Page 84 of Latte Girl
I look over at her. She’s almost bouncing up and down. I wish I could match her enthusiasm, but instead I have to fight to keep my hands from shaking as I take the visitor’s badge from the receptionist and clip it to myshirt.
“She’s in room 322. Just take the elevators over there up to the third floor,” the secretaryinstructs.
Hailey gives me a hug and wishes megoodluck.
“It will be fine,” she whispers close to my ear. “It will be betterthanfine.”
I wrap my arms even tighter around her before letting her go and follow the secretary’s instructions up to my mother’s room. The door is closed, a blue plaque with the number 322 the only sign that she’s in there. I tap my knuckles once against the wood. The door opens just a few inches and my heart jumps into mythroat.
“Jordan?”
It’s not my mom at the door. A nurse is standing there, blocking my view intotheroom.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m Jordan. I’mRosalind’sson.”
“She’s very excited that you’re here,” the nursetellsme.
A chill creeps up myspine.
“I can leave,” I blurt out. “I don’t want to upset her. I can justgonow.”
The nurse looks amused. “No need for that. I meant that she’s very happy you’ve come to see her. I’m going to be in the room the whole time. As I’m sure you know, Rosalind is still working on getting better and I’ll be here in case she needs any help. You haven’t seen her since the stroke,haveyou?”
“No,” I answer. “My dad...No, I haven’tseenher.”
The nurse steps out and closes the doorbehindher.
“Then I’ll just warn you to prepare yourself. She’s come a long way already, but the recovery is still in progress. She’s struggling with a complication called dysarthria, which makes it difficult for her to speak clearly. She’ll need you to bepatient.”
I nod my head, any other words I want to say drying up in mythroat.
“I’ll be here to make sure things go as smoothly as possible. Are you ready toseeher?”
Again, I just nod. The nurse pulls the door open and I step inside. The woman by the window draws my eyes like amagnet.
“Jordan?”
“Mom.”
She looks so much older. When I was growing up, she always seemed to have a kind of glamour, an old Hollywood magnetism that kept her as timeless as a black and white photograph. Now the weight of her years has settled into her skin. She’s sitting in a chair by the window, a blanket thrown over her lap. The sunlight streaming in catches on the grey strands of her hair, turning themsilver.
“Mom,” Irepeat.
She stretches her hands out towards me and in three steps I’m across the room, taking them inmyown.
“Mom, I missed yousomuch.”
She smiles and suddenly I can forget that we’re in a stroke recovery centre, that there’s a nurse sitting in the corner of the room. I can forget all the months I’ve gone without seeing her, all the times I’ve wrung my hands and pulled my hair and screamed curses into the silence thinking this day wouldnevercome.
I take a seat in the chair nexttoher.
“So...handsome,” she says, still smiling as she squeezesmyhand.
“I get it fromyou,Mom.”
She gives another squeeze inanswer
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you yet. Things with Dad have been abithard.”
