Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Wait a sec.
We’re what ?
It’s so incredulous, so unbelievable, just plain wrong, I can’t help coughing out, “I’m sorry?”
“Lovie and Bobby Monroe.” Lovie blinks at each of us in turn, her wrinkled face hardening before she nods decisively. “You know who you are.”
I swallow hard. “Actually, you’re—”
“Exactly right,” Adam cuts in. Again. His gaze hardens, sending a message. “Of course.”
Lovie gives him a smug grin and turns her attention to her food.
I, on the other hand, have lost not only my appetite but every ounce of understanding I’ve ever held. “Wait, no, that’s not—”
Something heavy connects with my shin under the table, and I stifle a yelp. Adam obviously wants me to play along, but I can’t do that when I’m not sure what the game is.
“May I have a word with you?” Adam mumbles, pushing back so harshly I wouldn’t be surprised to find scratches in the linoleum. Lovie’s juice sloshes up the sides of her glass. “ Privately .”
I clench my jaw. This is going to be good. Or very, very bad.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Lovie says, the smirk in her voice apparent. Her advice is null and void—there isn’t much she wouldn’t do.
Adam walks into the laundry closet off the kitchen, tucked behind the alcove between the fridge and stove, and pulls the string for the overhead light. There’s a door on both sides, the other opening to the hallway outside Lovie’s room. When I was younger, I would run around the house in an unending counterclockwise loop: hallways, kitchen, laundry, hallways. It hardly contained one child; there’s no hope it will hold both laundry machines and two oversized adults without things squeezing out at the seams.
I slide the door shut behind me calmly before whipping around. “Would you care to tell me what the fuck that was about?”
To his credit, Adam doesn’t back up. Maybe he isn’t afraid of me (he should be). Or maybe his back is already at the other door.
Taking a step toward him and drawing up to my full height, I poke his chest. “Fix it.”
Anger lights up his shadows, stretches his jaw tight, but he stays silent.
I narrow my eyes and give him another jab in the pec. “Fix. It.” Each word comes with another stab.
He rolls his eyes, grabbing my hand from his chest and lowering it back to my side. “How much do you know about Alzheimer’s?”
“She’s my grandmother. I know as much as I can.”
“Okay, whatever,” he spits, trying to keep his voice down. “But what about the day-to-day? You haven’t been here, Elle.”
That is more insulting than he intends, probably. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It is sweltering in this closet, quiet enough that whenever he shifts, I hear fabric brush his skin. “The connections between the different parts of her brain are dying. The part that stores information about space and time is separate from the part that memorizes routine.”
“The creamer,” I guess. “That’s why she thought she had it. Because she has, for the last forty years.”
Once again, he doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken, just barrels on with whatever point he’s trying to make. “And the part where she recognizes faces is disconnected from the part that remembers family members.”
I rest my hip on the washing machine, hold pressure to my pulsing temples with my thumb and middle finger. “Get to the point. Why can’t we just tell her she’s wrong?”
Adam sighs, shifting on his feet. “With Alzheimer’s patients, it can do more harm than good to correct them. She could have a breakdown, go catatonic or revert to something childlike. Some of the worst tantrums I’ve ever seen have been from ninety-year-olds. There’s no antipsychotic strong enough for what they can do when they get thrown off. You’d be telling her she’s wrong. Broken. That everything she believes is a lie.”
“I don’t like this.”
He lets out a sound that could have been a laugh if the situation were different. It raises the hair on my arms. “Trust me, I don’t either. But for now, we’ll just play along. Redirect whenever possible. Go along with whatever she says until she moves on to something else.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “Even if she thinks I’m her? That we’re …” Under no circumstances can I finish that sentence, so I let it lie.
“It won’t do any good to tell her she’s wrong, because her brain just isn’t wired to believe it. The only thing fighting will do is get us all frustrated. And she likely won’t remember in the morning. For now, it’s my professional opinion that we should just let her believe the fantasy.”
As much as I hate it, he may have a point. I peek at him through my fingers. “Just for today?”
Adam’s tongue comes out to wet his top lip, and he takes the smallest step toward me. The doorknob must have been digging into his back. His chin dips in a soft nod. “Just for today. Half of that will be spent with her digging in the garden, and the other half will be spent watching TV.”
The more I ponder his outlandish idea, the more I see where he’s coming from, much as I hate to admit it. If what he says is true—if correcting her false assumption really is that damaging—I don’t want to make the situation any worse. Lovie’s who taught me how to hold grudges in the first place, and if we’re both pissed?
Well.
Grandpa Bobby used to golf on those days.
Could there be that much harm in pretending? I always wanted to be just like Lovie when I grew up; I’m flattered she considers me worthy now. Maybe this is her subconscious way of fulfilling that for me. Her forgetting me doesn’t hurt as bad when I think about it like that.
I can only hope Adam’s right—that she’ll move on from this wild idea with a good night’s sleep. Who among us hasn’t counted on one of those to act as a reset button? Hell, maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll move on by lunch. Dinner at the latest.
And, hey. At least Adam will be just as miserable as I am. That’s something.
“Sure, whatever,” I say, reaching behind me for the handle.
Which thuds to the floor when I grab it.
“Damn,” Adam says, right in my ear as he inspects the source of the noise.
I try to stick my pinkie in the minuscule hole left behind by the knob, but it’s too small.
