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He draws me through the pristine lobby to a small room with a round oak table. Seated there, with a bowl of ice cream, is an elderly woman I’ve seen before. Many times. In pictures. Tabloids. News stories.
The images I remember look nothing like this ghost of them.
It’s as though she’s been stripped of color.
Carefully, Finn approaches. “Hi, Mom.”
Mrs. Marsh startles, and fear grips her glassy eyes. “Ulysses? Ulysses.” Tears gather, bubbling over into her bowl. “You finally came home.”
Ulysses…Marsh.
Finn’s dad.
Finn’s long since passed dad…
My heart shatters, turning to splinters in a pile near my toes.
Finn’s voice breaks. “Mom, no. It’s not Dad. It’s Finn. Finny?”
Without registering his words, her eyes trail to me. “Who’s this?” Her head begins to shake. “I told you we don’t need any more help.”
“She’s not help.” Finn pulls me to his side, grasps me around the waist, and forces the most painful smile I have ever seen. “Mom, this is my wife, Marcella.”
Soundlessly, Mrs. Marsh repeats my name. “That’s beautiful.”
“It is. She is. I wanted you to meet her.” His voice cracks. “I really…really wanted you to meet her.” His other hand lifts, plunging into his hair. He grips the roots, and I feel the ways he’s shaking in my entire body.
Setting my free hand against his shoulder, I pull on a tried and true smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Marsh.”
“Wait.” Confusion fills her gaze before a tear traces down her cheek. Broken, she whispers, “Wife? Did you say wife? But…I’m Uly’s wife…”
It feels like I’ve swallowed acid. “Yes, you are. Do you remember Finn? Your son? I’m your son’s wife.”
Her brow furrows. “Finn’s too young to have a wife. He’s at his lessons right now. He’s doing so, so well. I’m proud of him.”
“What lessons are his favorite?” I ask.
“Math.” The frailest start of a smile touches her lips. “He takes after his father. Loves his numbers. It’s unusual for a boy his age to be so good with them. I wish he could make more friends… Will you be his friend, Mar…Mar… It was such a pretty name… So many letters. Finn likes letters. He says they have personalities…” Her tone drifts, tinny and…lost. “M was always his favorite.”
The woman who greeted us at the door passes while I’m grappling for something to say. My memory on how to interact with someone suffering from Alzheimer’s or dementia fails me more with every second. Turning to us, the woman says, “I’m sorry…”
I look at Finn, but he twists sharply on his heel before I can meet his damp eyes. Tripping after him as he makes his way back outside, I sort my emotions into clearly-marked boxes.
He didn’t tell me.
He really should have told me.
What was he thinking?
His mother is…
His mother is dying.
He didn’t tell me his mother was dying.
That’s information I really needed to know and prepare for.
Finn stumbles on the last step off the porch, barely catching himself before we go careening into the concrete driveway. Once he’s made sure I’m stable on my feet, he lets me go and starts pacing beside the limo, hands shaking. He taps his fingers against his thighs, deep breaths raking through his lungs.
