Page 90 of Delay of Game
“Are you sleepy? Have you talked to the doctor about that?”
“I’m just old. Old people get sleepy. Nothing to worry about.” Aunt Mercy waved her hand as if shooing away a fly.
Right. She had a healthcare team here. A cadre of people dedicated to making sure she went to her appointments and took her meds and watched her when I couldn’t. Still, I had a hard time shaking away the responsibilities I’d had for years. I took a bite of chocolate croissant, nodding.
“Mom and Dad will be in town soon.”
“More company?” She grinned. “No one warned me that the old folks’ home would involve so many visitors.”
“How many visitors are you getting?” I teased.
The staff hadn’t told me about any visitors, but then again, I hadn’t asked. I’d asked how she felt, what she did, and whether she ate, sure, but outside a small social circle, Aunt Mercy didn’t have many people who’d stop by for a chat.
“The ladies’ group stopped by a few days ago just to say hi. Hopefully it wasn’t too depressing for them, but they’re looking into their future.”
I bit back a laugh. Of course Gloria and the ladies’ group stopped by. Gloria had told me they would, but somehow, I brushed that off as being polite. “Did you do anything fun?”
Aunt Mercy shrugged. “Hell if I can remember. Bunco, maybe? Dot, did we play Bunco with some of my friends?”
Dot shrugged.
“She can’t remember a damn thing either. The staff write what we did in a little book, like we’re invalids. But the book just said we played a game. They’re terrible with details.”
That didn’t sound like a bad idea, actually, but I didn’t let my mind wander down the “what ifs” like I once had. What if I had kept a book for her to reference? What if I had hired an in-home aide while I worked? What if I had just tried a little harder to keep Aunt Mercy in her own home?
I nodded politely. “Maybe you should write in the book, too? You could look at it at the end of the day and make some notes if you remember anything?”
She shook her head. “They barely give me enough time to catch my breath around here. Always want to drag us out to some event or shopping. I’ve never been to so many shopping plazas in my life. And where would I even put stuff? I live in one room. Which reminds me, did you bring my comforter? The quilted one that mom made me. I can’t find it.”
I winced. “Yeah, it’s at your house. I keep meaning to bring it but…”
But every time I came to visit, I had a million other things on my brain and forgot the comforter.
“I’ll bring it by tomorrow,” I promised.
She waved a hand. “Don’t bother. I think Jimmy’s supposed to come by. He can bring it.”
I schooled my face into a pleasant smile even as my stomach tumbled. In the early days of her disease, we’d had drag-out fights over misremembered information: whether her mom was alive, where Bernadette lived, who ate the last of the pizza in the fridge. The small gaps in her memory left chasms for us to navigate, often from separate sides. And even now that those conversations weren’t a daily occurrence between us, my body tensed in anticipation.
I covered her hand with mine, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Aunt Mercy, Jimmy’s in Florida, remember? He’s not coming to visit.”
Her lips twitched, eyes darting to mine and then back to the pastry in front of her before she laughed. “Of course, dear. What a silly mistake.”
I sighed, relieved the conversation hadn’t deteriorated into an argument. “Happens to the best of us. But I’ll bring it by. I’m sorry I keep forgetting.”
“Don’t worry yourself with it. You’re young and you have a life.” She ripped the cinnamon roll into tiny pieces, eating a nibble. “What have you been up to?”
“Not a lot.” I shook my head. “Actually, I’ve been really busy. I took up pottery, and I met someone.”
She dropped the cinnamon roll and turned to me with a grin. “You met someone? Someone handsome?”
I nodded. “He’s pretty handsome.”
“And have you gone on a date with this someone handsome?”
“Not yet.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