“Let me.” He huffs, moving his large body beside mine to effectively shove me out of the way.
“ Excuse you,” I grumble.
I peek over his shoulder as he wedges a finger in the door gap. I wouldn’t be mad if it pinched him.
“It’s jammed,” he says. “Help me push this.”
I press my left hip into the door next to his right one.
The air is warmer near him, probably because our bodies are so close. The scent of sunshine, the one I fell asleep to last night, clings to his clothes and skin. It surrounds us like a bubble.
This is categorically unfair.
The last time I was sweaty in a closet with a man, it was going a lot better for me. Less swearing and more orgasms.
Adam turns to get better leverage on the door, and his other hip presses into my stomach. There must not be enough oxygen in this room, because I’m suddenly a little closer to “more orgasms” than before.
My breath snags somewhere behind my lips, and Adam’s gaze jumps there. Stays there. He tries to shift away, but that only lifts the hem of my shirt, a flash of blazing heat on my bare stomach.
The grunt he lets out is half frustration, half torture. He twists again, his body aligning with mine. Hot, hard planes against all my softest places.
Before I have time to process us touching, the door spills open, coming off track at the bottom. I trip over someone’s foot—I can’t even tell if it’s my own—and fall face first toward the hot stove before Adam grabs two handfuls of my hips, tugging me into him.
We’re breathing tandemly hard, sharp, quick. His chest rises and falls at my back, more of his heat searing through my shirt.
“Are you okay?” We’re close enough for his low timbre to rattle my rib cage.
I look at him over my shoulder, pressing my lips together for a second so my voice won’t come out as shaky as the rest of me currently is. “Yeah.”
He gives me another dip of his chin, his version of a nod.
It’s only when his thumb slides across the still-exposed skin of my hip bone that I remember the laundry closet has two doors, and we could have just gone out the other one.
“I remember those days,” Lovie says, and I startle, jumping away from him.
My grandmother is still seated at the table. She chuckles down at her plate. “Nothing like a stolen kiss in a closet to curl your toes. Right, kids?”
Wrong, kids.
I mean, okay, she’s not wrong in theory. Just in practical application.
She stands, wobbly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to do my puzzles for a while.” Her posture screams try me .
I don’t. Instead, I wander over and pluck a piece of bacon off her plate. It’s cold now, and a little floppy. “Does she need someone to go with her?”
On cue, the bathroom door slams shut. That answers my question.
Adam’s still by the stove, the island separating us with its harsh line.
“She would have eaten more if it’d been turkey bacon,” I tell him. I stack the dishes to clear the table. “And eggs over easy.” There’s a hint of mockery in my tone. I’m trying to get back to equal footing after whatever that was in the closet.
He pulls the pan off the burner, rolls his shoulders and his eyes at the same time. When he speaks again, he’s also back to his arrogant self. “I asked her what she wanted. This was it.” His gaze is trained on the plates in my hand, still mostly full. “I guess she forgot what she likes.”
“You should have asked me. I know her better than you.” Even if she doesn’t know me anymore.
He grits his teeth. “Yes, please tell me more about how to do my job.”
The dishes rattle in my grip as I round the island and head toward the sink. “Do you have experience with other Alzheimer’s patients?” I meant it as another teasing question, but the ending falls flat. Maybe I need the answer more than I realized.
“Just a bit in private settings like this, but I’ve done rotations in memory care facilities,” he says. “I was fully briefed by the other nurses who were here, and Angie—she said you have her cell phone number—she writes incredibly detailed reports. I know what I’m getting into. But you’re welcome to call her, have my references. I know this is a big deal, and I want you to be comfortable with everything.” He’s blocking the sink, but instead of moving out of my way, he holds his hands out in invitation.
I hand him the dirty dishes. My head throbs with a budding headache. It’s some combination of poor sleep, lack of caffeine, and the tension within these walls pressing in on me from all angles.
The toilet flushes down the hall.
“All I need to know,” I say softly, looking up at him, “is that you’re prepared to take care of her how she needs. She’s … she’s important to me.”
His eyes flash with something I don’t know how to read. After the morning, I’m not even sure what book we’re in. “Of course she is. And yes. I know there will be some”—his head tilts as he searches for the word he wants, and he winces—“growing pains, but my job is to keep her healthy first and happy second. If that’s also what you want, I don’t see any reason why we can’t work together for her benefit.”
I see an only-one-bed-shaped reason and an only-one-pink-bathroom reason.
But I think back to Adam, describing all the care Lovie receives daily. The routines she’s built and perfected, here in her life without her husband or granddaughter to keep her company. The memories she’s already lost, the one she’s clinging to with everything.
I know her, but not the way I used to, and she doesn’t know me at all anymore.
I know this disease on paper, through saved internet articles and clinical studies, but I don’t know how to do this on my own.
Whether I admit it or not, I need Adam Wheeler.
“So, you’re here to stay,” I murmur.
One succinct dip of his chin. “I am here to stay.” He pauses for a long time, long enough for me to finish clearing the table and slide the butter back into the fridge. “Except on the weekends, when I work my other job. I already cleared it with AngelCare.”
“Are you two lovebirds still canoodling in here?” Lovie says, poking her head into the kitchen.
Can we really do this?
Do we have a choice?
It’s just one day of acting like I love him, and only in Lovie’s presence.
Only one day.