Chapter 3 Hannah
Hannah
Gunshots sound through the stairwell of my childhood home as I climb to the second floor and main living area. I don’t duck and I don’t dodge, but I do sigh.
The volume of the TV must be cranked to a million as another episode of the popular series NCIS, my mom’s current crime obsession, plays for the whole town to hear.
My mother’s favorite characters on the fictional team of special agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service are Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Special Agent Tony DiNozzo, and Special Agent Ziva David.
Although she also loves the team’s eccentric medical examiner, Dr. Donald Mallard—fondly known as Ducky.
My mom started watching NCIS four years, twenty-seven days, and nine hours ago and hasn’t stopped since.
It’s painfully ironic that I can remember things that, in the grand scheme of the world and my life and my family, are nothing.
Besides her favorite crime show, my mom can’t remember anything—especially the important things—at all.
I wave to Lovie, my mom’s caretaker and the most patient woman on the planet, as she washes a glass at the kitchen island sink and then set my purse and sweater on the gray-white fabric stool across from her.
Lovie Jacobs is in her mid-fifties—nearly the same age as my mom—and has an unbelievably warm, motherly way about her.
In my mother’s cognitive absence, she’s been a stand-in during many moments of my life, and for that, I’m so grateful.
“Hey, Hannah Banana,” she says, using the name she’s had for me since she started working for us five years ago.
It was the day after I dropped out of college at Middle Tennessee State University, giving up my pursuit of a bachelor’s degree in nutrition and food science because I realized that my mom’s early-onset Alzheimer’s was progressing to a point of no return.
If I didn’t get her full-time care and myself a job to bring in cash, I was going to have to put her in a special facility and sell our house.
And given that my dad built this house with his own two hands shortly before he passed away the summer I turned ten, that wasn’t an option.
My mom is most comfortable and happiest here anyway, in her own space with her own things.
Even though her mind has lost most of her memories, it’s like this home—her safety net for a lot of her life—still speaks to her soul, constantly whispering flickers of her past life and wrapping her up in a security blanket of nostalgia and love.
“How’s she been today, Lovie Dovie?”
“Good.” Lovie smiles at me and brushes a few pieces of her auburn hair out of her eyes. “Really good. She’s been in her element now that Ziva’s joined the cast again. She never likes to see Kate get killed off, but you know how much she loves seeing Tony and Ziva flirt.”
I laugh. Oh yeah, I know. I know all about how Special Agent Caitlin “Kate” Todd gets killed off at the end of season 2, and how uncomfortable it is when her killer’s sister, the mysterious and alluring Ziva David, first joins the cast in season 3.
I know about Tony and Ziva’s flirtation and Gibbs’s always-reliable gut and how Timothy Farragut “Tim” McGee goes from a newbie to a seasoned member of the team with some tough love from Gibbs and a lot of nurture and care from forensic specialist Abby Sciuto.
There are no spoilers for me when it comes to NCIS.
I’m pretty sure my mom has watched every existing season in its entirety at least three hundred times.
Which is quite an impressive feat considering NCIS has been on the air for almost as long as I’ve been alive and has hundreds of episodes. But who’s counting, right?
Sherry May has always loved crime drama and true crime documentaries, but I never imagined a single show would become her entire personality one day. It’s almost all we talk about. For some reason, now that her mind is pretty much gone, it’s her comfort.
“I’m glad,” I say, glancing back at my mom as she leans toward the TV intently.
She hasn’t realized I’m back yet, and I suppose that’s a good thing.
Some days, it’s upsetting when she tries to figure out exactly who I am and reconcile that with the twelve-year-old girl her remaining memory has latched on to.
I guess it’s easier to remember the kid I was before the Alzheimer’s started than to piece together the slivers in time when she couldn’t tell I was growing up.
“How’d the job interview go?” Lovie asks, and I swallow down a dramatic, traumatized sigh.
