Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
Eric
I was not naturally an anxious man. For me, life had obstacles and those impediments were there to be defeated, using the skills, tools, resources, and experience available to myself in order to overcome them.
My parents, however, were an obstacle that I had yet to truly learn how to navigate.
When I received the call about my father’s fall, I panicked. It was such an uncomfortable feeling to have, panic. Like all of the control in the world could not contain the storm that barrelled its way through my mind. The concern for my father’s health. How my mother would fair. The fact that I would need to go see them in person. The realization that if I went on my own it would only make their mental health worse because I had created a situation where they now expected me to be accompanied by someone, lest they start to piece together in their fragmented memories that something was off, that they were off, that their whole lives were off…
It was a grave that I had dug for myself in thinking that the best thing for them was to let them live out their fantasies of having their one and only son be as happy in a relationship as they had been—and still, in a way, were. It put me in a situation where I had to open up my familial private life to random females who came and went as the seasons did, and now, put me in the same position with Jasmine, who I genuinely liked and enjoyed, to do something that was not technically discussed previously in our contract.
That Jasmine had agreed to come with me before I had the mind to explain things fully to her had been astonishing, in hindsight. That she had been empathetic to my situation, even if I couldn’t find the words to tell her just how deeply the loss of my parents affected me, was just as surprising. Because even though they were still alive, their decline into dementia still felt like losing them. The fact that my mother and father, so strong in their heyday, were now deteriorating…
I pushed the heartbreaking thought out of my head. It wouldn’t do well to have myself too wrapped up in my worries and concerns before I went to see them. My mother could spot inner turmoil even with her mind not all the way there, and the disturbance would upset her.
But I couldn’t stop wondering, had I done the right thing, bringing them to this care facility when I lived so far away?
Had I done the right thing, dragging Jasmine here to meet them?
Was there really a right or a wrong way to do any of this?
The questions circling in my mind seemed endless, with no easy answers.
I had checked out completely on the drive to the Wellington Later Life Care Facility, where my parents stayed. The sprawling grounds, contained behind a large, beautiful red brick wall and iron gate, gave off the air of safety. But every time I came here, I could not help but feel that it had to be little more than a pretty prison for people that were fortunate enough to be cast off by family wealthy enough to afford such luxurious assisted living. As if that could ever ease my profound guilt over the situation.
“Mr. Maxim?”
I jolted, caught up in my own fragmented thoughts as Paula, the receptionist at the front desk, called my attention back to the fact that I was supposed to be checking myself and Jasmine in.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus on our upcoming visit. “Sorry. My head spaced out there a little bit.”
The woman smiled, generous and kind. “No worries, Mr. Maxim. I understand that you’re here to see your parents. Richard took a bit of a fall, though I hear he’s been talking non-stop about getting to see you and your wife again since we told him you’d be coming to visit soon.”
She looked to Jasmine, her warm smile never wavering. Paula was one of those who I interacted with here on a regular basis. She knew the charade well and was more than willing to play along in order to keep my parents happy. The entire staff were all very discreet, and never said anything inappropriate to anyone that I brought here.
“What shall we call you, Miss—?”
“Jasmine,” she answered beside me.
Paula’s smile seemed to brighten even more. “Oh. What a beautiful name.” She looked over the desk, clicked her tongue and turned her attention back to me. “Ring, Mr. Maxim?”
Shit. I had almost forgot.
At least the rings were in my jacket pocket, where I’d put them earlier. I had a set made after a visit where my mother specifically hyper-fixated on the fact that neither myself nor the woman I had brought at the time—my supposed wife—wore rings. It had been a point of blasphemy for my mother who was all about decorum and tradition, and I hadn’t been able to get around her scrutiny the entire visit. She had enough faculties at the time to question if I had been trying to trick her, and the only thing that had assuaged my mother’s dismayed demeanor was informing her that we were planning on getting new rings for an anniversary that didn’t exist. Now, she loved looking at them each time I came.
