Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
T he next morning, I wake to an empty bed. I find Matt in the basement, picking at an old guitar. I watch from the stairs as he adjusts and readjusts the saddles, strumming out random chords. He's quiet, lost in his thoughts. I sneak back upstairs to get ready to meet his mom, giving him the space to process what it might be like seeing her for the first time in almost two months. We have a few errands to run before we make our way over to the long-term care facility.
First, we stop by a florist and pick up two massive bouquets of blue hydrangeas.
"She used to grow them in our front yard; they were her pride and joy,” he explains.
The next stop is a small boutique, where Matt picks out an expensive plush pajama set in navy blue. The last stop is the Amish Village Bakeshop to grab coffees and treats for the staff, a half dozen whoopee pies for Sid, and a loaf of Friendship Bread for his mom. “It's like a sourdough bread that turned into a cake. It's her favorite,” he tells me.
As we walk out of the bakeshop, I notice a young woman milling around the door, stealing glances at Matt. She has a baby in a carrier on her chest and is holding the hand of a little boy. Right before we exit, she approaches Matt.
“Hi, Matt, I’m a huge fan. I have been to every one of your Philly shows.”
“All of them?"
“Yes. I especially loved the solo tour you did ten years ago …" she continues, but her son is tugging on her hand. “Mommyyyyy, I want a muffin.”
“What’s your name, buddy?” Matt crouches down to his level. The boy instinctively moves behind the safety of his mom’s leg.
“Hudson,” he says into her jeans.
“And how old are you?” Matt asks.
“Free.” Hudson holds up up two fingers.
“Ah, three is a fine age to be. What do you like to do?”
“Twucks. Play with twucks.” The boy emerges from behind his mom's legs.
“Fire trucks?”
“Yeah, and trash twucks and ‘cycle twucks ,” the boy says.
“All very important civil services,” Matt responds. "Can I get him a muffin?"
“Um, um, sure?” the mom stammers, starstruck.
Matt offers his hand to the little boy, who reluctantly takes it and walks a few feet over to the counter. I'm left with the mom and her sleeping baby.
“I can’t believe I just met Matt Johnson,” she says to me but mostly to herself. “He was, like, on posters in my room when I was growing up. I knew he was from here, but I never thought I’d run into him! Wow,” she gushes.
“Yeah! Small world," I say. My attention drifts over to the counter, where Matt has picked up the little boy to give him a better vantage point of the muffin selection. It looks like the most natural thing in the world for him.
“You’re Julia? I saw the photos from the Grammys,” the mom says.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Wow, you are a lucky woman. He’s going to make a great dad.”
They walk back a few moments later. Hudson’s face is victorious as he proffers up not one but two muffins.
“He’s got great taste,” Matt says to the mom. “I’m not playing in Philly for my next tour, but I’ll be in New York, which is probably the closest to here. A quick train ride. Tell me your name, and I’ll leave two tickets for you at the box office.”
“ What? ”
“I’d love you to come to my show. If you can find a babysitter.”
“That would be unreal! Fantastic! Wow. Thanks so much. Can I hug you?” she asks.
“Of course,” Matt says, and I watch him try to navigate a side hug so as not to crush the baby in the carrier. While Matt takes out his phone to get the woman’s information, I stare at the baby—her chubby hands rest under her round cheeks. She has miles-long eyelashes and the tiniest little mouth.
“Do you want to take a picture?” Matt asks the woman. I’ve become familiar with this strategy of his—he knows that most of the time people want a picture with him, and to ease their discomfort in asking, he will suggest it like it’s his idea. His thoughtfulness never ceases to amaze me.
The woman, Matt, and Hudson stand in front of the muffin counter while I snap a photo. “You guys have a great day!” Matt says as we head out.
We walk to the car, but my brain is still inside that shop, watching Matt with that little boy, the preciousness of that baby girl. Something stirs in me, a yearning I've never felt before. We start driving, and I steal glances at him. I picture his big brown eyes, his perfect pouty lips, maybe my nose, our combined dark hair on a baby of our own. He notices.
"I know that look by now. What are you thinking about?"
"Just thinking about how much I love you."
"I love you, too."
"Also thinking about how cute those kids were," I add.
He grabs my hand across the console, squeezing it tightly.
He lifts his sunglasses to look at me and says, “Ours will be cuter."
I think my heart might explode.
* * *
We are forced back to reality when we pull up to the long-term care facility where Carol Johnson has resided for the past two decades.
I feel Matt's tension grow with each step we take toward the doors. I am greeted by the familiar smell of bleach and ammonia; it's strangely comforting, reminding me of the halls of my own hospital. Matt stops by the front desk and drops off a giant gift-wrapped box.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Mr. Matt Johnson,” the woman behind the desk says.
