Chapter Seven – Fawn
Am I in a mood this morning? A little.
In my defense, I’m running on three hours of sleep.
I was tossing and turning the entire night because it was so humid.
Adjusting to get comfortable seemed like torture.
I’d turn the pillow, find a cool spot, roll back over — nothing was working.
And to top it off, my fan was making this really annoying sound, as if it was dying.
So yes, I’m cranky.
One good thing about this morning, though: my car actually started! Not a single blinking light, not a strange sound from the engine, and no need for me to panic and shout for Delilah.
That feeling stays with me as I roll into the parking lot of the nursing home. It looks like something out of a lifestyle magazine. Each time I come here, it takes my breath away. Gravel crunches under my feet as I jump out of the car, and the warm morning air hits me in the face.
This facility doesn’t really have the feel of a nursing home.
Nope. It looks like a fancy country club, with warm brick walls, big white columns out front, and an elegant, second-story balcony wrapping across the front.
Flower baskets hang from the porch, complete with vibrant flowers — bright pinks, deep purples, creamy whites.
As I stroll up to the front door, I can smell the flowers — roses and sweet pea with a citrusy odor.
I didn’t choose this location for appearances alone.
I chose it because I wanted what was best for my grandfather. I did some research — read every article, browsed every forum — before I came across this one, the best-rated nursing home in America. It just so happened to be in Ivywood.
I packed up everything I had, left the big city, and came here with him.
After my father’s death, my grandpa was the only person who was there for me. My mother was dealing with it in her own way by going on vacation. My grandpa stood by me, helped me through the last year of college. Now, I wanted to reciprocate. I wanted to make sure he got the best of everything.
The front door begins to open before I even reach for the handle.
It’s the same nurse who always greets me — she’s middle-aged, with warm, kind eyes and a soothing smile that immediately makes everything feel alright.
“Hello. Your grandpa is in the back garden,” she says in a soft voice, like she’s been expecting me. “He’s been asking about the birds all morning. Just knock on the gate — they’ll let you in.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him.” I let out a dry laugh and offer her a warm smile before making my way toward the side of the building.
The lawn is absolutely flawless — not a single piece of grass is out of line.
The rest of Ivywood’s grass is turning a yellowish hue from the sun.
However, the grass here is perfect and green.
And the flowerbeds? They’re like something out of a magazine.
They’re probably paying their groundskeeper big money.
A huge wooden gate looms ahead, seeming to grow taller as I get closer.
My pulse is hammering in frantically against my throat. It always does when I’m here.
Each time I visit, there is always a little sense of unease. I can’t help but wonder — will my grandpa recognize me today? Even if only for a second.
I reach out and double knock, the vibrations rattling up my arm.
Before I know it, the gate opens, and a guy in navy scrubs greets me. “Your grandfather is sitting on the bench under the tree.”
The wind gently sways the branches of an ancient willow tree, as if attempting to hug him.
I spot Grandpa there — still, his back slightly hunched, plastic cup in hand, watching the world like it’s something he’s still trying to memorize.
The closer I get, the more I smell my grandpa’s aftershave. The moment I reach him, a warmth blossoms in my chest and travels straight to my mouth, pulling my lips into a warm smile.
The sun filters through the leaves onto his bony shoulders, creating an angelic pattern on his worn flannel. I kneel beside him quietly so I don’t frighten him.
“Good morning,” I whisper.
His pale blue eyes lock on to mine — even though his face is wrinkled and frail, his eyes still sparkle like they have some youth to them. He is staring at me as if it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
I can see the home is taking wonderful care of him. His white hair is brushed neatly, as if someone spent a good ten minutes gently corralling the tufts.
He’s so adamant about holding on to what’s left of it — the large bald area at the top shines in the morning sunlight.
He gives the plastic cup a little shake, and I hear the ice inside rattling. “More—” he manages to stutter. “Iced tea, Nurse.”
He doesn’t remember me. Not today. My vision blurs with tears, but I refused to let them fall. The way he smiles at me — a sweet, lopsided, absolutely mischievous one — it’s so him, and it tugs at something deep inside me, making my heart feel full.
This place is magic, because out of nowhere, a nurse suddenly appears and gently whisks the cup from his grasp.
I give her a thankful nod. Slowly, I perch down beside him on the bench, but I leave some space between us.
He is calm most days. Others, he tenses up as if something is lurking just under the surface.
“How are you today?” I ask.
He mumbles gibberish for a second. The words don’t quite make sense. However, I remain quiet, allowing him time. Then, he lifts his chin slightly, determination flickering in his expression.
“Sure . . . sure. I’m scouting out the birds.”
He raises his crooked finger and points to a cluster of old women in wheelchairs just lounging in the shade under another tree, chatting like a flock of birds.
I blink, confused. I see no robins, crows, or any type of bird. Then it hits me; he’s lying and admiring the older women from a distance. A loud, audible scoff escapes my lips.
Grandpa winks, laughing like a child, his nose scrunching up, and then nudges my arm.
I can’t help but laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. His sense of humor? It’s still there. Still wicked as ever, and quite frankly, that’s more than enough for today.
Grandpa’s chuckle trails away, then he’s silent again, as if he’s already forgotten what he was doing. He stares up at the willow branches overhead, those green tendrils swirling slowly in the breeze like they’ve got all the time in the world.
I’m sitting next to him, observing the way the sunlight plays on his face, and I catch myself wondering what he’s thinking — whether he’s thinking anything at all.