I pulled the set out of my pocket, slipping my band onto my finger easily before looking down to Jasmine. She had not spoken much since we’d arrived. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves, or if she could tell that I was filled with anxiety and that was throwing our balance off. I wasn’t usually like this. I was always calm, collected, and sane. That was how my parents had raised me to be. The fact that it was so easy to put a crack in the facade…
Jasmine held her left hand out toward me. She’d dressed in a pretty, but modest floral dress for the occasion, and she smiled up at me, her head tilted to the side, her hair falling over her shoulder in soft waves. “Well? Shouldn’t you properly ring your wife, Mr. Maxim?” she teased.
I let out a puff of a laugh. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Me grounding her? Giving her guidance? Making her feel calm and reassured?
Is this what mutual exchange felt like? That effortless melding…
I mentally shook the fanciful thought from my head. I gently took her hand, slipping the wedding band on her finger first, and then its partner, the would-be engagement ring. They were impressive sets, beautiful white gold, the engagement ring a brilliant, glittering diamond set elegantly into the center with a twining band of smaller diamonds surrounding the larger stone. The rings fit perfectly. Slid on without resistance and the design suited her slender fingers, too. Almost as if it had been designed specifically for her.
The thought made my chest tighten, made me feel things like pride and possession and a whole host of other emotions that were completely foreign to me.
When I realized that I was staring too long, I cleared my throat and laced my fingers with hers. Not because it was for show, but because I genuinely wanted to hold her hand in mine.
I lifted my gaze back up to hers and exhaled a deep breath. “Well, let’s go see Mother and Father.”
I guided Jasmine toward my parent’s apartment. At this point, I knew the layout of the facility like it were my own apartment. I had spent months before deciding on this place, looking over floor plans, perusing testimonials, reading professional feedback on the facility’s amenities, its quality-of-life implementations, and actually visiting several times just so that I was reassured this was a reputable, safe establishment my parents would eventually call their home. I’d come here enough in the last five years that it was almost second nature even if I couldn’t be here every day.
Everything was warm toned. There were browns, deep reds, burnt oranges, in the color scheme. I had expected white when I first began looking into extended care facilities. White, on white, on more white. Clinical, sanitized, and detached, like a hospital or those elderly homes that people hear horror stories about that abuse their patients and leave them to fend for themselves more often than not, which had always been my greatest fear for them.
I’d committed all of this to memory. The layout, the colors, how happy and cared for the patients we passed looked. I did this every single time I came here, because if I didn’t it always felt wrong, in a way. More wrong than it did in general when I really allowed myself to consider that I could leave of my own free will, and they could not.
“Eric,” came Jasmine’s soft voice.
I once again pulled myself out of my unsolicited thoughts and looked down at her, slowing my pace. We were in the wide hall. Their hall. “Yes?” I asked, hearing the gruffness in my voice.
“Relax,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I am relaxed.”
She gave me a deadpan look, along with a soft scoff as she stopped walking, halting us entirely before we reached my parents’ door. “You are not relaxed. You’ve been stiff and tense ever since we moved away from the receptionist desk.”
I both hated, and liked, how perceptive she was. Hated it because she too easily saw that weakness in me. Liked it because I’d been on my own for so long that I couldn’t remember the last time anyone cared enough about me to make sure I was truly okay—and meant it.
She guided us over to the side, just out of the way of the walking path. Her hand slid from mine and she reached up, brushing her fingers along my cheek in a way that made my heartbeat fall back to a regular rhythm, instead of racing erratically in my chest as we neared my parents’ apartment.
“Whatever is on your mind, we got this,” she whispered, so only I could hear, her beautiful eyes shining with genuine sincerity. “I said I would help you with your parents, didn’t I? So, relax. You’re not alone, Eric.”
You’re not alone, Eric. I eased out a long breath. Coming from her, those words did something to me inside, made me feel calmer, more stable somehow.
Without warning, she leaned up, softly pressing her lips to mine. We hadn’t so much as fooled around the night before; the last twenty-four plus hours had been devoid of any sexual contact, even in the basic sense. But now, her mouth on mine was electric. A spark that snapped me to focus on her, on her words, on her true and honorable intentions when so many before her had treated this situation as an unpleasant, but necessary job to gain a paycheck.
