TODAY IS MY FIRST DAY of working with my grandma at Lily Rose and I’m running a little late. I swear if someone asks me what my super power is, I’ll tell them, running late.
I hop out of the Station Wagon, grab my purse and dash through the sliding glass doors at exactly ten o’clock in the morning. I ask the lady at the reception where Albert Hall is, then hurry down the hall. Grandma is already here. The chairs have been arranged in a circle, which I assume, will make interacting easier. I kiss her cheek and she hands me folders, and tells me that they contain songs she uses for the sessions. After placing a folder on each empty chair, she asks me if I would like to practice on the piano, get reacquainted with some of the tunes. I grab a copy of the music sheet and scan it. The first song on the list is “Frosty The Snowman.”
Ten minutes later, an elderly couple walk in slowly, the man pushing the wheelchair for his wife. More people trickle in until all the seats have been taken.
I spend the next forty-five minutes singing and playing the piano. I swear it is the most fun I’ve had in a while.
When the session is over, I excuse myself and head out into the hall, searching for the bathroom. I pause when I see a short, burly man arguing with an elderly woman. Their facial features are similar so I assume she is his mother. He drags a hand down his face in obvious frustration. The older woman’s face is red, her hands shaking in agitation. He turns around again, repeats his name and tells the woman he is her son. She shakes her head and yells, saying she doesn’t have a son. This goes on for a few seconds. One of the day workers steps forward, says something to the man with a stern face, before turning to focus on the frantic woman.
Curious, I inch closer to the man. “Is everything okay, Sir?”
He startles and snaps his troubled gaze to mine. His face is flushed and he is swallowing hard, unable to get words out of his mouth. He shakes his head. I excuse myself, grab a plastic cup and fill it with water from the water cooler in the reception area, then head back and give the man the cup. He downs the water and sets the cup on the table.
“Thanks.”
I nod and turn to leave.
“She doesn’t know who I am,” he says, sounding lost. I spin around and face him.
“She thinks I’m a stranger. She can’t remember her dead husband or me, or my brother.” He rubs his forehead and crushes the cup in his fist.
I imagine my mother forgetting who I am and pain stabs inside my chest. My heart aches for this man.
“I’m Eleanor Blake.” I offer my hand in greeting, which he accepts.
“Eric Taylor.” He pulls back his hand.
I glance over my shoulder. Grandma is still inside the hall. She probably needs a little longer before she is done with what she is doing. I clear my throat and search the reception area. It’s like the staff have gone MIA.
God, what do I do? I’ve never seen an adult freak out—other than my mom—so this is quite frightening. I turn back to face Mr. Taylor and notice tears, probably born of frustration, shimmer in the corner of his eyes. I shift on my feet nervously. I can’t just leave him looking like this.
“Sir, um. . .Mr. Taylor. Would you like to talk about it?”
He shakes his head again. Then nods, expels a breath and lowers himself on the seat next to him. His body is coiled tight around the shoulders and his hands are balled into fists. He bumps them against each other, his eyes focused on the floor. With one last look over my shoulder, I round the table and sit across from him with my hands folded on my lap. I hope Grandma will be done soon.
He presses a fist against his mouth. “Why does this happen? Why does this disease steal memories?” He’s looking at me although I have a feeling his focus is not on me at all, but rather stuck in the distant past as he talks about their life. The time when he started noticing her forget the small things, and eventually the bigger things, like his son and her husband. By the time he is done, my heart is breaking for him and his mother, and I understand his frustration and panic. He stops speaking, but continues to stare at the floor. Grandma’s voice drifts toward me. I turn around to see her hugging one of the women who work here, then starting to walk in my direction.
Thank God. I don’t have answers for Mr. Taylor. I don’t think anyone is in a position to provide the answers he desperately seeks, but since Grandma is more knowledgeable than me, she might be able to help him more than I did. She stops next to me and they start to chat. I realize she and Mr. Taylor know each other and probably have for a long time, since his mom has been visiting the center for a few weeks now.
By the time we part ways with Mr. Taylor, the look of frustration from before is gone.
Outside the center, I hug Grandma and promise to talk to her soon before heading for my car while switching on my phone. A message pops up.
Cole: You done yet?
I reach my car and stop, smiling.
Me: Just finished. On the way home.
Cole: Hurry. I’ve missed you.