It’s incredible how dementia is. One moment, he’s right here, fully present, with the same glint in his eye, the same smile that used to tell a million naughty tales. And then, without warning, he’s somewhere else altogether.
I used to dread coming to the nursing home.
I really hated seeing it — how aging actually looks when the world lays it all out — but I moved past that.
Because loving someone is showing up, even when it hurts.
Even when they forget your name. I don’t come here because it’s convenient.
I come because he would’ve done this for me.
When my father died, Grandpa could have fallen apart completely — and we all would have understood. He’d lost his wife many years earlier, when I was just a kid. She’d been laughing in the kitchen one minute as she stirred something bubbling in a pot, and the next, she was gone — a sudden stroke.
My grandmother. His wife and best friend.
And then, years later, his only child, my father.
No one should see their child die before them.
It should’ve broken him, but somehow, it didn’t.
Perhaps all that loss simply caused his brain to begin to unravel, as if it couldn’t handle the burden anymore.
Maybe it was grief that broke something in there, something no doctor or pill could ever touch. How much can a heart take before it starts spilling over into all the other things? Perhaps his brain did what it needed to do — began to let go of memories in order to keep going.
Grandpa reaches out and taps my hand suddenly, his fingers trembling, jerking me out of that loop I was getting lost in. I blink and snap back to reality as he mutters something under his breath — words I can’t quite make out.
But then, I follow his gaze.
Only a few feet ahead of the bench, a little bird hops from stone to stone, its tiny feet hardly making any noise at all.
It’s about the size of a finch but isn’t yellow — it’s more of a soft gray with cute little orange flashes on its chest and wings.
It pauses, gives us a cocked look, and starts pecking around the ground like it’s on some really critical quest for worms.
Grandpa’s glued to the bird. Then, out of the blue, he says, “My son.”
My breath becomes trapped in my chest, heavy and pinching. I bite my lower lip, earnestly trying to suppress the tears.
When I was younger, he used to tell us dead people speak to us through birds. Like, if our loved one dies, they don’t actually leave us — they just take a little flight.
I never knew if he believed it or if he had created something to comfort himself. Maybe both.
We would joke Grandma was constantly sending robins into his yard — those annoying little birds fluttering and tweeting around like they were attempting to communicate something.
He would simply shake his head and comment, “Your grandmother is still on my case about leaving my muddy boots at the door, no doubt.”
It would make him smile and crack up each time.
And here he is now, gazing at the little bird in awe and silent delight, as if he’s absolutely convinced it’s a message from my father.
And guess what? Right now, I’d really like to believe it too.
Before we even get the opportunity to hear the little bird tweet, it gets scared and flies away with a quick flap of its wings.
The peace in the garden is disrupted.
To the left, we hear cries — high-pitched, outraged, and decidedly unbirdlike.
“Fuck you! Go to hell, Edna!”
My head snaps to the sound, my eyebrows lifting in astonishment.
A small cluster of older women, who, seconds earlier, appeared to be chit-chatting over tea, are now in a full-scale blowout.
One of them — hunched over, short, with a gray bob that bounces as she gestures — yells loudly, fists in the air like she’s going to start throwing punches. “Where’s my son?”
Nurses simply materialize out of thin air, whizzing by with wide eyes and gentle voices, as if they’ve been through all this many times before.
I glance over at Grandpa. Not even a flinch.
He’s still gazing at the empty space where the bird had been, serene as can be, like women fighting a war across the garden is background noise.
I look back at the old woman with the bob, her voice trembling with something other than anger.
Maybe she does remember. Maybe right now, she has a perfect memory of where she is and who she’s missing. Maybe screaming is the only way she feels she can make someone hear her out.
The nurses move in like a NASCAR pit crew in high gear, skillfully dodging her flailing fists like professional boxers. I’m not joking, one of them actually ducked and rolled.
She screams, arms flailing, legs fighting to get out of the wheelchair.
As they wheel her by me and Grandpa, she glares at me, like I personally put her in that goddamn chair.
Without wasting a second, she sticks up her bony middle finger. “And what are you staring at, pretty girl?” she yells, her voice so loud, it could trim back bushes.
I blink. Speechless. Not because she flipped me off, but because she said I’m pretty while being such an icon.
A nurse grabs her hand like she’s a scolded child. “Mary!”
I purse my lips, literally doing my best not to burst out laughing. It’s absurd how this tiny woman, who appears as if she would tip over in a strong breeze, is radiating some serious Hulk-style fury in her cable-knit sweater — it’s absurd and a little impressive.
I bet back in the day, she was a feisty one.
Yet there’s something a little bit sad hidden in there too.
Beneath the swearing and the anger, I can see it — that lost expression in her eyes, the fear masquerading as rage.
Before I can look over at Grandpa to check if he caught any of that craziness, he’s leaning in like he’s going to tell me some inside stuff. “If you think that’s bad,” he says with a grin, “you gotta see her at bingo.”
“Bingo?”
He’s nodding thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the old woman like she’s the star of a must-see drama series. “She once tossed a cup at the bingo caller for saying B-12 too loudly. I feel special, since she’s sweet to me.”
He heaves this great sigh, all nostalgic and everything, turning his head like he’s seeing some old flame disappear into the sunset. “Mary . . . What a woman.”
I nudge his elbow. “Looks like she’s got a fan, huh?”
His cheeks go bright pink, as though he’s a teenager caught taking a sneaky look at his crush in the school hallway.
Busted. He has a crush.
It’s cute, and the fact that he remembers her is even better.
Is this the start of something beautiful for my grandpa? I do hope so.