Chapter Two Prue #2
“Aunt Lucy’s in Wales for the next month,” I say. “But I’ll take care of it. This week. I’ll get the studio cleaned up for her.”
“With what time?”
I can cut back on my writing, for sure. Reading too. If I make an effort to eat more fiber this week, I could gain back some time there as well. I could probably cut back to six hours of sleep, maybe even five. “Like I said, I’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe…” Dad clears his throat, and swallows so loudly that I can hear him from across the room. “Maybe, sweet, sweet daughter of mine, we could revisit the conversation around—”
“Don’t try and butter me up,” I say, wringing out my sponge. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Prue…”
“I’ve got it,” I say, turning on my heel to face him, my plastered smile dangerously near breaking into a scowl. “Let me take care of it…. Please. ”
He rubs his chin furiously, then checks his watch when it catches his eye.
I see the conversation play out in his mind, the same dance he and I have spun time and time again over the last several months.
I feel his resolve settle between us the moment he realizes we don’t have enough time to rehash the same back-and-forth before he needs to leave to open the store.
We need help.
No, we don’t. We can’t afford it anyway.
Prue, you need to get out more. You need a life of your own.
I don’t. I’m good where I am.
Your mom would want you to—
Dad, please. I’m fine. Seriously.
You look tired.
Jeez, thanks.
We cannot do this forever, darling.
We can. Mom would.
Yes…But—
Dad, I promise I’m fine.
And then, regardless of whether we actually have the conversation or not, he will sigh and say, “Tonight, Prue. You and I need to sit down and have a real conversation about this. I mean it this time.”
Wait, no…That’s not how it’s supposed to—
“Good morning!” Mom singsongs, turning the corner from the bottom of the stairs toward us. She practically waltzes into the center of the room in her white silk robe and matching fluffy slippers, smiling and chipper and so… her -like. “Something smells good!”
“Julia,” Dad whispers in the same hushed, mesmerized tone he does anytime Mom shows up more like herself. As if she’ll startle and leave as quickly as she appeared. Or, as if he’s dreaming and afraid to wake himself.
My heart clenches too tight alongside a sinking feeling, knowing that Mom’s clearer days tend to mean our routine goes out the window.
Remembering the grief we will experience tomorrow, when she’s left us again.
I force a smile, dropping the sponge into the sink before I turn around to greet her, leaning my lower back against the counter. “Hi, Mom.”
She stops, tilting her head curiously at me as she lets out a restrained laugh, her playful eyes looking between Dad and me. “Mom?”
Oh.
She giggles dryly, greeting my dad with a kiss on his cheek as he rises to stand beside her. “Luce, did you just call me Mom?”
Thank you for joining us for another kitchen recital, ladies and gentlemen. This morning the leading role of Aunt Lucy will be played by her niece, Prudence Welch, once again.
It doesn’t hurt as much anymore, not like it used to.
I do see the resemblance. Lucy and I share the same tightly coiled brunette hair, bushy brows, and pale skin.
Whereas Lucy’s features are just right for her face, I think our similar lips are far too big for the narrower face I inherited from Dad.
Additionally, my vivacious aunt can pull off the doe eyes we share.
Unfortunately for me, they give the impression that I’m approachable. I’m not.
The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn over the past four years is that when someone begins losing their memory, it’s the short-term that goes first.
Imagine a home, Mom’s neurologist had told us, where the basement is the present and the attic is as far back as memories go.
The home begins to flood, from the ground up.
Like with a flood, some items will be salvageable, but most things will be lost. Similarly, some memories will survive whereas most will not.
Level by level, you’ll see the water rise, irreparably damaging each room on its way.
Thankfully, days like this are rare. Occasionally, Mom will be confused as to why I look older, but we can usually get past that.
But others, like today, when she hasn’t slept well or when she’s had a hard day the day before, her mind takes her to another time—a time, typically, before I existed.
It’s her brain’s way of protecting her from her current reality.
Dad and I exchange brief, messaging glances. His says sorry. Mine says don’t be.
What, exactly, he’s apologizing for I’m not completely sure.
It could be because he still gets days with Mom that I don’t.
Or, because I’m not as good at pretending it doesn’t weigh on me as I’d like to think I am.