From the depths of my soul, I knew that wasn’t the case with Jasmine. I also realized I hadn’t brought her here just for the sake of keeping up the facade to my parents that I had barricaded myself into. I had brought her here because to some extent I knew that I would need her support and I hoped—no, I knew after our few months together—that Jasmine would be able to give it to me.
My fingers slipped into her silky, unbound hair, pulling her closer as I deepened our kiss. There was a hunger in me that I could not explain and was not wholly sexual. I just wanted to be closer to her. I wanted to taste her, and smell her, feel her warmth on my skin and… fuck if I knew how to handle all these new and unfamiliar emotions.
With a soft, nearly imperceptible groan, I pulled away before things got intense. Or, more intense than they already felt.
“We got this,” I repeated to her, the words sounding almost silly coming from my mouth, but the sentiment was all the same.
She smiled and nodded. “We got this.”
Feeling more centered, we finished walking to the end of the hall, hand in hand, where my parents’ apartment was located. Their door was red, and for some reason had a Christmas wreath hung on the outside. It must have been my mother’s doing. Possibly, she was in the early Christmas spirit, or, more likely, she thought that it was high time for Christmas to be here already since that was her favorite time of the year.
Gently, I knocked on the door. I didn’t like walking in unannounced since I never knew where their mental state might be. Sometimes I was a stranger when they looked at me, and then there were those precious times they immediately knew I was their son. I always hoped for the latter, even though the former was becoming more frequent.
From the other side there was a little thump, the sound of quickly treading footsteps, and then finally the click at the lock on the door being undone. A few seconds later the door opened, with my mother on the other side.
Born and raised in France, my mother had always been a waifish woman. She had not cleared even five feet in her youth, and as she had gotten older only seemed to have lost inches as the years went on. She was significantly shorter than myself and even more so than petite Jasmine, who looked down at my mother comically before she schooled her expression with a warm smile, as though this weren’t the first time she was meeting my mother—and the first impression wasn’t of her in an oversized Christmas sweater that I recognized as my father’s and, presumably, no pants, since her legs were bare.
I drew in a relieved breath as my mother’s face broke into a wide, beaming smile of recognition. She stepped toward me, her thin arms instinctually wrapping around my middle as she held me tight.
“Eric! You’re here!” she exclaimed, and I could still hear the lilting French accent in her voice, despite her moving to America after marrying my father in her early twenties. “Your father and I didn’t know when you’d be coming. They said you were going to visit, but that was weeks ago.”
It was just yesterday.
I hugged her back, waiting until she had her fill and released me, but at the moment, she was content to keep me in her arms. “Well, you know me,” I said, going along with her personal perception of time as opposed to the reality of time that I knew. “I got caught up with work. I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to make it up to you.”
She sighed happily. “You make it up to me just being here, darling.”
Her head rested on my chest, and I cradled her there, her thin whisps of grey hair soft like a powdered cloud beneath my fingertips. It was almost like embracing a juvenile, really. It was a strange feeling that I had yet to truly come to understand or even know how to navigate. Being a caretaker to those who had taken care of me for most of my life was not something that I had ever considered being a part of my future. Foolishly, I had always pictured my parents in my adult years being the way they had always been. Young. Spry. Unmovable in their ways and unshakable in their countenance.
“Eric?”
A feeble yet still somehow clear male voice came from an adjoining room. I pulled back from my mother to look in the direction of their bedroom, where I knew my father was likely resting. Like a mischievous child, my mother grabbed my hand, pulling me toward her bedroom. I quickly looked back to Jasmine, who smiled at me and took the free hand I offered, following us along on what probably looked like from the outside as a pair of people being led on an adventure.
Well, for Jasmine it might be one into the realms of the unknown. For me, I wasn’t entirely sure what to call it, adventure or not.
Their room was one I had been in many times. My mother liked to show off her décor every time I visited—which would sometimes be pristine, artistic accoutrements, and at other times would resemble more the machinations of a child putting a miss-match of anything they liked together as opposed to designs that made sense.
