16 McKenna #2
of the pool deck with their other friends. They’ve clearly witnessed all the havoc we wreaked. Another blond woman in the
group meets my eyes, then leans over to say something into Christine’s ear. They give each other a knowing look, and I feel
myself bristle. Trying to ignore the sense of foreboding I get watching the exchange, I turn my attention back to Rohan and
try to convince him to return to the group for dryland stroke practice.
By the time my shift ends, I’m completely wiped out. Even though I managed to get everyone relatively settled with land activities
for the remainder of our group class, the disruptions took a lot out of all of us. I should have known better than to deviate
from the schedule like that. When I hijacked the lesson plan, I yanked the rug out from under the kids. They’d been expecting
one thing, and I gave them another. Of course they didn’t know how to react appropriately, and shame on me for not doing a
better job taking care of them.
That’s what I’m thinking about as I head out to the parking lot—how to care for people in the way they need, like Glory.
It’s been three full days since I’ve found time to visit her.
I’ve spoken with her by phone each day, two of which she knew who I was.
On one day, she didn’t say anything coherent.
The nurse assured me this is normal with dementia, that Glory comes in and out, having good days and bad days, even good hours and bad hours.
Despite the repeated assurances that everything’s fine, I feel the need to see her with my own eyes and figure out how we can help her have more of the good hours.
As I slide into the car, the leather of the seat is so hot that it burns my thighs, and I pop right back up. My mom used to
put my damp towel beneath me as a buffer, but at this fancy club, I don’t need to bring my own towel. All I have is my wet
bathing suit, so I take it from my bag and shimmy it under me.
The sensation of the damp suit with the baking leather beneath it takes me right back to being a little kid, spending all
my days in soggy Speedos. All summer long, Mom would shuttle me around from one club team practice to another, somehow finding
time in between to work a full day as an admin at a law firm. As I got older, the club teams and meets got farther and farther
away. Mom never complained. To be fair, Glory and Grandpa Fred helped too, but I cling so tightly to those memories of Mom
and me in the car because memories are all I have of her. My stomach clenches as I think about Glory and how soon she’ll slide
into the same category. Then the only family I’ll have left is my swim team. Mom always said the greatest benefit I’d get
from swimming would be free college, but the true gold-star-level treasure that swimming has brought me is my Meadowbrook
teammates.
Before I put the car in drive, I check my phone and see I’ve missed a bunch of texts in our team group chat. It’s just the usual stuff, some banter about swim caps and hair removal. Anything we can do to reduce drag and sharpen our times. But below that, Beck has written back.
Saturday at four? Meet at the Whole Bean.
By the time I reach Juniper Groves, my running shorts have water marks from the swimsuit beneath me, and I’m a little twitchy
from forcing myself not to write back to Beck immediately. I’m trying to keep it casual, I keep reminding myself.
As I walk inside, the redheaded receptionist named Rhonda greets me.
“Hiya, McKenna,” she calls out. “Your granny’s gonna be glad to see you today. She won a bocce match out back this morning,
and she’s been showing off her little trophy to everyone who’ll give it a look.”
“That does sound just like her.” I laugh, glad to hear Glory’s having one of her good days.
As I approach, Glory calls out from a card table in the grand ballroom. “There she is!” She rises easily out of her chair
to come toward me, and I marvel again that a person’s body can stay in better shape than their aging brain.
“Come,” she says, giving me a quick hug, then guiding me back toward her table. “Meet my friends.” I smile politely at the
two women still seated, both of whom look significantly older than Glory. They have nearly identical hairstyles, feeble curls
cut close to the head, but one woman’s hair is entirely white, and the other’s is dyed nearly burgundy.
“Meet Janie and Ruth. They’ve only agreed to sit with me because I proved my worth today in bocce.”
“Oh, knock it off, Gloria,” the darker-haired woman says good-naturedly. “Anyone in here who can remember the day of the week can sit at our table.”
“Oh.” I don’t like the sound of that, as lately Glory hasn’t been able to pull off even that much predictably—and she knows
it too.
“Don’t look so down in the dumps.” Glory gives my arm a half-hearted shove. “They know I have my moments, but they seem to
like me anyway.”
“When she knows who we are,” the other woman says impishly.
“Just you wait, Ruthie. I’m going to go tell Marv about your incontinence if you keep this up,” Glory laughs.
I smile, realizing these women are all joking, turning their sad state of affairs into comedy instead of the tragedies they’re
actually facing.
“It’s nice to see my grandmother getting as good as she gives,” I tell them. But it breaks my heart that Glory is so aware
of what’s happening, she’s using humor as a coping mechanism.
“Ack!” Glory swats at me again. “Enough out of you. We have important matters to discuss.” She motions toward the hallway
that leads to her room and then looks back to her friends. “Later, ladies.”
Once we reach her room, I bypass the big recliner Glory loves and head for the only other chair—a stark, wooden contraption
that looks like it belongs in an old-fashioned schoolhouse. Instead of sitting opposite me, Glory goes to her small desk and
removes a green binder from one of the drawers.
“What’s this?” I ask as she gingerly places it on my lap. But then I realize it’s the binder she mentioned preparing for me. With all our financial information in it. Probably her will too.
I’m not doing this, not yet. I want to spend our time together today talking about life, not death. I want to tell her about
all the headway I’ve made with my Marlins, today’s lesson notwithstanding. Or about how everyone on my team has to swap training
partners at the end of the week, and how Coach Cat’s bitchy daughter keeps showing up and giving me attitude at the club.
“Glory . . . it’s not . . . No, I don’t want this yet.” I hold the binder out, trying to hand it back to her, but she just
goes to the recliner and shakes her head at me.
The little binder is stuffed solid. I look around the room, wanting to dump it as far from me as possible, desperate to take