“It was . . . unexpected,” I say, sugarcoating the truth with powdered, refined, brown, raw cane, and every other freaking form of the sweet dust I can think of to spare Lovie all the things someone as wonderful as her should never hear.
Nineteen phone calls with men from every sexual cave or corner of the earth kept me on my toes so much, I almost appreciated it when the last caller described his fantasy for sucking them off.
“Thank you for staying a little later so I could start today,” I add. “I had no idea she was going to hire me on the spot, but the money was too good to turn down.”
I mean, I might’ve sold my soul to the phone sex devil, but no big deal, right? Surely I’ll find a way to compartmentalize all this new trauma that’s about to be shoved into my ears on a daily basis.
“That’s incredible news, Hannah.” Lovie’s mouth curves up with compassion. “I know that’s been such a load on your mind.”
Lovie knows there’s financial stress, but I haven’t exactly shared all the sordid details.
For one thing, it’s not her responsibility or worry to carry, and for another, much more selfish, thing .
. . I really don’t want her to get scared she won’t get paid and end up searching for another job.
I’m barely hanging on as it is. If I lost Lovie and had to find someone else . . . I don’t know if I could manage.
As a fun bonus, her saying the word load makes me think about my second sex call—a man named Les who was consumed with how much semen he could produce at one time. He said more about volume than my high school math teacher. Ugh.
“And Norm was golfing with his buddies anyway,” Lovie adds, a smile still on her lips and her mind clearly devoid of the gross things rolling around inside mine. “He always runs long when he’s playing eighteen with a group. Something to do with the cart girls, if I had to guess.”
I smile and round the island to the stove, where a pot of bubbling sauce simmers behind her. Lovie and Norm have been married for thirty-three years and have two grown sons. If Norm were really out there flirting with the cart girls, I’m pretty sure Lovie would have kicked his ass for it by now.
“Garlic bread is in the oven, and the noodles are ready to get added to the sauce,” she instructs me, picking up the spoon to stir as I lift the lid and take a whiff.
Lovie is a great cook anyway, but she does an even more outstanding job incorporating the MIND diet I put my mom on years ago to delay and mitigate Alzheimer’s symptoms as long as we could.
I have a suspicion this diet is the only reason I ever get any glimpses of lucidity anymore—as rare as they are.
“Thanks, Lovie. I can finish everything up if you’re ready to take off.”
Lovie nods, hangs her black apron in the pantry around the corner, and then grabs her purse and keys from the laundry room just off the kitchen. She stays here most nights but has a rotation of time off that includes two nights this week and then the following weekend to herself.
Ideally, I wouldn’t have started a new job on one of the days she leaves early, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I dump the pasta from the stainless steel pot into the sauce and stir them together, then pull the bread from the oven before waving to Lovie as she makes her way down the stairs to head out the front door.
I check diligently to make sure that everything’s turned off, and when I’m sure it is, I dish some spaghetti onto a couple of plates, add a piece of fresh garlic wheat bread to each, and then carry them to the dining table.
My mom’s attention finally comes around as I set everything down, the latest episode of her NCIS security blanket rolling into the credits.
“Hey, Sherry.” I greet her with a smile, knowing that using her name the first time we see each other after several hours apart is always the best practice. If she doesn’t recognize me as her daughter right away, calling her mom only sends her spiraling through a bout of anxiety.
“Hi, Ziva!” my mom says excitedly.
I have to suck my bottom lip to the side and gnaw on the delicate flesh to fight the sting of emotion in my nose. It’s not surprising that she doesn’t recognize me, but I can’t in good conscience say it gets any easier.
I miss the woman who used to braid my hair and read me stories in bed at night. I miss the mom who knew my deepest secrets because she could recognize them before I did. I miss the woman I used to lean on for strength, knowing she wouldn’t sway, no matter how strong the wind.
It’s the most painful kind of paradox to miss someone who is with you every day.
