Brunch at rubys, p.25
Brunch at Ruby's, page 25
Before I turn the key to cut the ignition, I close my eyes and suck in a breath. Do I really want to do this? Do I really need to do this?
I suppose the reason that the door is wide open is that if I had to reach out and open that door to step inside, I'd probably change my mind and run away. I walk into a room that is warm and bright and smells like freshly brewed coffee. A slight turn of my head reveals a large silver pot with a spigot, a stack of paper cups and coffee fixings. There's also a tray of sugar cookies in Christmas cut out designs, no doubt picked up on discount because the Christmas season officially ended when the New Year rolled around.
“Hi there,” drawls a voice behind me that sounds familiar. I come face to face with Norma, the receptionist from Golden Rays. I am happy to see her. “I remember you,” she says, her smile wide, her blue eyes friendly, her hair… so red.
“I remember you too. From Golden Rays, right?”
“Uh huh. Is this your first time?” I nod, which makes her open her arms and draw me into them. When she pulls back from the impromptu hug, she grips my shoulders and squeezes. “It's real nice to see to you. I think you'll find that you have a lot in common with some of our regular attendees. Wouldn't you agree, Nancy?”
An older woman with dishwater blond hair cut into a messy bob is setting up chairs in a circle. “Whatcha say?” She asks, unfolding a chair and straightening, adjusting the wide rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose.
“She's a little deaf.” Norma guides me into the room with an arm around my shoulder. “Pick a seat anywhere you like. You're early, but don't worry, this room will fill up. Get some coffee and a treat, if you like.”
I thank her and choose a seat that's off center. I don't want to be the spectacle, smack dab in the middle. I pull my phone from my pocket to turn it off while I'm in the meeting and notice the missed texts. One from Debra, two from Malcolm — ‘just saying hello' from this morning and a ‘can we talk soon' from this afternoon.
I ignore them all and power down the phone, slipping it into the pocket of my purse. I'm not focusing on anyone right now but my father. He's my priority. And, by natural consequence, myself.
I found the note that Ron, the intake physician at Golden Rays, had given me, buried at the bottom of my purse. At the time, I thought a support group for caregivers was a dumb idea. I would never sit in a group and complain about having to take care of him. But day in and day out, I'm watching the man I know as my father disappear inside the shell of a man I've never met, who doesn't know me.
One afternoon I sat down at the old IBM in my office at the bookstore and typed up the website to the support group. It's a national group with local districts and chapters. The Decatur District was having a meeting, and I told myself I would go, just to see what it was about. If it really was a bunch of people complaining, I wouldn't go back.
But if it's a network of people who understand what this life is like, I think it might save my sanity. I'm hoping it's the latter, as I sit and watch the room slowly fill with people. Some are quiet and timid, inching their way into the room like me, looking around, clutching the strap of a purse or a fistful of pages that look like MapQuest directions. Norma approaches each person who comes through the door with a greeting and a hug, directs them toward the seating area and invites them to grab a cup of coffee or a snack.
A few minutes before eight o'clock, another familiar figure steps in, nearly blocking the light in the room. Dr. Ron sweeps into the room with a ready grin, greeting everyone he comes into contact with. Shaking the hand of one drawing another in for a side hug and a chuckle. His long legs carry him to the circle which is almost full.
Instead of sitting at the head of the circle, he drops into an empty seat near me. After greeting a few people on each side of him, he leans around the person sitting next to me and smiles. “Renee, right? Good to see you finally came.”
“I'd have come earlier if I knew you'd be here.”
“Ah. I guess I could have mentioned that part. I started this group a few years ago with just a couple of people. It's grown into a great group. I think you'll enjoy it.” He leans across the chair between us to give my shoulder a reassuring rub. “You get some coffee?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I need to hit the bed as soon as I get home. My dad takes up all my energy lately and I need my sleep.”
He laughs, nodding. “Understood,” he says, then stands and claps his hands together a few times. A silence falls across the room as conversations halt. “Let's all find a seat and get started, shall we?”
Ron begins the meeting by asking for new attendees. Shyly, I raise my hand, then blush when everyone welcomes me by name. He gives a brief lecture coping with drastic changes in behavior and cognitive ability. I can't learn enough about staging since the huge change with Daddy. I want to know what to expect next. I don't want to be blindsided by the next episode, or the new thing he can't do anymore.
Ron's speech makes me whip out a pen and piece of paper and take notes on things to ask his doctor when we visit him next. After his brief lecture, Ron gives the floor to the group for open discussion, questions and emergent issues.
“What happens if they get violent?” asks one woman. Everything about her whispers her timidity. She cowers in her chair, a worn brown leather purse on her lap. “The other day, my husband threatened me with scissors. I know it's not his fault, but I don't know what to do. I can't call the police or they'll arrest him.” She pauses and shakes her head, her mousy brown, shoulder length hair whipping around her face.
“Was he angry? Frustrated about something?”
“I'd laid out a shirt for him to wear. He can dress himself if I lay it out. He hates green, and the shirt was green and I forgot. I'd left the scissors out and he grabbed them and just… came at me.” She clutches her throat. Her hands are shaking. She must have been terrified.