Today, it seemed a combination of both. I noticed new framed fashion magazines on the wall that hadn’t been there the last time I’d been here, and they’d changed to a red, black, and white color scheme with semi-modern furnishings. It was not common in most late-life care facilities to allow such free decorating, but given how expensive the place was, I’d made sure there was a considerable amount of wiggle room when it came to such things. I also provided a generous stipend every month to suit my mother’s whims. She only had to order online during those times she remembered, or through catalogues that she managed to get her hands on.
My attention focused on these new details, the haphazard way that it was put together, because it stalled me from having to look at my father. Shame was a deep-rooted thing, though it wasn’t shame for my father. Shame and guilt for oneself was so much richer, so much more potent.
My father was nowhere near as small as my mother. He had still managed to maintain his above six-foot height—which I’d inherited—along with his broad shoulders and chest, even in his older age. I could not help but take that in with the juxtaposition of his weary, wrinkle-lined face and feel my chest tighten just a little more when that face crinkled into a smile.
“Eric. You’re back.”
My mother went around to the far side of their bed, sitting on the edge. She pressed her hand to his forehead, a gentle caress that my father leaned into. Jasmine came up beside me, an almost mirror to their own gestures as she slid her hand in my hold.
It gave me the push to speak.
“I heard you hurt yourself, Father,” I said, moving to the open side of the bed and closer to him, bringing Jasmine with me. “So, I wanted to come see how you were.”
He waved his hand in the air in a familiar gesture, like it wasn’t a big deal. “All I did was tumble a little.”
“You hurt your hip, Richard,” my mother scolded him before cuddling down at his side, almost in the way a child would comfort a parent—or seek comfort from them. He sighed and cuddled her in kind.
I had no idea what to say. It would be like my father, with or without his condition, to blow off a whole broken hip as if it were nothing—though I was grateful it had been a minor injury in comparison. He’d likely gotten hurt fooling around, doing something he thought he had the physical capacity to handle, only to have it bite him in the ass.
The distraction came when my father seemed to finally notice Jasmine in the room. His face at first held a flicker of confusion—and of course I worried. But then, a deeper, warmer smile spread across his face.
“Oh. Hello dear. Welcome back,” he said, as if he were greeting an old friend. “Did Eric drag you across country again? Just for my little accident?”
Here was the true test, how Jasmine and my parents would interact with each other. I had no way of knowing how well this would go. They didn’t recall enough to remember the previous woman’s face; only enough to remember that I had brought a woman, that she was my “wife,” and that they liked her well enough to be cordial.
Jasmine didn’t miss a beat.
“I insisted,” she said, releasing my hand to reach out and take my father’s. “I couldn’t imagine sitting back home wondering how you were, and I know that you’re a little stubborn, so I had to see for myself that you were alright.” She gave him a genuinely sweet smile. “I’m glad you’re okay. You had us worried.”
My father tilted his head, like he was trying to comprehend something, before he shook off the notion and laughed. “All you young people are the same! Always worrying about what us old people are doing. I’ll have you know, back in my day, I’d be up and about and spry in no time.”
I shook my head, even though I was glad to see him in good spirits. “You hurt your hip, Father.”
He scoffed. “It’s nothing more than a bruise. Had worse in the Army. These kids don’t understand that. But—” He leaned forward a little, grinning, and at least he’d remembered to put his teeth in today. “The staff does bring me candy now. Soft toffees, because of my tumble. Only thing that’s keeping me from running around the yard right now!”
I grinned, even as Jasmine tried to stifle a little laugh. My father was certainly as stubborn as she’d teased him about. No injury or ailment was as bad as anything he had dealt with in the military. And why would it be? He’d engaged in warfare. What was a little bruised hip to a man like that?
Jasmine leaned a little closer to my father, her voice low and conspiratorial when she spoke. “So, about those toffees…enough to share?”
It was my mother who spoke up. “Oh, yes! He doesn’t need nearly as many as what they give him.”
“What? It’s not like it’ll rot my teeth anymore.” My father snickered, reaching his fingers into his mouth to pull out of the top set of his false teeth.
They came out with a metallic little click, being the kind that snapped into the gums with small magnets that were situated into the bones and a matching set in the teeth themselves.
Mother bopped him on the shoulder. “Don’t just pop them out like that! It’s impolite.” She shook her head, looking to Jasmine and me. “Can you believe him?”