“Dinner’s ready if you are,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “And it sure looks good tonight.”
“Of course,” my mom says, hustling away from the couch and joining me to walk to the table.
Her dark hair is up in a loose bun, which I’m certain Lovie prompted this morning, and she’s dressed in a very put-together outfit—probably also through Lovie’s encouragement—of nice pants and a pretty pink sweater, which I have fond memories of her wearing when I was a teenager.
My mom can still do a lot of things for herself, but she has to be reminded to do them.
“We’ve got a big stakeout tonight, and I don’t want to be hungry later,” she says as she sits down in front of one of the plates of food. Then she starts to dig in.
I sneak behind her to grab the remote and pause her streaming binge before taking my place across from her and agreeing, “You’re right. Bound to be a long night.”
I’m in no more control of our conversations than she is of her memory, and these days swimming with the stream of her consciousness is the only way to avoid a major meltdown.
“What do you think the killer’s doing right now?” she asks.
To a third-party listener, that question would feel like it comes out of left field. But, somewhere in her mind, I know it makes sense. And I don’t question it or try to redirect her to reality—not only does it not help, but it genuinely upsets her.
“Probably hiding evidence,” I say with a shrug, wrapping spaghetti around my fork and taking a hearty bite as my stomach growls. With the chaos of sex calls I wasn’t expecting to take today, I completely forgot to eat.
Tomorrow, I’ll be sure to pack a lunch—but not grapes. After talking to a guy named Hugo today about using them to find his P-spot—whatever the fuck that even is—I’ll never be able to look at grapes the same again.
My mom scarfs down food, too, though her napkin use is demurer than mine. It reminds me of the composed woman she used to be, and I have to look down at my plate to keep myself from saying something that would confuse her.
“I bet you’re right, Ziva,” she says around a bite. “They’re probably trying to hide evidence in a safe-deposit box. Or maybe in an old barn.”
I nod. “They really like to use floorboards too.”
“Oh! Floorboards. We should look under these!” my mom says excitedly, jumping up from her seat. Her eyes are already fixated on the hardwood floor beneath her feet.
“No, no.” I put a gentle hand on her wrist and guide her back to her chair. “We checked them yesterday, remember? There was nothing there.”
“Oh, right. Right.” She nods. “But what if they’ve come back since then?”
I shake my head. “We’ve had a patrol car out front. No chance.”
Her shoulders sink, her anxiety about the floorboards officially at ease. “Good, good. That was smart. Was that Gibbs’s idea?”
“Yep,” I agree. “It usually is, isn’t it?”
She laughs. “You’re so right. That gut of his always gets the good hunches.”
“It sure does.” I play with my food a little before taking another bite and then try out something personal, just to see how it goes over. “I had a job interview today.”
“Really?” my mom asks, swallowing her bite of spaghetti quickly and wiping her mouth. “Why? You’ll never find a better team than Jethro’s.”
“Yeah.” I laugh lightly. “You’re right. Leroy Jethro Gibbs is definitely the best naval special agent out there. I was just . . . wondering if I maybe wanted to go in a different direction.”
Sex work isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but you know . . . po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
My mom shakes her head. “You gotta stick it out where you are, Ziva. If you don’t, you and Tony will never figure out how good you are together, and the whole thing will fall apart. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree. “You’re right.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that settled.”
Me too, Mom. Me too.
Now, if I can just get her settled back in front of NCIS for a little bit, maybe I can take a shower and we’ll really be in business.
As soon as she finishes her meal, I take both our dishes to the sink, where I rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. She heads back to the couch and pushes play on the remote, and before I know it, the theme song for NCIS is ringing out again.
Quickly, I double-check that there’s nothing lying around that could hurt her, then head into my en suite bathroom to hop in the shower and scrub the day away.
I’d give almost anything to have my mom’s memory back, but as far as my own goes, after my first shift at Call Me Anytime, I could stand to lose a thought or two.