Chapter 22
Asher
On Monday morning, I call Harper into my office. I want to make sure we are on the same page.
“Is something wrong with the schedule?” She asks, thumbing through the tablet I gave her to keep track of my meetings and such. “I thought I got everything on there.”
“The schedule is great,” I tell her. “I just had something come up. I need the meeting with the whiskey company rescheduled. It’s a virtual meeting, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Okay,” she nods, making notes. “What do you want me to put for–”
“Just mark it as personal,” I interrupt her. Harper looks up at me, a little surprised. I am aware that she normally knows every detail of my day. Where I am, who I am with. But this is different and unnecessary to go into. “I’ll be back in a couple hours, around lunch.”
“Of course,” she nods.
I feel a little bad being so discrete. But if she knew, she’d understand.
White Oak Extended Care Center is near Parker, Colorado.
It’s a little over half an hour’s drive from the office.
I moved out of my parent’s house at eighteen to attend CU in Boulder.
After I left, they sold our Cherry Creek home and bought a smaller house in Parker.
For years, they lived a quiet life, happy to be out of the city but close enough that I could still see them regularly.
They retired and spent their days doing things they loved.
Dad loved fishing, especially fly-fishing, and he made and sold carefully crafted lures.
Mom loved to bake, garden, and quilt. They also loved the beach and would go on a cruise each year.
They enjoyed snorkeling, shuffleboard, and dancing the night away on those trips.
They had a good time and enjoyed retirement.
But that was before. Before Dad died, and before Mom fell into a deep depression that would consume her.
I used to think nothing could break them.
They were the perfect couple. They had me later in life than most couples do, but they were young at heart and I like to think I kept them active in body too.
When my dad died, Mom’s spirit seemed to die with him.
At first, I didn’t think she needed to be in a home.
I was convinced she just needed time. But when she started to call and ask if I’d seen Dad, I got concerned.
I realized that wasn’t one of the stages of grief.
It was as if she got stuck in the denial stage and never moved past it.
When that happened, I knew she needed full-time care.
White Oak is okay as far as homes go. They offer everything from assisted living to end-of-life care. Mom is somewhere in the middle. She still has energy and all her usual sass, but she needs assistance. Her daily routine is scheduled, monitored, and recorded.
Dementia is not a word I ever thought I’d hear when it came to my parents. But it’s almost like when she lost him, she lost herself. It’s fucked up how the greatest love stories often have the most tragic endings.
“Today is a good day,” the nurse tells me as I get my visitor stamp at the front desk. “She’s eating well and wants to go for a walk in the gardens.”
“Constance loves the gardens,” the receptionist says and smiles.
“Yes, she does,” I agree. “She always has.”
Today’s visit wasn’t because anything was wrong. I didn’t get a call saying she was asking for me, or had stopped eating, or wouldn’t stop crying. Those days are hard. Too hard. Today was more about me than her. I just felt the need to see her. Today, I needed my mom.
We walk slowly through the gardens of the greenhouse. I specifically chose White Oak for the greenhouses. That way, even when it is raining or snowing during Colorado’s bitter winter months, she can enjoy the greenery and flowers.
“It’s always so lovely in the garden,” she says as we pass a cluster of brilliantly colored flowers. “The hydrangeas are in full bloom.”
“They are,” I agree, keeping the pace with her. Mom’s hand is tucked in the crook of my elbow, and I have my other hand over the top of it. My stomach sinks at how frail she feels. His death aged her, and I now realize how little time I might have left with her.
“Your father didn’t like the way they smelled,” she says, and I look at her.
“Hydrangeas?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says. Meaning yes. “You know what else he couldn’t stand? Honeysuckle. Which is fucking ridiculous. Who doesn’t like honeysuckles?”
I laugh inwardly. Mom has the sass of an alley cat and the mouth of a sailor. It always throws people off because on the outside, she looks like the sweetest, kindest old lady. I personally love her gumption. I think all women should have that kind of sass, even if it makes them harder to handle.