I found it amusing to see my parents so playful, when they’d once been so distinguished and dignified, which was where I’d gotten my own formal personality from. It made me wonder if at some point in my life I’d ever become less rigid and more relaxed.
“I dunno,” Jasmine said, following my father’s lead just as mischievously. “I think he’s on to something. Imagine all the sweets you could eat if cavities weren’t a problem.”
My father nodded. “Aye. See. She has the right idea.”
I shook my head, looking to my mother. “The toffees? Tell me where they are and I can get us all one.”
My mother beamed, her brow furrowing for a moment as she thought, then finally answered. “They’re in the candy jar in the kitchen, dear.”
Nodding, I looked to Jasmine. I didn’t want to ask outright if she’d be okay alone with my parents, but I couldn’t help the hesitance, either. Without even having to voice it, though, Jasmine smiled at me.
“I’ll be fine in here,” she said in a gregarious tone, and shooed me away with her hand in a playful manner. “I hear that I’m great company.”
Nodding, I made my way out of my parents’ room and back into the main living area of the apartment. It was at least clean, I noticed. Even the kitchen. I saw small reassurances placed here and there that told me that my parents weren’t worse for wear here. They were still thriving. Happy. In love with each other. They just…
I sighed as I pulled four toffees from the candy jar. You’re worrying too fucking much.
And I’d put all of that on Jasmine. Yet for all that, she seemed to be handling my parents well. I was honestly surprised. This whole thing had been a massive, unplanned gamble on my part that should have gone wrong by now, as it had in the past. She could have said no. She could have judged me for how I chose to take care of my parents. She could have ridiculed the way that they were.
Could have, yet she didn’t.
Unsure of what to do with the way I felt about the situation, I came back to my parents’ room. Hearing the three of them speaking, I paused just outside the door.
“…I know it’s probably too soon, but you know what would really brighten up things around here? Grandchildren.”
My face reddened at my mother’s voice, but I stayed where I was, admittedly curious about how Jasmine would answer.
A small, nervous—or perhaps embarrassed—laugh came.
“Well, you know Eric. Work, work, work,” she said in an easy-going tone, handling the time alone with my parents like a champ. “We’re not really thinking about having kids right now.”
“But at some point?” My mother’s voice was so damn hopeful, which in turn made me feel oddly wistful that I’d never given my parents something so simple, all because of how particular I’d always been when it came to women.
Until Jasmine , trickled through my mind.
A beat of silence passed before Jasmine responded to my mother’s request. “Well, it’s not completely off the table. Maybe a few of those emptier rooms in the apartment could be filled with pattering feet. But, until then, Eric and I are enjoying having time to ourselves.”
It was my father I heard this time, giving a slight snort. “Emilie and I didn’t have Eric until we were in our thirties. We liked our ‘wrapped up in each other’ time, too.’”
My mother clicked her tongue. “Richard just forgets how nice it was to have a baby between the two of us.”
The wording made my blood run a bit colder. They were talking about memories now. Recollections. This was usually when it was a prime time to step in and make sure that they didn’t try to push those memories too far into places where there were gaps. Areas where they wouldn’t know what to say or why things didn’t make sense the way they used to.
But that didn’t come.
“I know exactly what it was like!” my father responded jovially. “All those late nights. Eric was such a fussy baby. Coming home on leave was almost like coming back to a whole second job.” He laughed heartily. “But I loved it. When you have a child of your own, you’ll understand how much of your world is really just theirs. You’re making sure that it’s the best possible place for them to thrive. I think sometimes that I was too hard on him…sometimes…”
My father’s voice trailed off, and hearing the confusion in his tone that told me he was grasping at other memories, or fading out of the current ones, I finally stepped into the room.
“Got your toffees,” I said, as though I hadn’t heard a large portion of their conversation.
My father was immediately distracted by the treat, and both he and my mother were quick and willing to take their sweets and indulge in them.
I handed one off to Jasmine, as well. I searched her face as her eyes met mine, unable to help but wonder what she was thinking after all that talk of babies. If marriage and children were something she wanted for herself eventually. And why did the thought of any other man giving her those things make me feel like I’d been sucker punched in the stomach?