“Foremost, get to a safe place. Then remember that emotions will come and go quickly. The disease affects the brain. Violence is rooted in some kind of emotion, usually frustration, but they don't remember the appropriate method to emote. Much like a toddler, it comes out in a tantrum.”
The lady nods, her eyes wide, sucking in every bit of information that Ron offers. “And you'll want to report the incident to his doctor. I know it feels like tattling, but it could be something easily addressed with medication if he's frequently feisty, as I like to call it.”
Ron smiles at her; she seems to relax as she smiles back. “And if he is consistently violent and you're being hurt, you'll need to assess your care plan. That's not a situation you should be in. Let's talk after the meeting.” She nods, her head bobbing quickly. I have a feeling that much more is happening in her house than she is letting on.
Ron then turns to me. “Renee. Tell us about Bernard. He's mid stage, correct? How's he doing?”
I launch into an overview of my father's condition. “It really is like taking care of a child. We keep him busy all day so he doesn't nap and he'll sleep at night, otherwise he roams the house. I've childproofed the cabinets, added an extra deadbolt to the door, and double locked the windows so he can't get out while I'm sleeping. Most nights I'm so exhausted, I fall into bed and pass out. I've got a baby monitor in the room, but I don't always hear him. My nightmare is that he'll try to cook and burn the house down, so I take the knobs off of the stove every night before I go to bed.
“He loves cards, but he can't play the same games he used to play anymore. We do puzzles and I got him some audio books because he can't read. We look at photo albums and he's always asking who's this person, who's that person… people he's known his entire life. He can just barely feed himself, he barely dresses himself. And sometimes he hates what he's wearing, so he strips naked.”
The room titters with laughter, but I also see nods. Other people who see the same things going on in their homes, who ‘get it, who hear me and understand. I feel relieved. “I have one nurse. I run a bookstore in town and it's crazy busy. Between the store and my dad, I don't get a life to myself. My life is him, taking care of him, cooking for him, keeping him entertained, listening to him yell about… whatever. Asking for my mother who has been dead for eight years. I've had to tell my dad every day that his wife is dead. I can't say the words anymore.”
“Think of her as sort of a security blanket–something he hangs on to because it brings him comfort.” Ron is a giant of a man, but his voice is the most soothing tone. “It's pretty uncomfortable to live in a world that you know you should know and remember, but you don't. You might try looking at some old photos of your mother, if you have them, when he asks for her.”
A light bulb explodes in my head.
Right after Mama died, Daddy packed up every photo of her and put them away. He couldn't stand to look at pictures of her, smiling and happy and healthy, knowing that we had just buried her. Over the months and the years, I thought the pictures would be back up, but they never reappeared.
Maybe that's what he's always looking for. The pictures of Mama.
I'm eager to get out of the meeting, rush home and dig through the boxes in the garage, find every last picture of my mother and spread them around the house. Daddy wants Lorraine? He's going to get Lorraine.
An hour later we are milling about the room as Nancy and Norma stack chairs and chat with everyone. I track down Ron to make sure I say goodbye to him.
He draws me into a hug. “I hope you'll be back. Every other Tuesday, we're here, talking Alzheimer's and offering support. You're always welcome.”
“Thank you so much.” I step back and tip my head up to see his face. “I'll definitely be back. This is a great group of people.”
“It sure is. And hey, before you go, if you wouldn't mind dropping by the table and offering up your email address. We have a little daily support email chain that goes around. You'll want to get on that, especially if you have a question or an issue on an off week. It's a great resource.”
I give him one last hug goodbye, stop by the rickety card table at the front of the room and fill out the information sheet with my email address and phone number, crossing my fingers that none of the members are freaks. I also toss a few dollars in the collection basket for refreshments. I snag a cookie on my way out and head to my car.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I root through my purse for my keys and my phone. I start the car and turn the phone on, seeing that I've missed another text from Malcolm. At least he is persistent. I bring up Malcolm's number and highlight it so the phone will dial him.
“Renee.” He sounds surprised, and he should. I haven't spoken to him since before the New Year, since that conversation outside the bookstore. “I wasn't expecting to hear from you.”
“Hello, Malcolm.”
“Are you… at home? The bookstore?”
“Support group meeting for Alzheimer's Caretakers. The meeting just broke up.”
“Oh, that's great. I hope the group gives you the support you need. You do a lot for your dad; it must be nice to get recognition for it.”
“It's not about recognition. It's about the best care for my dad and making sure that I'm doing everything I can to be around to take care of him.”
“Sorry… that was the wrong way to say what I was thinking—”
“Was there something you needed? You keep texting me.”
“Just you, Renee. I miss you. I care about you. I want to be with you and I'm serious about that.”
“Mmm. I hear you, but I don't know if you hear me. I can't choose you over Maxine. I hurt her badly over this. I can't.”
“I hear you, Renee. But let me ask you… have you spoken to Maxine? Have you talked to her about your feelings? Have you approached her about us at all?”
