Page 10 of Where the Darkness Goes

Ten minutes later, we arrive at Oak Meadows, the skilled-nursing facility where Mom lives now. It’s a sprawling one-story building, tawny and plain. Its length spans the entire oversized parking lot, spreading out in every direction. Most of the windows are covered with blinds, concealing the patients’ rooms. A few are open and exposed, however, the darkness beyond them still leaves everything a mystery.

The limited amount of grass they have between the sidewalk and the building is dying off, patches of brown fighting for real estate among the green.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Garrett asks.

“Would that be weird?”

He’s already unbuckling and stepping from the car. “Not weird at all.”

We make our way through the main doors, checking in with a receptionist named Becky, who chews gum loudly throughout our entire interaction and tells us we can sign the guest log, which turns out to be a mostly empty sheet of paper attached to a clipboard that’s being held together with duct tape.

There are two nursing homes in town, and I was promised this was the best of the two when we chose it, but guilt is already starting to creep in. The place carries that ineffable scent you spend your life trying to avoid—a combination of death, industrial cleaners, and waste. The yellow floors glisten from a fresh wax, and the walls are decorated with bulletin boardscovered in photos of the residents at recent events. I search for Mom’s face among the memories but come up short. She’s not there, but I shouldn’t expect her to be. We’re taking it one day at a time.

Guilt weighs on me when I realize I don’t have the way to Mom’s room memorized. I’ve visited only twice since we brought her here six months ago, both times right after her arrival.

I study the signs above our heads for direction, but Garrett takes the lead, guiding us through the labyrinth with little hesitation. I wonder if he judges me for visiting so little. Often, I’ve thought about moving back. I think I should, but…this place feels so different now. Without Mom being who she used to be, without the home where we grew up.

When we reach Mom’s hallway, a nurse is just exiting her room. She’s dressed in purple scrubs and has her blonde hair pulled up in a loose, low ponytail. She’s our age, most likely, but I don’t recognize her, which strikes me as strange. If you aren’t from here, there is practically no reason to ever end up in this tiny town. She’s probably from a town over and married someone from here, if I had to guess. I check for a ring, but if she has one she isn’t wearing it. Her bright smile goes to Garrett first, then me.

“Hey there. Visitors?” She glances between us again. “I was just finishing up with her.”

“Yeah, I’m Tessa. I’m Francis’s?—”

Her eyes bug out. “Tessa?Oh my gosh. You’re Ms. Frannie’s daughter!” She tells me this as if I might not know. “I recognize your name from her paperwork. Oh, wow. She’s going to besoexcited to see you. Come on.” She pushes the door open, stepping back, and waves for us to follow her into the room. “Ms. Frannie, I’m back so soon. You certainly are popular today. Look who came to see you.” Her voice is loud and booming and overly cheerful as she leads us around the compact room, through thesmall eat-in kitchen, and to a slightly larger living space. It’s about the size of a hotel room.

It’s hard to see her world reduced to this. My once fierce mother, now reliant on others to do everything for her. She would hate it. She does hate it, I’m sure. She just can’t tell us yet.

I’m still holding out hope that someday she’ll be able to.

Mom sits in a padded chair facing the window, her hair cascading down her back. It’s the first thing that catches my eye—her hair.

The silver of it hits just below her chin, where it melts into the dark locks I still picture covering her whole head when I pull her from memory. It’s not fair. She’s still young—just fifty-three. Not old enough to be here.

Not old enough to be like this.

She had so much left to do. And yet, there’s a very real chance she’ll never leave this room.

As if she has the same thought, the nurse eases toward Mom, brushing her shoulder first before combing her fingers through her hair, gathering it between her hands like she’s preparing to pull it into a ponytail. She leans down next to Mom, looking at her so I can see the bright smile plastered on her face. “Ms. Frannie, it’s Tessa. Tessa is here to see you.”

She looks up, waving me toward them while the tennis ball currently seeking shelter in my throat is swallowed whole by a volleyball. I can’t force it away, can’t even breathe. All I can do is take a step forward, seemingly pulled by a magnetic force more than by choice.

Before I’m ready, I’m at Mom’s side. Her face is blank, completely emotionless, as she stares out the window in front of her. The view is nice enough—a cluster of pine trees being used to block the street just beyond it. I wish it was sunny for her sake, rather than overcast, but I’m at least thankful the rain has stopped.

The nurse—Emma, based on her nametag—scurries in front of Mom and around behind me. She hoists a chair from the small kitchen table for two and brings it to me. “Here. You gals can sit and catch up.”

I do as I’m told, grateful for any sort of direction.

Thankfully, Garrett seems to know what to do. “How is she?” he asks Emma as she backs up to give us some space.

Right, that’s a perfectly logical question to ask. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Good. Good.” She says the words on a drawn-out exhale, then adds, “You know, she has her good days and bad days.” Her voice is lower as she says the last part. “We’re still doing a lot of protein and physical therapy to keep her muscles in good shape. A few mental exercises daily, too. She can follow things with her eyes”—she smirks—“but only when she wants to. She’s been able to blink to answer questions, but only a few times.”

“Her doctor seemed to think she’d be talking by now,” I point out, searching for the nurse in the dimly lit room.

When I land on her, she gives me a patronizing look. “Yeah. It’s not a linear process, you know? We just have to be thankful for the good days and work through the bad. Build on what she can do and try a little extra each day. The important thing is she isn’t regressing. Anything except that is progress.”

“Has she tried to move at all? Fingers, toes?”

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