Page 122 of Ruthless Lullaby

Mindy

"Cordelia, my darling. You came to visit your grandmother." Larissa's frail hands, with skin as delicate as tissue paper, reach for mine.

"Yes, Grandma, I'm here," I say softly, taking a seat beside her on the couch. "Would you like some tea before your breakfast?"

"Yes, my dear, thank you." She pats my hands. "You can speak now, my dear child."

I nod. "I can, Grandma. You taught me."

It’s been over a month since I moved back in with Maron, and I’ve been visiting his mother almost every morning. Our little tea ritual has become a familiar routine. Some days, I simply sit with her, sipping tea in companionable silence. On others, we engage in the same, brief, repetitive conversation.

"It's amazing what you do to Mom, Mindy. All her agitation is gone when you’re around," Timofey often remarks.

I prepare Larissa's tea in her special tumbler, equipped with a lid to accommodate her trembling hands."Open your mouth, Grandma," I say, and with gentle care, I place a single sugar cube between her teeth. It’s the Russian way to drink tea - through the sugar cube. She sips the strong, black tea, brewed in the traditional Russian style. Just the way she’s used to it.

Larissa, born and raised in Moscow, finds comfort in the familiar. Everything that reminds her of her homeland seems to soothe her troubled mind. Drinking her tea through a sugar cube is a part of that.

But more than anything, it's my presence that truly calms her. In the depths of her dementia, Larissa has drifted further from reality into a world of her own creation. In this realm, where time is either distorted or altogether absent, one truth remains unchanged: to her, I am Cordelia, her beloved granddaughter who passed away a long time ago.

For some reason, Larissa has become a significant person in my everyday life. Despite her fading memories, she exudes kindness and warmth. I find myself sharing things with her that I can't confide in anyone else, knowing she'll forget them soon enough. It’s as if I’m speaking to a trusted friend who listens without judgment or interruption. Even though she is usually asleep by the time I finish, these moments bring me comfort. Perhaps it's because I miss my own Mom and see Larissa as a mother figure. Or maybe our bond is so special that we don’t need words to connect.

I call her Grandma. She calls me Cordelia.

I don’t think about this often, but I can’t help but wonder: does Larissa actually not see the difference between us? Me, a grown woman who talks to her, while Cordelia, a little girl who didn't speak because of her young age and her Down syndrome? Is it possible that when dementia takes over, these important parts of who we are just disappear? It's as fascinating as it is unsettling.

We continue sipping our tea in silence. Larissa's eyes are half-closed, a serene smile gracing her lips, her mind drifting to a distant place. "Cordelia," she murmurs softly.

"Yes, Grandma," I respond gently. "I'm here."

Sitting next to her, I feel this sudden urge to spill my secret. It's been weighing on me for weeks - being pregnant and not telling Maron is driving me crazy. I know, I know. It's messed up, but I keep coming up with excuses to avoid telling him.

The timing never feels quite right.

He's so focused on the launch of Tramoxine.

I don't want to jeopardize his plans, not when there's so much at stake.

I’ll tell him after the launch.

And the list goes on. But these are just the lies I tell myself. Deep down, I know that time is running out. I’m in the second half of my first trimester, and soon, there will be no way to hide the truth.

I’ve done my mandatory checks at the hospital, and surprisingly, everything seems in order. My baby is healthy, which is a miracle on its own. Just like my unlikely pregnancy. And I already love this child more than anyone in this world.

At this moment, however, my desire to speak is overwhelming, and Larissa provides the perfect, safe audience. I'm tempted to pour out my heart, knowing that her memory will soon erase the conversation. There couldn't be a more secure confidant.

I take a deep breath and speak softly. "Grandma," I begin.

Larissa winces slightly. "Yes, my sweet child."

I try to slow my racing heart. Why am I feeling so anxious all of a sudden? Is it because I have to tell her that Maron is the father? Will she think that I'm carrying“my own father's child”, or has her dementia progressed too far for her to make that connection? Maybe I should just lie about the father if she asks. Or not bring it up at all.

"Grandma," I say again, "I'm going to have a baby."

Her expression remains unchanged. Did she not hear me?

"Grandma," I repeat, "I'm pregnant." This time, her face twitches. "Cordelia is having a baby," I make my third attempt.

Her eyes flutter open. "Oh," she says with a smile, revealing her beautiful, white teeth. "My dear Cordelia is expecting a baby," she repeats. "That's wonderful."

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