Chapter 7
When I enter Garden Vistas, I am met with the familiar smell of antiseptic and canned food.
As always, I try to swallow down the guilt I feel whenever I come here.
I moved Mathilde to the nursing home in Quincy shortly after my mother died, so she could be closer to me.
But I wish we had enough space to have moved her in with us.
Or for a better nursing home. One with an actual garden on the property, not just in the name, and nice furniture.
Bev, the stern-faced receptionist, waves me over to sign in.
“Morning,” I say, smiling brightly. “Just here to visit Mathilde.”
I scribble my name, feeling sweat on the back of my neck.
I’m nervous about seeing my grandmother.
I can’t get her blessing to move to Wildwood.
But even if it’s purely going through the steps, I need to tell her.
And yes, maybe there is a small part of me that hopes this news, that her brother is dead, and he’s left me Wildwood, maybe that might possibly be the thing that brings her some moment of lucidity.
“You’re all set,” Bev says, as I hand her back the clipboard. “Mathilde’s in the game room.”
I head down the hallway, past rooms of residents. Mostly the doors are closed, but sometimes a few are open, revealing one of the occupants lying placidly in bed, or sitting in a chair, staring out the window. There is little movement.
When I reach the game room, there are small tables on which games of checkers and cards are set up.
There’s one lively game going on, with a bright-eyed-looking gentleman with a few wisps of white hair lying across the top of his head accusing his partner, a wiry man with a ring of gray hair around an otherwise bald head, of cheating.
The partner is waving away these claims, making dissatisfied grunting noises.
My grandmother sits in a wheelchair, which is positioned to look out over a tiny outdoor space. She looks so small and frail, with a shawl draped over her narrow shoulders. I feel an almost maternal urge to protect her. I walk up to her side and touch her arm.
“Hi, Gran.” She looks up at me, but her eyes don’t register recognition.
She looks back out the window, perhaps assuming I am another nursing home worker, or perhaps assuming nothing at all.
I lean over and wrap my arms around her in an awkward hug.
My heart aches a little, as hugging her now feels like hugging a small child.
I pull up a chair next to her and place my hand on hers, feeling the rise of veins under her paper-thin skin. “I’ve got news. I’m pregnant.” I say this, beaming, as though I’m talking to a girlfriend. Alzheimer’s is such a strange, tragic disease in this way. It turns us into stage actors.
“We are so excited. It’s too early to know the sex, but I have a feeling it’s a girl.
If it is, we’ll name her Mathilde. I’m hoping she gets my brains and Topher’s looks.
” I chatter on like this for a while. She doesn’t reply to anything, but I tell myself that deep down, she must recognize my voice and that hearing it must bring her some innate level of comfort.
After a few minutes, I take a deep breath and launch into the topic I’ve been dreading. “So, I have some news that I feel I should share with you. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but I would have felt wrong not telling you.”
She is still staring out the window and I take a raggedy breath and continue, “First, I have some sad news. Your brother, Ezra, has died.”
Slowly, she turns to look at me. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but her eyes, though still glazed, seem ever so slightly sharper.
“I’m so sorry. I know you weren’t close, but of course he was still your brother.
” I squeeze her hand. “He also has left me Wildwood.” Still she doesn’t speak, but her jaw works back and forth.
“I know that you two had a falling-out, so I guess I wanted to get your approval, or at least tell you, before I accepted. It’s so hard to know what to do.
I got laid off, and we have a baby coming, so inheriting Wildwood could change our lives.
But I would never do anything that would hurt you. ”
I pause and feel my heart thudding, wishing so desperately that she’d talk.
“What happened between you two?” I move, to put my face directly in front of hers, as if that will bring her back to me.
Her eyes evade mine. “What happened?” I repeat, more urgently.
A wave of frustration washes over me and for a brief, savage moment, I want to slap her.
Shake her. Do anything to elicit a response.
She blinks at me, mouth closed, and the anger melts and is quickly replaced by guilt and sadness and the usual mix of useless emotions. Finally, defeated, I sigh. “It’s okay, Gran. It’s okay.”
I sit for another ten minutes or so, not wanting the last thing I’ve said to be that her estranged brother has died and wants me to move into his estate. I talk about the weather, my friends, politics.
Finally, it’s time to go. I stand up and gently kiss my beloved grandmother on the head. “I love you. I’ll come back in a couple of weeks, okay?”
As I walk out of the nursing home and into the fresh air and bright natural light, I make a decision.
I’m going to convince Topher and we are going to accept the house.
We’re going to accept the house and sell some of the ridiculous amount of land and we’re going to move Mathilde to Vermont and get her the best fucking live-in assistance that money can buy.