“Hi, Leah, it’s great to see you.” He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “This is for you guys—the new Nespresso machine and a few dozen pods. Should hold you over for a day or two.” He plops it down on the desk. I hand over the other treats we picked up at the bakery.
“You are too good to us. We miss seeing you around here.” I see Matt’s body language shift at that. His shoulders shoot up as she unknowingly taps on the guilt he feels not seeing his mom more often.
“This is my girlfriend, Julia Anderson.”
“Well, this is a first.” She smiles warmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Carol will be thrilled.”
“How is she today?” Matt asks, and we start down the long, brightly lit hallway.
“The same. She’s been sitting in the sunroom more often lately, but it’s much of the same. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
We stop outside her room, and I hear jazz music playing behind the door. Matt takes a deep breath and gently knocks.
“Hi, Mom.”
Carol Johnson sits in a recliner in the corner of the room. Her eyes are closed, but she rocks slowly in her chair to the rhythm of the music. She is tall, thin, all lithe limbs, her beautiful hair— cut to her shoulders—thick and dark brown just like Matt’s but with streaks of white throughout. She looks remarkably young for being almost eighty. Her porcelain skin is practically wrinkle-free, probably from being indoors for almost twenty years.
She opens her eyes and looks at Matt. I swear I see a flicker of recognition.
“I want you to meet someone.” Matt holds my hand and walks us closer to her chair. “This is Julia.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson,” I say.
She looks at me, and again I feel some sense of awareness or, at the very least, a surveying of me.
“We just celebrated Dad’s birthday. Same restaurant as every other year, and we missed you. Maybe you can join us next year,” Matt says casually, like he's having a normal conversation.
“Want to see?” He kneels beside her and scrolls through photos on his phone.
She doesn’t look.
Matt busies himself unloading the things he’s brought her. He puts the bread in her mini kitchen, the flowers in vases by her bedside table and next to her recliner. He places the bag with the pajamas on her lap. She doesn't touch it or move to open it, so Matt does it for her, holding up the cozy pajamas. “I thought these might look nice on you.”
Nothing.
I pull up a chair next to her and start talking. “I’ve heard so much about you. I love Allentown. I’ve never been here before. Matt showed me the rose gardens, they are beautiful. He said they’re one of your favorite places.”
She continues rocking, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.
Matt changes the record behind us. She has almost the same sound system as the one in his apartment in New York. I watch her as Stevie Nicks starts singing “Dreams.” She sits up, turns and looks at Matt, and smiles at him. A big, bright smile. A smile that is so much like his, it makes me want to cry. His eyes go wide, and he smiles just as big right back.
“You like this one, Mom?”
Still smiling, she leans back in her chair, rocking to the beat, but she doesn't answer his question. We stay for a few more hours and have lunch together before heading back to Sid’s house.
There were no more signs of recognition after "Dreams," but I can see reignited hope shining in Matt’s eyes.
“She hasn’t done anything like that in a long time,” he tells me on the way home.
“It seemed like she recognized you and what was going on. And she seemed very connected to the music.”
Matt nods. “What did you think?”
“I think she’s lovely, Matt.”
“No, I mean, what do you think is wrong with her? What’s your professional opinion?”
“Oh, babe, I can't make any type of assessment just based off that interaction.”
“I know, I know. But if you had to guess, what do you think is going on?”
I hesitate. “I'm not sure. I’d be interested to see her history. To see how she’s presented to other people over the years and what they've noticed. But what I know for sure is that her generation didn’t know half as much as we know now about health and mental health—especially trauma and grief. Women with any type of mental health concern, especially moms in her era, were often ignored. Or, at the very least, misdiagnosed and mistreated. That’s where all these terms like hysteria , exhaustion , and mental breakdown came from. But even so, I think it would be unusual for her to be like this unprompted.”
Matt listens intently, pulling on his lower lip.
“My guess—and it’s just a guess—is that maybe she had some preexisting mental health condition—major depression or anxiety-panic disorder—that she was able to cope with until the trauma of watching her child get sick, plus the treatments that followed, and eventually the loss of Eric altogether. The stress, trauma, and grief combination are brutal and overwhelming. Maybe it was too much for her to manage. Maybe it felt safer for her to check out, to go inside of herself, into the quiet, or into a different reality that made her able to survive a loss like that. And maybe it’s just been so long at this point she doesn’t know how to come back, even if she wants to.”
“Do you think it’s possible that she could come back?”
My heart sinks. “I don't know, Matt.”
"I'm not going to hold you to it, Jules. I've accepted this is how she will be. I just want to know what you think."
I sit quietly, weighing my words. "I think anything is possible."
He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips. "I think so, too."