Now isn't a great time to admit that I haven't spoken to Maxine in weeks. At first I avoided her calls. She'd call morning, noon and night and leave nasty messages that I stopped listening to. I refuse to accept any messages through Debra, who finally stopped agreeing to pass them along. Then she stopped calling. And Debra stopped relaying messages.
So I called her, but she didn't pick up. I left her a message that I wanted to talk and she didn't call me back. I emailed her and got no response. I don't dare drive by her condo.
“I can't reach Max,” I tell Malcolm, which is so close to the truth, even I believe it. “And besides, I don't feel like it should be up to me to plead for permission for us to date. If I knew you'd never talked to Maxine about your lack of interest in her, I never would have gone out with you again.”
“I was wrong about that, and I'm sorry. I'll talk to her, but I think she'll talk to you before she'll talk to me.”
“Well, the last message I got from her was ‘go to hell' so we'll be waiting awhile.”
He exhales a long, dejected sigh. “So, if we can't talk to her about us, then aren't you sacrificing something you want for no reason? I mean, if the friendship is the reason we can't date, but you don't have a friendship—”
“We will always have a friendship. This is what you have to understand about me and Debra and Maxine. We love like sisters, we fight like sisters, but if something happened and someone had to come to my defense? Maxine would be first in line.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems like she's throwing a huge tantrum over not getting her way. It's been how long since you talked to her? That doesn't sound like a sister to me.”
“You will not score points with me by talking shit about Max. That won't get you where you want to be.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the line. “Okay. Again, I'm sorry. The words aren't coming out right tonight.”
“Just give it some time. I owe it to Max to let her calm down and see things in the light of day. She holds grudges, and she's very sensitive. If I feel like things might change, I'll let you know. Until then… I think we should consider us on indefinite hiatus.”
My, that sounds familiar. Sort of like when I left Philly, thinking I'd be right back and ended up not going back at all. The first time, it was for my dad. This time, it's Maxine.
“I guess I don't have a choice but to accept that and hope that it changes. Take care of yourself. It's hard to do when your priority is someone else.”
“Thanks, Malcolm. I appreciate that.”
The line goes dead without another word. I feel like all the air has been pressed out of my lungs. Despite my rant the last time I saw him, I felt like I might never find another man as perfect as Malcolm. I threw that fish back in the pond, and since I'm staring at the possibility of having my dad around for a long, long time, I may as well get used to being alone.
My shoulders sag as I drop the phone back into my purse, put the car in gear and back out of the space. I head home to my dad, to find photos of my deceased mother and hope it brings him some peace.
I pull into the garage and cut the engine, but I leave the garage light on as I step into the house, dropping my purse on the kitchen counter as I move through the room. I step over the baby gate that we've started using to keep Daddy out of the kitchen. He can no longer figure out how to get past it. Jessie is on the couch, intently staring at a movie on TV. The knitting needles in her hands are a blur.
“How was your meeting?” She asks, without turning around or missing a stitch.
“It was great. I'm surprised.”
She nods a few times. “Good. You figure on going back?”
“I think so. I got a lot of good information. Met a few people. It's nice to be in a room of people who get it.” I glance at Daddy's chair, which is empty. “Where is he, by the way?”
“He just went down. I wore him out, today. I hope he sleeps well.”
“Me too, but we both know he's old and demented and that combination means they don't sleep much.”
Jessie finishes a row, then sticks her needles into the bundle of yarn and gathers her belongings to put into her bag.
“You don't have to rush off. I'm going to look through a few of the boxes in the garage. I want to find my mother's pictures. I think that's what he's been looking for, all this time.”
Jessie twists her body around to look at me. “You think so?”
“It's just a guess. I'm hoping I'm right.”
I watch Jessie stuff her bag full of things and push herself off of the couch. “Well, let's see what we can find. If I remember right, some boxes are labeled.”
It doesn't take us long to find what we're looking for. In a sturdy cardboard banker's box, way in the back of the garage is every photo of Mama that was on the walls, in a photo album, in frames around the house. He'd sealed it well with tape and store it up off of the floor so it wouldn't be damaged.
I ripped off the tape and removed the lid. So many memories inside this little coffin that Daddy built, her likeness and image, moments with her trapped in time. The box holds an inkling of her scent. Shalimar. It wafts up from her belongings. I smile and feel warm inside, remembering how she always smelled when she hugged me. Even now, if I smell Shalimar on someone, it makes me want to hug that woman.
The photos are all there, even the one we had reproduced for her headstone with the blue dress, the waves of graying hair and the beautiful smile. I cart the box inside the house and over the baby gate and set it on the dining room table.
“So… what now? Do I leave them here and let him discover them? Do I put them up on the walls? I don't want to shock him.”
“Show them to him in the morning,” she says. “Help him decide where to put them. I think that would be nice for him.”
I smile, feeling proud of myself. She pats my shoulder, then walks past me to the living room and picks up her bag. “I was meaning to tell you I'm looking to start my retirement paperwork from Atlanta Rehab. The business was sold and I don't like the new owners. Much as I don't want to leave Bernard, I'm just about done with those folks.”
I breathe and swallow and nod my head, but inside I feel myself on the edge of hopelessness. I can't do this without Jessie. I can't put him in a home. I don't know what I'm going to do.
