Page 34 of Wreck Me

“I’m glad you like it,” Nico said. “We’ll be there in about an hour. Sorry about this traffic.”

She bobbed her head as if listening to music he couldn’t hear. “Take your time. I’m enjoying the ride.”

Nico smiled to himself. How she used to despise LA traffic! He and Vince got a kick out of it, because it was the only time she swore like a sailor. She insisted traffic was a special situation, and God didn’t mind so long as you didn’t use his name. He and Vince soon found out Goddidstill mind if children swore in traffic. He minded so much they’d been sent to their room when they got home.

As soon as they exited the highway, Nico kept his eyes on his mother nearly as much as the road. Would she recognize things as they approached the old neighborhood? She had exclaimed with delight over plenty of buildings they’d passed, but none of her identifications had been correct. The Masonic Lodge they happened to drive by was not the historic Egyptian Theatre, nor was the small school they passed the Presbyterian church where she and Nico’s father had been married.

Finally, they pulled up to the house. He could hear the dogs barking from the back yard where Ginny had said she would tie them up, but the sound was muted. He’d checked in with Ginny on his way to the nursing home that morning in case she needed help with the dogs, but she assured him she could handle it. Her ankle was much better, and she was able to put weight on it.

His mother didn’t seem bothered by the barking, or maybe her hearing loss had worsened.

He smiled at her. “Well, here we are! What do you think?”

She stared out the passenger window and up at the house. “Is it a candy store? Do they sell taffy?”

“Not taffy,” Nico said, laughing lightly. “Pretty crazy colors for a house though, huh? I know you prefer white.”

She puckered her lips, offended. “Me? White is boring. If I had a house, I’d paint it just like that.”

Dementia really is taking its toll, he thought, but wasn’t going to argue. “Have you ever been to this house before?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’d like to see what’s inside. Can we go?”

He kept his hand on her elbow for support as she traversed the walk she’d taken thousands of times. Each ordinary milestone they reached – the flower beds, the front steps, the front door—lit a tiny flame of hope in Nico. Would it be the spot or object that brought her back to him? But each flame extinguished as quickly as it had sparked. There were no ‘aha’ moments. Ginny had given him the photo album, and it was in the car, but he agreed that if the actual house didn’t do the trick, a set of photos probably wouldn’t either.

Still, he reminded himself, the outside of the placedidlook different – different colors, different landscaping, a new bay window. It was the inside that Ginny had turned into a replica. That would be the true test. As he turned the front doorknob and helped her over the stoop, a mix of adrenaline and dread made his hands feel as if they belonged to someone else.

From the porch, he’d glimpsed Ginny sitting at the kitchen booth, just as they’d discussed. He gave her a quick, ‘no success yet’ shrug, then caught up to his mother, who had made a beeline for the living room on the right. He found her standing stock still in the center of the space, her gaze moving all around. She pressed a toe into the carpet, then moved over to examine a sideboard cabinet and peer into the face of the small mantel clock.

The clock was the same size and dark-stained cherry wood as the original, which currently sat on Vince’s mantel. Was it flipping any memory switches? “What do you think?” he asked.

She returned to the center of the room. “Whoever lives here understands how to make a house feel cozy.”

“Does anything…look familiar?”

She shook her head. “Just nice.” She stepped toward the hallway and craned her neck, trying to look down it. “Can I see the rest though? Will the people who live here mind?”

Encouraged by her overall reaction to the living room, and reminding himself she’d only seen one room so far, he followed her as she walked down the hall, examined both bedrooms, and even stepped into the bathroom. She opened and closed the bedroom closet doors, traced a ridged fingernail over one of the hand-painted blueberry bunches on the bathroom wall, and primped her hair as she examined herself in the bathroom mirror—identical to the one she’d stood before morning after morning and night after night.

After leaving the bathroom, she stared for a long moment out the back door. His mother had spent untold hours gardening there. It had been her pride and joy. Just beneath the big oak, the dogs lay sleeping in a pile, but she didn’t comment on them.

She cleared her throat, and Nico held his breath. “Yes, it’s all very nice. I think I would like to live here.” His heartrate sped, but then she looked right at him. Her grey-green eyes showing not the slightest glimmer of recognition for him or the house. “Is it for sale or rent? Are you the realtor?”

The flimsy structure of irrational hope Nico had constructed with Ginny’s help crumbled completely, flooding him with bitter disappointment. If a literal recreation of her home couldn’t flip his mother’s memory switch, nothing ever would. She was gone forever.

“I’m not the realtor.” His words sounded tinny to his ears.

She nodded perfunctorily, then turned and tottered back toward the bedrooms. He knew for safety reasons that he should follow her, but she was quite steady on her feet and Nico needed a moment. He wiped at his damp cheeks as he stared unseeing through the back window. Movement caught his eye. Jack stretched and yawned and rolled over in the grass, setting off a chain reaction of Mick and Annie doing the same.

Nico forced his shoulders to unclench and his hands to relax at his sides as he let the unburdened simplicity of the three luckiest dogs in LA center him. What was the point in getting emotional over his mother no longer recognizing him? He’d known this might not work. He’d feared all along it was too late.

His mom was still with him, and she was happy. From what he’d heard from friends, that was a blessing when it came to dementia. He could still take her places, still see her smile, still have casual conversations with her. He would have to be satisfied with that.

He turned to rejoin his mother, but he couldn't see her. A quick check showed she wasn’t in the second bedroom, Ginny’s bedroom, or the bathroom. Panic rising, he headed toward the front of the house. She couldn’t have slipped out the back door because he had been standing there, and surely Ginny would have intercepted if she’d tried to leave by the front? A peek into the living room showed it was empty too, but then he heard women’s voices from the kitchen across the hall. He stopped just out of view and listened.

“I had two sons, I think,” his mother said.

“You still do.” Ginny’s voice was gentle.

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