Maybe he’s apologizing for this dreadful real conversation he’s decided we need to have later.
“Did I?” I squeeze out a laugh from the hollow of my chest, turning back toward the sink to shut off the running water. “Whoops!”
The most important rule when caring for someone with early-onset Alzheimer’s is and will always be: Play along. If you threaten their understanding of their current reality, they will panic. You want to avoid panic.
“I was just about to go open the store, Jules,” my dad says, bending down to kiss her, cradling her face in his hands. “But I’ll be right out front if you need me.”
“Ha, ha…Very funny.” Mom rolls her eyes, gently smacking him on the shoulder.
When Dad hesitates, her face falls, and she brings her hand to hold his wrist, squeezing him as he rubs his thumb over her cheek.
“You’re not serious, right?” A short, scattered, verging-on-hysterical scoff.
“You’re not really going to work on our wedding day? ”
I groan internally, allowing my eyes to shut as the exhaustion threatens to pull me under.
Three long seconds. Then my father releases a deep, clipped laugh. “Of course not, my bride. Of course not.”
And with that, our day just got a whole lot longer.
“You…” She shakes her head, smiling brightly up at him.
“You tease too much!” She turns her attention toward me.
“Why does everyone look so sad? It’s a wedding for Christ’s sake, not a funeral!
” Her laugh is effervescent, sparking memories of loud townie Christmas parties, midnight cookie-dough feasting, and happy birthdays sung out of key.
I shake myself. “Sorry,” I say, walking over to them, reaching out for her hand.
I take it tightly in my grasp, feeling her cool skin against mine.
I make a mental note to insist that she wear a cardigan with her dress.
“It’s just, I’m going to miss you…” I inhale, letting the truth exist for a brief second between us. “Two weeks in England is a long time.”
The VHS among the books on the living room shelves reads: England, 1993: Our honeymoon .
I used to make my parents do a double feature on every anniversary.
We’d make snacks, get dressed up, and then watch their wedding video.
Then, Dad would cook a full British roast and we’d watch the memories of their honeymoon.
Most years I would fall asleep to him softly playing her “Julia” by the Beatles on the piano as she danced for him.
Just as they did the first night they met.
I wish I could tell her that.
I wish I could show her the video.
I wish she would show it to me again.
Mom presses her forehead to mine. “I’ll be back before you know it, Luce.” Then, with a tipped-up chin and a wink, she bolts, taking off toward the stairs with her robe fluttering behind her. “C’mon! And bring the champagne!” she yells.
Dad pats my shoulder, reaching into the cabinet where we store a collection of alcohol-free sparkling wine for this exact reason.
We were caught without it once, and I will not be called the world’s worst bridesmaid again.
Turns out, my mother is a bit of a bridezilla.
“I’ll get John on the phone,” Dad says, handing me the bottle.
John keeps a spare cake in his deep freezer for days like this.
“I’ll put up the sign,” I reply, voice resigned. I walk toward the front of the house where a brightly painted purple door connects Dad’s office to the storefront. I reach to the back of the office’s closet, grab the Closed for a Wedding sign, and make my way to the shop’s front door.
Clyde, the oldest man alive, who is also, tragically, my only real friend in town, is already waiting there for me. I unlock the top and bottom of the door, then push it open. “Morning, Clyde.”
He fixes his cap in greeting. “Good morning, doll.”
“We’re closed for the day, I’m afraid.” I hold up the sign to him before securing it with a binder clip to the shop’s hours sign. “Sorry.”
He nods slowly, reading it over. “Ah, no bother. I’ll pop by later for some cake then.” I watch as he begins to walk away, turning toward his daughter’s house across the street. “D’ya need Lynn to bring anything by?”
I shake my head no, and he nods.
“Thank you, though. See you later,” I say, knowing he’s already out of earshot. As soon as I step aside to make sure he’s gotten over the curb okay, a huge gust of wind forces the door open, slamming it against the store’s outer wall.
“Shit!” I startle, clasping my chest.
“Careful!” Clyde shouts, holding his hat in place. “It’s a windy one today!”
“Perfect day for a wedding!” I yell back sardonically, grumbling under my breath as I move to shut the door. “Tenth time’s the charm,” I whisper to myself, locking it in place.