Page 60 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

My conversation with Georgia only made me sadder. I knew the nickname I pegged her with hurt, but until today, I never knew how much. I always thought Georgia saw in herself what everyone else did. Big green eyes, a beautiful smile, and a huge heart.

I hate that she thinks she needs the right lipstick and shoes to look pretty. I hate that I’m a big reason why. And I hate that her followers and fans probablydoexpect her to always be the Georgia they see on their screens.

Most of all, I hate that Mom can’t tell me what to do about it. I want to fix the harm I’ve done and help Georgia see what I see. Mom would know what to do. She always knew the right thing to say to Georgia. She never fought for Carolyn Beck’s causes, but she always encouraged Georgia to recognize how brave her mom was. She always knew what to say to make Georgia see how amazing both of them are.

I tried today. I don’t know if it worked. I should have said all those words years ago, but I kept them in. I kept everything in, afraid Georgia would think I wanted to be more than friends.

I pull into my parents’ driveway at the same time Dad comes out of the front door wearing dress pants, his best plaid shirt, and a bolo tie. A slight variation on the same thing he’s worn to church for as long as I can remember.

He smiles and waves. The worry lines in his forehead are smooth, and there’s no tightness around his eyes. Maybe Mom is having a good day.

Before he reaches his truck, he waits for me to jog up the walkway for a hug. Dad’s a hugger. You wouldn’t think so to look at him. He’s a big guy with a bald head and a handlebar mustache. Sometimes the first time they see him, people are scared of him, but his smile sets everyone at ease. Within minutes of meeting him, he’ll be your best friend.

I’m barely within reach when he wraps me in a tight squeeze. “She had a rough morning, but she’s watchingThe Sound of Musicnow.”

Mom has always loved that musical, but now it’s the one thing that soothes her when she gets confused or upset. Which means the rest of us can quote it word for word and sing all the songs. “I Am Sixteen”has been on a running loop in my brain for about three months.

Dad must know how much I need a hug because he holds me longer than usual. I’m okay with that. A hug from him is almost as good as a talk with Mom. He’s put his hugs to extra work over the past few months as Mom’s Alzheimer’s has progressed even faster than her doctors predicted.

The first year after she was diagnosed, she was aware that her memory was slipping, and she talked less and less. She hated the idea of repeating herself or saying something that didn’t make sense. We could tell when she was struggling to remember things like names and faces because she’d go really quiet. She’d never been a quiet person before.

As the disease has taken more of her memory, she’s started talking more, but not about the present. Sometimes she thinks I’m her older brother who died when she was a kid or that Britta is her sister. The worst is when she can’t remember Dad. A few weeks ago, she woke up in the middle of the night and started screaming because she thought someone had broken into her room and climbed into bed with her.

It was Dad, and we all laughed about it the next day, but he had tears in his eyes. Mom told us right after she was diagnosed that we could laugh or we could cry, but she hoped we’d laugh. So that’s what we attempt to do. Sometimes, though, we have to cry. When that happens, we try to laugh at the same time.

Dad lets me go, and I hurry to the front door. Usually, Mom will sit through the whole movie without getting up, but once she went to the kitchen and turned on the gas burners. Dad found her pulling pans out of the pantry like she wanted to cook something, but the burners hadn’t lit, so the whole kitchen smelled like gas.

Before I open the door, I’m greeted by Julie Andrews belting “The Hills Are Alive”loud enough to blow the windows open.

I plug my ears and run for the TV room, where I find Mom standing in front of the big screen with her hands over her ears. I find the remote on the coffee table and punch the volume button until Julie is singing at a reasonable volume.

Mom lets her hands fall to her side and faces me. Her brow wrinkles as she looks at me, and I know she’s trying to remember who I am. The confusion on her face as she searches her memory for something she knows is there hurts to see every single time.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, hopefully. Like this time my voice might loosen dementia’s stranglehold.

She blinks. Her eyes are blank and unseeing. But then she blinks again, and it’s like a cloud is lifted. Her mouth slips into a smile of recognition, and she holds open her arms. “Hello, Zachary.”

Unlike Dad, Mom’s never been a big hugger. A talker, yeah. I never doubted she loved me, even though physical affection was never her thing, and still isn’t. Not even with dementia.

So even though she’s a foot shorter than me, I fold myself into the hug she offers. I bury my head on her shoulder and hold her like I’m a nine-year-old boy again. The little boy who’d been teased at school for not being able to read and had to go to Special Ed classes for part of the day. In a town as small as Paradise, there aren’t a lot of specialists. Kids who need extra help get lumped into one group, no matter how different their needs are.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a bad day at school again?” She pats my back, like I’m still small enough that her hand and long, graceful fingers could cover most of it.

“Something like that,” I say as she lets me go before I’m ready.

“How about you tell me everything over some milk and cookies?” She turns in a small circle. “I just…I’m not sure where I put them.”

“I don’t need any, Mom.” I hurry to get the words out before I lose her to the fog again. “Let’s just sit and talk.”

Her eyes find mine. She searches my face, like she’s seeing all the way into my soul. I hope she is. Because that’s the only way for her to understand what I’m going through right now.

“Did something happen with your friends?” She asks. Even though I shake my head, she interrogates me with a stare. “Not with the one with the red hair…oh, what’s her name? I can see her face.”

Her gaze wanders, and I see the fog creeping into the corners there. “Georgia. That’s her name. She’s good.” I lick my lips, then tip my head to catch her eye again. “I think I may like her as more than a friend.”

A flicker of confusion crosses her face, but then she smiles and turns toward the couch. “I know that. I’ve always known that.”

“You have?” I follow her, but I’m not fast enough.

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