Page 19 of Breathing Under Water

I can hear her changing clothes in her bedroom, and then the bathroom sink turns on. I imagine she’s washing the topsoil from her hands and forearms, scrubbing beneath her fingernails. When she emerges, looking fresh as morning, I wish with all my heart that we could pretend everything was normal. But it’s clear she and I both know otherwise.

“It’s time for us to have a difficult conversation,” she says, taking the seat opposite me at the worn kitchen table.

“I know,” I say as a tear slips from my eye.

“Something hasn’t been right with me for a long while. We both know it, and it’s time we accept it. You don’t deserve this. I promised myself that after all the years you spent being your mother’s caretaker, I’d never put you in that position again. I shouldn’t have allowed it to go this far.” She takes in a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “But I’ve made arrangements, and it’s time for us to act on them.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I’ve been saving. So I wouldn’t be a burden on you. Mydoctor warned me months ago, but it’s taken me some time to come to terms with it. I’m old, McKenna. Bits and pieces wear out. I wish it were any body part other than my brain, but we don’t always get to choose, do we?”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s dementia. And it’s only going to get worse. There have been times recently when I’ve found myself somewhere in the house, and I don’t know how I got there, as if I’ve woken up from sleepwalking. It’s like I’ve been listening to the car radio and getting farther and farther away from town. I can still hear the song that’s playing, but each moment the music keeps getting fuzzier, and I don’t even notice how loud the static’s getting. But then I drive through a brief stretch of road where the reception’s still good, and only then do I realize how fuzzy the music was all along.”

My tears are flowing freely now.

She reaches across the table for my hand.

“I’ve made arrangements,” she says again. “I made you a file, a binder, with our financial information. Everything you could need. The bank accounts, insurance information, important documents, all in one place. It’s in my nightstand. I’ve picked out a memory care facility nearby that I know has space. It’s time.”

“What? Glory, no. If you need help, we’ll get you an aide, someone to stay in the house with you. There are services, companies that place home health workers.”

“No, I don’t want that. The longer we leave this, the more I’m going to need. I want to move out while I can still participate in what’s happening, set up my new surroundings, get to know some of the staff as my real self.”

“But I can help take care of you here.” Even as I say it, I know it’s not true.

“No, you can’t. You have your own life, school, swimming, work. It’s too much, and I won’t allow it. My mind is made up.”

I know better than to keep arguing. Instead, I wipe at the wetness under my eyes.

“But how will we even afford that?” I ask.

“You aren’t to give that one second’s thought.” She pats my hand. “I’ve got everything worked out. It’s all in the binder.”

Everything she’s saying makes sense. She will get better care in a facility, access to more resources, and a faster response in an emergency, but I’m not ready to let her go.

Before I can stop myself, I’m shouting.

“No, Glory! Fuck that!” I’m out of my seat. “We’re not doing this!” I can see everything she’s envisioning about her future, and I just can’t accept it.

She lets out a long sigh and gives me a knowing look. “If you could please get ahold of yourself. It’s not the time for one of your outbursts.”

Her calmness somehow emphasizes that this conversation is too important for me to let my temper get the better of me. I nod, sorry to have yelled, sorry for the foul language.

I sit back down and she starts again.

“You’ll be able to visit me every day if you want. And you’ll know I’m resting easier because I did what I believed was best for both of us.”

Another sob escapes me.

“Now come, give me a hug,” she says. “Then rinse the tears off your face and help me make dinner.”

Less than a week later, I’m out for breakfast with Lark and Rae. So much has already changed. I’ve been trying to compartmentalize,to keep my grief tucked away, locked in a little box to the side of my heart. I allow myself to visit those feelings for only a small portion of each day. And breakfast with my friends isn’t one of the approved times for indulging in self-pity.

Instead of talking about how crushing it felt to move Glory into the facility, I stick to lighter subjects, like our meet schedule for the fall and the new moisturizer Rae’s trying for her chlorine rash.

It’s not quite eight a.m. yet, and the Scoop & Sizzle is pretty empty. We just finished practice, and with the way the diner has cranked up the AC this morning, I regret leaving my hair down to soak the back of my tank top. At the booth across from us, a woman in a pastel blazer appears to be having a business meeting with an older man, and down toward the other end of the restaurant, three women in scrubs chat quietly over scrambled eggs. I scoot a little closer to Lark on the vinyl bench, hoping to avoid the direct flow from the vent above me. Lark’s long braids are twisted into a layered bun on top of her head, and her brown skin is flushed a tawny bronze from the morning’s exertion.