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“She has been kind to me lately,” I say. “She’s becoming a good friend.”
In reality, she was never kind and we were never friends, but I want to minimize any distress Nana might feel.
“Good, good.”
From the hallway, the sound of a group singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” floats through the shut door. Nana’s brow wrinkles in confusion. Christmas is her favorite holiday and not so long ago she would’ve jumped up and joined them. Now, she doesn’t remember Christmas is a few days away. It’s hard on me, but it’s better for her to be ignorant of the upcoming holiday or she’ll worry about not being prepared. When she forgets why she’s worried the anxiety lingers, sometimes for days.
The song finishes, her brow smooths out, and her focus turns back to the movie. Our needles clack softly. For these short thirty minutes, I can almost believe everything is as it was two years ago, with mild memory issues and no financial problems.
The ending credits roll as my phone buzzes with the alarm I set earlier.
“Nana, I’m playing the piano in the recreation room. Do you want to come and listen?”
“Oh! How wonderful!” She claps. “I would love to come.”
I’ve been playing here for years, but I’m never sure if she remembers or if she thinks this is the first time. I thought losing my mom to cancer when I was fourteen would be the hardest thing I’d have to get through in this life, but watching Nana slowly forget me and the big, full life she’s lived is harder.
She fluffs her hair in the bathroom mirror and applies red lipstick, then we leave together. On the way, my phone buzzes with a text from my ex-boyfriend, Spencer.
SPENCER:Will you meet me tonight for dinner? I have something important I need to talk to you about.
I half-sigh, half-laugh. It’s just like Spencer to text me last minute on a Friday night and expect me to change my plans to meet him for dinner. We broke up in October for the third time. We ended our relationship on friendly terms and have met up once since then, also last minute. It’s been a few weeks since I sent him a text, and he didn’t respond.
If I didn’t already have plans to watch a movie with my roommates, I would go to dinner with him to catch up. But since I have plans, the answer is no.
I start a text, but don’t have time to finish typing because we reach the recreation room, and I have twenty rabid rock-and-roll fans waiting for me. I’m relieved to see Owen and Greta have gone.
“Any requests?” I ask the group as I settle behind the piano.
They come fast; all songs I’ve played for them dozens of times. The Beatles, Elvis, and the Beach Boys. I have most ofthem memorized, but they throw out a few requests I don’t know as well, and I dig out the music books.
This kind of music is the stuff I grew up listening to, and I love how Nana sings loudest of all. She remembers the words. The hour goes by quickly, but once it’s over, it’s time for dinner and no one sticks around.
I walk Nana to her regular dinner table and leave her to chat with her table mates. I’m on my way out of the building when I’m stopped by the facility manager.
“Layla, I’m glad I caught you. I have a Christmas miracle.”
She waves a hand toward her office door.
“I love Christmas miracles,” I say as I silently panic and follow her inside.
What other people view as good news doesn’t always translate to me the same way. Every service added to Nana’s care adds an additional fee. It’s why I do her laundry and clean her room every weekend myself.
I sit, feeling like I’ve been called down to the principal’s office to find out I’ve been accepted to an exclusive after-school club that I have no money to pay for.
She leans against the side of her large desk, smiling at me like I won the lottery. If only.
“We have an opening in our memory care unit. If we get Ellen’s first month’s payment and the paperwork filled out by Monday, we can have her moved in by the new year.”
Memory care unit.
This is what I’ve been hoping for. Nana needs to live somewhere more secure, with specialized staff who know how to handle her outbursts, and locked doors so she can’t wander away. Even so, my stomach drops. Memory care ismore money. I may be able to scrape together the extra thousand dollars for January, but what about every month thereafter?
“That’s great.” I hope my smile looks genuine. It’s hiding my fear. No one will give me another credit card, and when I tried to get a second bank loan last month, they turned me down. I’m sunk.
We chat about this exciting opportunity until I’m able to escape from her office. I absently hand her a candy cane from my coat pocket on my way out.
My vision blurs with tears as I leave the building and walk to my car. Once in the car, I wipe my cheeks and look at myself in the rearview mirror. Raccoon eyes stare back at me.
