While My Sister Sleeps

‘I said it was too soon,’ Kathryn argued, starting to cry again herself. Charlie gave her a tissue and held her until she regained composure. ‘Some patients need more time. The doctor said that. I’m going to keep talking to her. She hears me. I know she does.’ Determined, she returned to Robin. ‘And I know how to give pep talks, don’t I. So here’s a really, really important one.’ She bent down, spoke low. ‘Are you listening, Robin? I need you to listen. We’ve faced tough fields before. You’ve competed against some of the best runners in the world and come out ahead. That’s what we’ll do this time. We’ll surprise them all. We’re going to win.’

Molly materialized at her side. ‘Mom?’ she asked in a very young voice.

Kathryn softened at the sound. Molly wasn’t often vulnerable. It was a throwback, a reminder of what Charlie had said. ‘What, honey?’

‘Maybe we should tell Nana.’

Kathryn should have been hurting enough to be immune to more pain, but there it was. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought hysteria. She wasn’t sure how much a person was expected to bear all at once, but she was reaching her limit.

Opening her eyes, she said, ‘Nana isn’t herself.’

‘She has lucid times.’

‘She can’t remember our names, much less take in something we tell her. She isn’t the Nana you knew, Molly. Besides,’ she returned to Robin with a last glimmer of hope, ‘it would be cruel to tell a woman her age something we don’t know for sure. This was only the first EEG. There’s a reason they require two. I don’t care what the doctors say; I’m not believing a thing until the second is done.’

Of the disagreements Molly had with her mother, with one the least and ten the worst, their dispute over her grandmother ranked an eight. That was one of the reasons she went from the hospital to the nursing home. Visiting hours were over by the time she arrived, but the staff was used to her coming and going. She smiled at the woman at the front desk and was quickly waved on. After running up the stairs to the third floor, though, she faltered.

‘Is she alone?’ she asked at the nurse’s station. She didn’t mind that her grandmother had a boyfriend. The staff said that they didn’t actually have sex, but Molly wasn’t taking any chances.

The nurse smiled. ‘Thomas is in his room by himself. He has a cold.’

Grateful, Molly slipped into a room halfway down the hall, closed the door and turned to the figure in the chair. Marjorie Webber was seventy-eight. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s five years before, and for the first two of those years had been cared for by her husband. Then his health declined, and hers spiraled to the point where she needed round-the-clock attention. Putting her in a nursing home had been the only option.

To be fair, Molly knew Kathryn had agonized over the decision. They had all agreed that moving Marjorie in with Charlie and her was impractical, what with so many stairs. Besides, Marjorie needed constant watching, and Kathryn was rarely home. A dedicated facility seemed their best hope for maximizing safety and care. They had looked at many before choosing this one. Housed in a large mansion with multiple wings adapted for the purpose, this nursing home exuded warmth the others lacked. Part of its appeal was its closeness to the Snows’ home.

Kathryn had taken her father to visit often, and after George died, went by herself. Then Marjorie met Thomas, and Kathryn flipped out. No matter that George was dead, she took her mother’s having a boyfriend as a personal affront and stopped visiting. Kathryn reasoned that her mother didn’t know whether she came or not, and Molly had no proof either way. She herself had always adored her grandmother. Even in her diminished state, Marjorie gave Molly comfort.

This evening was no exception. Her room was filled with reminders of the past–framed family photos, a bag Marjorie had sewn that was now brimming with yarn, a woven basket in which Molly had put small pots of pothos, foliage begonia, and ivy. In the midst of these soothing mementos, Marjorie looked totally sweet and, in a cruel twist, more like a woman ten years her junior. Her hair was gray but remained thick, styled in a bob much like Kathryn’s. Always a pastel person, she wore a pink robe, and she was reading a book–such a familiar activity for a long-time reader that Molly could pretend she was mentally there.

‘Nana,’ she whispered, hunkering down by the chair.

Marjorie looked up from her book and studied her quizzically. And here was another cruel twist: though they had been warned she would lose facial expressions, she hadn’t yet. She appeared to be totally aware, which made some of her behavior seem even worse.