and medications, and food, and all kinds of other mundane things that run our lives these days. The very last thing it would be is romantic.”
I get the sense that romance isn’t anywhere on their list of priorities anymore, and I lean over and put my arm around her.
I’m not sure whether that helps… but I don’t see how it can hurt, either.
“Where’s Mom gone again?” Dad asks, even though she explained where she was going before she went out, just fifteen minutes ago.
“She’s gone to the beauty salon.”
“That’s nice.”
“Do you want to do a puzzle?”
It should keep him occupied for a while, and besides, it’s part of his therapy. Puzzles help with his hand-eye coordination and dexterity. They’re also marginally more entertaining than picking up paperclips and putting them into a pot, which is what he used to do.
“Sure.”
“I’ll go set one up in the dining room.”
I leave him to stand by himself, knowing better than to watch him, or offer to help, and I wander through to the dining room, where I open the cabinet and find several puzzles stacked up. They’re designed for people with dementia, and although that doesn’t include Dad, they’re perfect for him, too. The pieces are large enough that he can pick them up, but the pictures are more satisfying than the cartoon versions, usually aimed at children. I rifle through, finding one with a flower bed on it, and pull it out.
“Oh, that’s a nice one,” Dad says, as he comes into the room. It’s hard to tell from the tone of his voice whether he’s saying he remembers doing it before, and enjoyed it, or whether he has no recollection at all, and just likes the picture. I decide against asking and pull out the chair at the end of the table, waiting for him to sit. Then I open the box, letting him remove all the pieces while I take a seat beside him. He’s supposed to do this by himself – or as much of it as he can – and I don’t interfere, while he gathers all the edges together, putting them methodically to one side.
“How long will Mom be, do you think?” he asks, not taking his eyes from the puzzle pieces.
“I don’t know. Why? Is something wrong?”
