I did not miss the irony of the fact that the parent I missed desperately was the one who was no longer in the world, while the parent I could take or leave was inextricably tied to me for the long haul.
Now, I paste a smile on my face and sit down next to my mother on the couch. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve come to visit since installing her here, but I very clearly remember the directions of the staff: act like she knows you, and even if she doesn’t remember, she will likely follow the social cues and treat you like a friend. The first time I’d come, when she asked who I was and I said Your daughter, she had become so agitated that she’d bolted away, fallen over a chair, and cut her forehead.
“Who’s winning Wheel of Fortune?” I ask, settling in as if I’m a regular visitor.
Her eyes dart toward me. There’s a flicker of confusion, like a sputtering pilot light, before she smooths it away. “The lady in the pink shirt,” my mother says. Her brows draw together, as she tries to place me. “Are you—”
“The last time I was here, it was warm outside,” I interrupt, offering the clue that this isn’t the first time I’ve visited. “It’s pretty warm out today. Should we open the slider?”
She nods, and I walk toward the entrance to the screened porch. The latch that locks it from the inside is open. “You’re supposed to keep this fastened,” I remind her. I don’t have to worry about her wandering off—but it still makes me nervous to have the sliding door unlocked.
“Are we going somewhere?” she asks, when a gust of fresh air blows into the living room.
“Not today,” I tell her. “But I’m taking a trip tomorrow. To the Galápagos.”
“I’ve been there,” my mother says, lighting up as a thread of memory catches. “There’s a tortoise. Lonesome George. He’s the last of his whole species. Imagine being the last of anything in the whole world.”
For some reason, my throat thickens with tears. “He died,” I say.
My mother tilts her head. “Who?”
“Lonesome George.”
“Who’s George?” she asks, and she narrows her eyes. “Who are you?”
That sentence, it wounds me.
I don’t know why it hurts so much when my mother forgets me these days, though, when she never actually knew me at all.
When Finn comes home from the hospital, I am in bed under the covers wearing my favorite flannel shirt and sweatpants, with my laptop balanced on my legs. Today has just flattened me. Finn sits down beside me, leaning against the headboard. His golden hair is wet, which means he’s showered before coming home from New York–Presbyterian, where he is a resident in the surgery department, but he’s wearing scrubs that show off the curves of his biceps and the constellation of freckles on his arms. He glances at the screen, and then at the empty pint of ice cream nestled beside me. “Wow,” he says. “Out of Africa … ?and butter pecan? That’s, like, the big guns.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “I had the shittiest day.”
“No, I did,” Finn replies.
“I lost a painting,” I tell him.
“I lost a patient.”
I groan. “You win. You always win. No one ever dies of an art emergency.”
“No, I mean I lost a patient. Elderly woman with LBD wandered off before I could get her in for gallbladder surgery.”
“Little black dress?”
A smile tugs at Finn’s mouth. “Lewy body dementia.”
This makes me think, naturally, of my mother.
“Did you find her?”
“Security did,” Finn says. “She was on the labor and delivery floor.”
I wonder what it was that made her go there—some internal GPS error, or the kite tail of a memory so far in the clouds you can barely see it.
“Then I do win,” I say, and I give him an abbreviated version of my meeting with Kitomi Ito.
“Okay,” Finn says, “in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a disaster. You can still get promoted to specialist, when she eventually decides to sell.”
What I love most about Finn (well, all right, one of the things I love most about Finn) is that he understands that I have a detailed design for my future. He does, too, for his own. Most important, mine and his overlap: successful careers, then two kids, then a restored farmhouse upstate. An Audi TT. A purebred English springer spaniel, but also a rescued mutt. A period where we live abroad for six months. A bank account with enough padding that we don’t have to worry if we need to get snow tires or pay for a new roof. A position on a board at a homeless shelter or a hospital or cancer charity, that in some way makes the world a better place. An accomplishment that makes someone remember my name.
(I had thought that Kitomi Ito’s auction might do that.)