Page 50 of Someone to Hold
I scrub a hand over my face and give myself a mental shake.Look who’s running for Mayor of Maudlin Town.
The ladies at the front desk greet Molly with hugs and cheerful chatter, talking about how impressed they are with her stamina. I sign in as well, my own greeting less enthusiastic, which I understand. It has more to do with my mom than me.
My mother isn’t a staff favorite. She’s difficult, stubborn, and not particularly kind. Ada and I try to make up for it with generous holiday gifts and contributions to their fundraisers, but it’s still tough.
“I’ll come by your mom’s room when I’m done,” Molly says. “Unless she decides to join the sing-along.”
I don’t miss the look that passes between the two women behind the desk.
“I’ll ask,” I tell her, ignoring the way my gut churns. I shouldstart bringing donuts. Or sandwiches. Or maybe a damn case of wine. Bribes—whatever it takes to get the staff to look at me the way they look at her.
“Do you need help?”
I hope she says yes.
“I’m good. Have a nice visit with your mom.”
“Right.”
I tap my palm on the counter and turn toward the hallway, my stomach twisting with a familiar mix of guilt, dread, and resignation.
I walk down the hall, straighten the cheery spring wreath my sister has hung on her door, then knock.
“What do you want?” a sharp voice calls out.
The visit is already off to a stellar start.
I open the door and peek inside. “Hey, Mom. You up for a visit?”
“You bring chocolate?” she snaps from the recliner in the corner.
I reach into my vest pocket and pull out a salted chocolate bar. It’s her favorite, and I quickly learned not to show up without one. “Sure did.”
“Bring it over,” she says, waving me in.
My mother was never what you’d call soft, but she used to be gentler. Those days feel like a long time ago. Still, I was probably due more tough love than she gave me growing up, so this version of her feels right.
“There’s a sing-along in the rec room,” I tell her as I break off a piece of chocolate and hand it over. Her eyes close as she takes a bite. At least I can bring her a little bit of happiness. “Should we check it out?”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You can’t carry a tune.”
For all the memories dementia’s stolen from her, that one stuck.
“True,” I agree. “Butyouhave a nice voice.”
Her gaze softens, and she smiles, just slightly. “I do have a nice voice.”
“You used to sing while you cooked. I always knew we were having meatloaf if I heard Reba coming from the kitchen. Reba was for meatloaf. Toby Keith meant chicken-fried steak.”
“Chicken-fried steak was your favorite.”
The breath whooshes out of me.
“It was,” I say. “Nobody makes it better than you.”
She nods and holds out her hand for more chocolate.
There’s a knock, and Molly peeks in.
