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“Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the garden before the storm ruined it? Keep your investigator’s eyes over there, not on me.”
Mention of the storm brings her head back up, eyes fixed on the approaching clouds.
“Yes, the storm. I like storms,” she says, her voice taking on a dreamlike quality.
“You like storms?” I’m not sure I’ve heard her right on that one. I frown at her. How could she like storms after what happened to Matty?
“I don’t know why… but they make me feel close to my boys. The rain comes down and the thunder roars and I just feel safe and warm with my sons.”
When she turns back to me, there’s a glazed lack of recognition on her face.
“You know,” she adds. “You look a lot like my son. Same blond curls. I hope he grows as tall as you when he’s older. And as handsome!”
The familiar ache takes root in my chest and it’s on the tip of my tongue to correct her. To tell her that I am her son. To shake her until she remembers and makes that ache go away.
It’s how I’ve always handled Ma’s memory issues. And it nearly always ends with her confused and upset.
So, instead, I try to smile.
“Yeah? Handsome you say?” I place a thumb and finger under my chin like I’m posing for a nineties ad campaign. “I think you’re being kind Ma—er… Mrs. Walker, but I’ll take it all the same.”
To my surprise, Ma bursts out laughing, slapping me on the back of the shoulder.
I feel the tension in my chest ease a little. It hurts to call her Mrs. Walker. But I’d gotten to hear her laugh.
Maybe Lizzie is right. Maybe I’ve been approaching this all wrong. Because, right now, a little play-along for my mother’s joy seems more than a fair exchange.
For the rest of the afternoon we chatter and joke. For most of it, Ma doesn’t remember who I am, berating me for favoring her over other residents. I think she sees me as one of the domestic helpers at Yellow Fields. But the longer we spend together, first in the garden and then back in her room playing Scrabble, the more that strange absence in her eyes melts away. Whether she thinks of me as her son or as an employee, she now recognizes me either way.
Just to add injury to the insult of the last week, I lose at Scrabble. To a woman with dementia.
As she clears herself an even greater lead in her last turn with ‘kinetic’ on a triple word, I’m forced to hold my hands up in defeat. As if I’ve summoned the water, it’s at this moment that the heavens finally open and the rain starts coming down outside.
“Oh my…” Ma gasps as torrents of the stuff attack her windows and the roof begins to sound like a pounding drum.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “This place has metal shutters they can bring down if necessary.”
“What about you?” she asks, her eyes round with concern. “Don’t you live in the woods? Will your home be alright?”
I try to remember if I’ve mentioned my home to her this afternoon or if this is a real memory breaking through the fog.
“My house is fine, Mrs. Walker…”
The dirt track between the town road and the house is the most dangerous area during storms but the truck is able to handle it no problem. And Lizzie is always at her own place now so—
My thoughts come to a careening halt. My hands freeze mid-scoop as I’m clearing the tiles into the Scrabble bag.
Hadn’t Lizzie said that David was staying until Thursday afternoon?
Today is Thursday.
I look at the clock over Ma’s head. 4:20pm.
Had the guy already left? Would Lizzie have gone back to the Jessop house after he left? Or would she have gone to mine?
And if she went to mine, I have the truck here so… would she go on foot?
Oh, no.
