“Let me help you.” She stands and tries to move all the papers off the small two-person kitchen table by the window that looks out onto the fire escape.
Helping me unpack the groceries, she smiles at the cookies like I made her year. It’s the reason I’m here every Sunday. For that look.
“How’s work?” I ask, putting away all the items that belong in the fridge.
“It’s okay. The hours were cut at the deli for a few part-timers. Thankfully, not me though.”
“Truth is, I wouldn’t mind if your hours were cut. You’re on your feet too much.” I shut the fridge door.
“Come and tell me about this girl at work.” She pats a spot on the couch beside her.
“I told you it’s new.”
She smiles over at me. “I know mi Tesoro and she’s someone special.”
Little does she know and I’m not about to bring my drama into her life. She already lives what feels like an episode of a sixty-minute drama on TV. Who else is stuck in their own personal hell every day?
“At least tell me her astrological sign? You know Sagittarius is your best bet.”
Her phone rings and the smile she had lights up even more as she hurries up to answer it. I’m just happy for the reprieve.
“Hello.” She pauses. Her smile dims slightly but then beams again. “Oh great. My son was disappointed. He comes all the way from Cliffton Heights every Sunday to see his dad. Thank you for calling.” She hangs up and stands, grabbing the cookies and tucking the container in the bag she fills for him every week. “Come on. Your dad can have visitors.”
“What about Kori?”
My mom pauses for a second. “Text her and tell her to meet us there.”
I desperately want to tell her that I’ll stay here to prepare dinner. That after everything with Blanca, I don’t have it in me to deal with my family issues at the moment. When I woke up this morning, I thought I’d call with a sick voice in the hopes Blanca would come over, but I couldn’t do that to my mom.
Like the good son, I stand, pull out my phone, and text my sister to meet us at Willows Court Assisted Living. Her thumbs up emoji says she’s about as excited as I am to travel down memory lane.
“Hurry. You know how badly he misses us.” My mom opens up her apartment door, shooing me out with her hand.
Walking past her it’s hard not to smile at her excitement but I wonder sometimes if it’s fake. Regardless, I’m not the one who’s gonna call mercy on our happy family.
Being poor just extends to your medical care as you get older. Willow Court Assisted Living doesn’t greet you with a majestic building and a beautiful water fountain in the middle of a courtyard. There isn’t a long drive up past iron gates and white pillars bookmarking the front door. Willows Court Assisted Living is a fifteen-story building in the middle of the Bronx with graffiti sprayed on the brick exterior.
It’s a mixture of regular people growing old and people who have no idea they’re growing old. Sadly, my dad is the latter of that group. But every Sunday, my mother drags us through the sliding glass doors, past the array of wheelchairs and the noxious smell of a lack of hope to the double-paned windows where we each get a sticker labeled visitor.
We head up to the thirteenth floor where the memory care department is. I guess the belief is it takes longer for an Alzheimer’s patient to make it down the remaining floors which makes it harder to lose track of a patient.
“Oh, he’s going to be so happy to see you.” My mom beams at me as the elevator rises. I bet Kori bails.
The elevator doors open and there sit five older men and one older woman in wheelchairs in front of the nurse’s station. The scent of antibacterial wipes and sterilization accosts my nostrils and I choke on the vomit rising up my throat.
“Beth!” My mom waves to my dad’s favorite nurse. A nurse that half the time he doesn’t even recognize.
“He’s all dressed and ready for you guys in the living quarters.”
My mom gives me the shocked expression she does every time he’s not in his room. You’d think he got his memory back from how excited she is.
We navigate the path to the living quarters which is a small space for family to spend time with their loved one. We find dad where he usually is—at the chessboard playing another patient. Amazing how he can’t remember to go to the bathroom or feed himself, but the man can still checkmate you in three moves.
“Xavier!” my mom practically screams, and I swear every other male in the room besides my dad looks up to her. “Xavier,” she says again, lower this time, weaving through the tables and chairs to my dad’s table.
He’s in jeans and a T-shirt that says, “I’m kind of a big dill” it’s green and the pickle has a top hat while thrusting. He wears it every day unless the nurse says it’s lost which just means they need to wash it. I’m not even sure he understands the meaning. At first my mom fought with him about wearing a different shirt but as with everything she grew tired and now compliments him on it.
He moves his queen and the opponent, who I’m not even sure knows he’s playing chess, accepts defeat easily.
“Xavier,” my mom says again like she just ran ten miles and is out of breath.
He stares at her for a moment with a blank look. She takes out the photo when they went to the prom and then their wedding. He stares at the picture she puts in front of him. They’re both labeled with marker. She points to herself, “Maya.” Then she points to the picture. “Xavier.” She points to him and then to herself again. “And Maya.” She holds out her hand with the ring and takes my father’s hand to lay along hers.
There was a point in my life when that hand scared the crap out of me.
My dad smiles but I’m not sure he understands she’s his wife. His vision shifts around the room, landing on me sitting in the chair across from him and he starts positioning the chess pieces on the table. I glance at my mom. There’s no way I’m playing chess with the man. My mom’s pleading eyes says different and I already know before I straighten in my chair that I’ll be playing chess.
“Call Kori,” I tell my mom.
She ignores me and puts a picture of me at age ten in front of my dad. “Ethan. Tu Bebe,” she says.
He looks at the picture and there’s the smile. The wide smile like he’s so proud to have a son. “Mio?” he asks and my mom’s eyes well up. I swear she gets off on this every time. Wait until Kori shows up.
My mom nods, wiping a tear. My dad reaches over and touches my hand with his. It’s cold and not calloused like it used to be. He moves his pawn and my mom stands to call Kori.
“Did I tell you that I’m in line for a big promotion,” my dad says after my mom walks away. “Maybe vice president. That’s where hard work will get you, Ethan. A vice presidency.”
I nod and don’t say anything.
“What about Little League this year? With your arm, you should play. I was telling Dick Heddle just yesterday how my hand stung when we were playing catch after dinner the other night.”
I move my pawn and say nothing because I’m no longer the eight-year-old boy he thinks I am and I’m not going to play along. The worst part about having a parent with Alzheimer’s isn’t the fact that he doesn’t remember you most of the time, the worst part is he doesn’t remember all the shitty things he did to his family. All he remembers is the king he thought he was before he got fired and forgot the hard work mentality he once preached to me.