Page 84 of Pick-Up
I don’t have a ton of time. I am running late for call time. And I have a sinking feeling. But this is too important to rush. I settle on the edge of the bed. On the edge, full stop.
“What’s going on?”
“I feel like I’m forgetting things.” She frowns, bringing a hand to her head like she might hold the thoughts inside. “It’s like, I can’t hang on to an idea. It’s not just normal signs of aging, ‘senior moments’ like walking into a room and not knowing why I’m there—”
“Yeah, I think that’s normal. Even I do that all the time. It’s the stuff of multitasking.”
“Right. It’s more than that. It’s like I’m gettingconfused.” She blinks.
This is a woman who has run entire institutions. Testified about literacy before Congress. A rock.
My insides are agitating like a washing machine on heavy duty, but, outwardly, I am intent on standing my ground. I will not heighten her anxiety with my own free fall. But I won’t pretend it’s not happening either. “Have you talked to Dad?”
“A little bit, but I think he’d rather not acknowledge the issue. It makes him panicked too.”
I nod. “Well, it sounds like you should call your doctor. Maybe set up some cognitive tests? An MRI or brain scan? I’m not sure what they do. But, that way, you don’t have to guess at what’s happening or figure this out alone. If something really is wrong, I’m sure there’s medicine you can take at least to slow down the progression.”
She shakes her head. Like she can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I can’t either. At least she’s wearing clothing. Some of us are in the nude. “Right. I should do that. I’ll do it today. You’re right. I’m writing it down.”
I exhale, bring a hand to my forehead. I realize it is likely a mannerism inherited from my mom, a mirror of what I watched her do minutes before. I need to hold it together. That is priority number one. Everything feels so high stakes, the dial turned up. I am suddenly nostalgic for my peaceful rut of the past years. A safe space baseline of low-grade depression and ambivalence instead of ping-ponging between panic and hope.
“Mom,” I say, “how are you feeling otherwise?”
She brightens a little at this question. “Actually, I’m on this new neck medicine, and I think it’s working really well. I barely feel pain anymore.”
“Good news!” I exclaim. It turns out this is a relative term. “Listen, I’m home tomorrow evening. Are you guys grabbing the kidsfrom Celeste in the afternoon, as planned?” I hold my breath. Does she remember?
“Yes! We’re so looking forward to it. Your father got the kids those rainbow cookies they like.”
“Okay, great,” I nod. “Once the kids have gone to bed, let’s talk more and make a plan for figuring this out. Who knows: maybe it’s just stress?”
“Maybe,” she says. “I am stressed. But that’s because I can’t remember anything.”
“Vicious circle,” I say.
“Life,” she says, putting her reading glasses back on. She’s still beautiful, my mom. “Let’s plan to talk then. Have a wonderful time! And take pictures!”
“I will, Mom. Although there will be professional pictures too.”
“Not the same.”
“Right.”
“One last thing, sweetie,” she says, as I stand to cross back into the bathroom. “There’s a man standing behind you.”
I gasp, then slowly twist to peer over my shoulder. I have accidentally left the shades up. Michael is standing on the other side of the glass with his back to me, like he is guarding my room and my reputation.
“Thanks, Mom.”
We hang up. I close the shades. And I am gutted.
Despite my semi-horrible headspace, I function fine for the first half of the day. I manage to avoid running into Ethan in the morning. Instead, when I emerge, I find Stephanie in the living room in her requisite dark glasses. Her hair is in an unbrushed ponytail and she’s wearing her sundress from yesterday. Wait. Did shereallysleep with Martin? It’s not that I judge her. To each her own. It’s just that Stephanie is pretty amazing. She could do a lot better than that giant rawhide poof of a human being.
“Morning,” I say.
She shoots me a peace sign. Otherwise keeps her body still. I know that feeling. Trying not to upset the balance—or puke.
“Rough night?”