“You know what he did like though,” she says.
“What’s that, Mom?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Marigolds. She tells this story every time we walk through the garden.
“Marigolds,” she says. “Do you remember that?”
“I do,” I say. “They’re pretty.”
“They smell like cat piss,” she says bluntly, and I laugh.
“Dad said they repelled mosquitoes,” I say.
“They repelled everything. Including me,” she says, and I laugh again. “You know what else repels mosquitoes? Bug spray. Which also smells like piss. It’s a lose lose situation.”
We sit down on a bench in the middle of the greenhouse garden near a fountain. In the water are goldfish, too big for an indoor fishbowl and too small to survive in the wild. Pennies shimmer in the bottom; there’s at least a hundred wishes in there.
“I wonder what people wished for,” she says as if she can read my thoughts.
“All kinds of things,” I answer softly.
More time. Less pain. Healed sickness.
“You know what I would wish for?” she asks, and tears sting my eyes. She wants him back. To live in their Parker home again. To have never had to watch him die.
“What’s that, Mom?” I ask almost robotically as I brace for the sting of her answer.
“I wish that Susan Lynd’s quilt had caught on fire at the contest last Tuesday. It was so close to the candles on the table that I was sure it was going to go up in flames.”
“Mom,” I laugh. “Why would you wish that?”
“Because my quilt got second place, and it was clearly better. Her stitchwork is sloppy.”
“I’m sure she put a lot of work into it,” I say with a smile.
“Bullshit. She only got first place because she’s sleeping with Harry Baxter. He was one of the judges.”
“Jesus, Mom,” I chuckle.
“Speaking of that, do you have a girlfriend yet? You’re getting kind of old, ya know?”
God, I love my mother.
“I’m not even forty yet,” I say.
“Next year,” she points out. “See. I remember things.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
“I’m busy, Mom. I own three restaurants.”
“Too busy for love?” she asks. “See, that’s the problem with you kids. You put all your time and energy into work. You’re going to work your whole life. But what’s the point if you don’t have someone to spend it with? You don’t get as many years as you think, Ash.”
“I know,” I say, and my smile slips a little. Then, and I don’t know why, I ask her a question. “Do you remember Harper St. James?”
“I remember the St. James’s, yes. The parents were a hot mess. Him with his drinking and her with the drugs. Harper was their daughter, right? And Jaylen.”
“Jaylen and I are still best friends,” I say.
“Yes, I remember,” she nods. “Harper was a sweet girl. Salty too. I liked that about her. What is she up to these days?”
“She almost got married.”
“Almost?”
“They weren’t right for each other. He was an ass.”
“Hmm,” she nods, “Good thing it was an almost then.”
Yeah. Good thing.
“You know, your father was ten years older than me,” she says.
“Yes, I know.”
“Boy, did my parents have an aneurysm when I told them I was going with a guy who was almost thirty! I was 19, though. Nothing illegal about it,” she says with a stubborn smile.
I smile, wondering where this came from or where it’s going.
“I knew he was the one for me. It didn’t matter to me what our families thought. Or even what friends or co-workers thought. We were in love. We followed our hearts. That’s important, Ash. No matter what you choose to do, or who you choose to be with. You must always follow your heart.”
I nod, looking over at my mom. Her expression is softening a little. Her eyes are glassy as she stares at nothing in particular.
“Yes. Follow your heart,” she says hollowly. Then, one moment later, she looks over at me, blinking several times. “Where are we?” she asks.
“The gardens. At White Oak,” I remind her.
“Oh. I want to go back to my room,” she says. I stand up, holding my hand out to help her. We take a few steps, and she looks around then over at me.
“When did you get here?” she asks.
“A while ago,” I say.
“Oh. Where is Louis?” she asks, and my heart clenches in my chest.
“Dad is gone, Mom,” I say.
“Oh.”