Page 97 of Two-Step
“In February, she lost one point, but last week’s assessment has her back at fifteen,” she says, her tone professional, but compassionate.
I also know the answer to my next question, but I have to ask it. “And in her sessions, you’re doing everything? All of the cognitive exercises to help keep her mind…” Why is it so hard to say the next word? “...intact?”
She nods. “Yes, Mr. Landry. We’re giving her the full spectrum of treatment.” Her voice softens. “It’s just not keeping up with her deterioration.”
Deterioration.I fucking hate the word.
I nod and swallow, unable for the moment to do anything else. But I have more questions so I need to pull it together.
“Are you able to continue working with her? Even though she’s… declining?”
“Oh, of course. We’ll work with her as long as she’s tolerating the exercises well, but—” She looks at me with what I can only describe as gentle detachment. And I get it. She has to be detached to some degree. She must have this conversation with family members nearly every day. “As things progress, the sessions will be harder for her, more stressful and less beneficial.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want her to suffer any more than she’s already suffering,” I say, throat tight.
“Neither do we, I assure you,” she says, this time sounding less detached. Warmer. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “When we see that it’s becoming too much, we’ll reach out to you and make a recommendation on how to proceed, but it will be up to you.”
Not just me,I remind myself,Me and Val.Thinking of my older sister makes the panic ease a little. Even if she’s not in town, at least she’s another pair of shoulders these kind of shitty decisions can fall on. I’ll need to call her after my visit with Mom.
I thank her, but when I rise to leave and head to Mom’s room, she offers me a flyer. “Did you get one of these at the reception desk?”
I scan the heading:CAMELIA COURT: SEVERE WEATHER CONTINGENCY PLAN.
“No,” I say, taking the paper from her, and thinking about the weather report I caught on the radio this morning. A tropical depression is taking shape in the Gulf of Mexico, but it doesn’t even have a name yet, much less a predictable trajectory.
I run my eyes over the page. Everything on it is what I’d expect from the premium assisted living and nursing home facility: Tornado sheltering plan. Back-up generators. An M.D. on site at all times. Partnership with Acadian Ambulance for transportation to Lafayette General for medical emergencies.
The flier handout might be a little premature, but I guess prepared and proactive is better than the alternative.
“Thank you.” I fold the paper and tuck it into my back pocket and make my way to Mom’s room.
But when I get there, it’s empty. The door is open, and the TV is on, playingThe King and I, but Mom’s nowhere to be found. Any thoughts about storms and severe weather plans go up in smoke.
Mom should be in here and she’s not.
I’m the only person in her long hallway, so if she stepped out to chat with a neighbor, they’re behind closed doors. But that’s not the norm. Most of the residents gather in the wide hallways or the common spaces like the two lounges or the cafeteria.
I retrace my steps, heading first to the caf. It’s just about time for lunch, and it’s possible Mom forgot that it’s Wednesday and I’m joining her. A handful of tables are already occupied, but she’s not sitting at any of them.
Which is a relief. I’d rather it just be the two of us, and Mom gravitates toward company. Everything about this is hard, but it’s harder still to see her at a table with someone twenty or thirty years older than she is. She’s one of the youngest residents here, and the reminder of that—of everything she’s lost and all the things she won’t ever have—is always painful.
I ask one of the attendants if he’s seen her.
“Not since breakfast,” he says, giving me a look of concern. “She’s not in her room? Maybe inside the restroom?”
“No,” I say with a shake of the head. “I checked.”
He reaches for a wall-mounted phone behind him and presses the keypad. “She gets turned around from time to time,” he mutters. When the person on the other end answers, it’s clear from his half of the conversation that Mom isn’t visible on any of Camelia Court’s security cameras, which aim down hallways, in the common spaces, and on the grounds.
He hangs up. “They’re sending an aid to look for her. Do you think she’d be in the chapel?” he offers. “Or getting her hair done?” These are two places on-site that don’t have cameras. But there’s another.
“No, but I think I know where she might be.”
Outside the cafeteria, I hang a left and move past the west lounge. When I reach the exercise room where Camelia Court offers yoga, Pilates, and dance classes, I find the lights off, but the door unlocked.
I open it and hear sobs before I spot her.
Mom is crouched on the floor in the shadows, her face in her hands, crying.
