The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 30: "Something Is Wrong"

I often find Mom dozing in her wheelchair. She responds when I kiss her and is always happy to see me. But once I start talking, I wonder if she understands what I tell her or if she'll remember anything I've said after I leave. I sit beside her, massaging her hand. She looks up if I vary my tone of voice or cadence of speech as if she suspects I've changed the subject. I often think she enjoys the rhythm of my voice but pays no attention to the words.

When I've exhausted the family news, I talk about the birds fluttering at the feeders and splashing in the bird bath or comment on what's happening around us. To be honest, how much can you say about a group of elderly women sleeping in their wheelchairs or talking with a staff member or with no one in particular? Once, a patient leaned forward to talk with a friend. When she saw me watching, she cupped her hand to hide her mouth. I wondered if she was talking about me.

I arrive at the nursing home at four on Saturday afternoon. As usual, I look for Dad's car as I circle the lot hunting for a place to park. I'm disappointed when I don't see it. I don't see my sister's car either, but Leslie visits Mom on her way home from work so I don't expect to see her on the weekends. Without Dad or Leslie there, the hour will stretch on forever. I consider putting off my visit until tomorrow but feel guilty even thinking it. Why don't the three of us overlap our visits? If Dad or Leslie is there when I arrive, I notice their look of relief. They too struggle to entertain Mom. We forget that sitting beside Mom is what's most important.

When I don't find Mom in the recreation area, I check the room she shares with Mrs. Battersby who is often in bed. In the late afternoon, the sun shines through the trees, providing a soft glow in their room. The odor of pills and dry skin is never disguised by the air freshener hanging on the wall. Mom's bed is hidden behind a screen. When I cross the room, her roommate blinks her eyes at me.

When I first met Mrs. Battersby, I thought she was flirting with me. Only later did I realize her eyes twitch uncontrollably. If Mom isn't in the room, I stop a moment to say hello and ask about her grandchildren. Her daughter brings them to visit every weekend. She is animated when showing me the latest pictures drawn by the children. Their artwork covers the wall beside her bed. A family tree hangs above her bureau with a photo of each relative.

Behind the screen, I find Mom in bed asleep. I place a chair beside her bed. I'll wait until she wakes up although I regret not bringing a book to read. I look around but there's no newspaper or magazine on her bedside table. When I look back at Mom, her eyes are open! I smile and lean over to kiss her. Her eyes, usually shiny and watchful, are dull, and I wonder if she's not feeling well.

"Hi, Mom. Did I wake you?"

She frowns and shakes her head.

"It's beautiful out today." In mild weather, I often wheel her out to the patio to sit under an umbrella. But finding her in bed, I don't want to disturb her. Besides, one of the aides will be by shortly to get her ready for dinner.

"Are you sick?"

Again, she shakes her head. She often won't tell us, so I'll ask the nurse before I leave.

"Was Dad here this afternoon?" My conversation begins with several yes or no questions to prime the pump.

She looks up at the ceiling, frowning, trying to focus her mind. "Dad?" Her voice is barely audible as if she's conserving energy. "I can't remember." There's wonder in her voice as if she doesn't understand why she can't remember. I'll also call my father when I get home to make sure there's nothing wrong with him or his car.

"Rachel got a promotion and a raise at work last week." I countdown the family news: the five things you need to know to start your day as they say on the news. Mom no longer asks about her grandchildren – a continuing irritant for Rachel. This no longer bothers me. After four years, I've learned to add specific details about them to refresh her memory.