3 #2
As Griff and I head for the hallway, I catch sight of Mabel in the corner, her slight frame crouched beside her brother Rob,
another resident with dementia. We were introduced at a meeting for residents’ families a few months ago and have been friends
ever since.
“Have a little walk, Rob,” says Mabel. “Please.”
The small, white-haired man jerks away with a sharp flick of his hand. “Get off me! I’m sick of your bloody fussing!”
Mabel runs her shaky fingers through her gray bob, her brown eyes smudged with exhaustion. “It’s alright,” she says, to no
one in particular. “He’s just tired.” She tries again; he flinches, and her shoulders sag.
I ask one of the carers to take Griff and step toward the siblings. “Hey, Rob,” I say gently, bending to get to his eye level.
“I’m Lisa.”
“Go away!” he yells.
“We met a while back at the cafe. You told me that story about your cat stealing your neighbor’s dentures.”
He glances at me, confused, then lets out a low chuckle. “Best cat I’ve ever had. Never did like that neighbor.”
I give his hand a pat. “She sounds like she’s got real gumption! Can you tell me again what her name is?”
“Cottonmouth.”
“Wow, that’s a great name, I don’t suppose you have a photo I could see?”
“I do on my wall at home. I live somewhere near here, I think?” Rob looks up to Mabel, who nods in confirmation.
I offer my hand without pressure. “I’m headed that way. If you like, I’ll walk with you, and you can tell me more about Cottonmouth.”
The old man pushes himself up, and I steady him.
Smiling, I guide Rob toward the hallway. And before I realize I’m doing it, I start whistling—some sweet, aimless tune I don’t
even recognize. Something about the music, or the rain, or maybe the way Frank said my name, has stirred a feeling I thought
was long gone.
A few steps in, I look back. Frank waves goodbye from the doorway, something soft and shining in his expression.
“There she is,” says Rob, as we reach his room, pointing to a framed picture of a white fluffy cat. “That’s my girl. That’s
Cottonmouth. She follows me everywhere, even the toilet, nosy little madam she is!”
“She’s a real beauty, Rob. I bet you’ve taken excellent care of her.”
He breaks into a gummy grin.
“Well, I better get back to my brother. Thank you for showing me that photo, Rob, it’s made my day.”
“No worries, love,” he says, still smiling.
Mabel’s eyes are shiny. “Lisa . . . that was amazing. You’re a natural at this.”
I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“I’m very grateful, sweetheart. I’m ever so tired these days. I have trouble getting to sleep—my mind races.”
I nod sympathetically. “Have you ever tried listening to an audiobook or relaxation track at night? I’ve discovered these marvelous headphones that are like a soft headband you can wear comfortably in bed. They really help me wind down.”
“Oh, that sounds like it would be worth a try. I’ll have to look out for them.”
I take her hands in mine. “Mabel, you are doing a wonderful job. Never forget that. Take it from me, this is one of the hardest
roles there is. I hope you are being kind to yourself.”
“You too, darling girl.”
Rob’s watery eyes dart around the room. “She must be about somewhere. Cottonmouth! Here, puss-puss-puss!”
Mabel and I exchange glances. “I wish they allowed pets here,” she whispers. “Don’t worry, Rob, she’ll just be off chasing
birds.”
“Cheeky beggar!” He laughs, settling himself into his armchair.
I hug Mabel and head to Griff’s room, pulling out my phone on the way. A few taps and the headphones are ordered, along with
a realistic white plush cat that purrs when you stroke it. Baby dolls are great for dementia care; there’s no reason stuffed
toy animals couldn’t work in the same way. Both are one-day delivery, so I’ll bring them in tomorrow.
Griff’s lunch has arrived, though it’s not even midday. Who am I to judge? I often eat lunch at ten forty-five, not that I
admit that to anyone.
“Ooh, I wonder what’s on the menu today?” I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as possible. I lift the plastic cover and suppress
a gag.
Nursing-home food is notoriously bad, but I wouldn’t serve this to my worst enemy. My lips force a smile for Griff’s sake,
but the sloppy instant mash, canned veg, and tin of tuna isn’t fooled—even it knows what a disgrace it is. I hand him a fork,
but he shakes his head. Dementia has taken his mind, not his tastebuds.
“Well, looks like we’re having bullets for lunch.” I produce the emergency bag of chocolate-coated licorice I’ve brought and extensively taste-tested for him.
“I’ve been eating terribly again this week, Ratbag,” I tell him. “Tim Tams every night.”
I’m not religious, but my brother has kind of become my own private priest, except he doesn’t dole out penance and he won’t
remember a word I say. Some days it’s wonderfully liberating to dump my conscience in his lap—the chocolate binges, the bad
habits, the tiny moral failures—knowing they’ll be wiped clean in seconds.
I offer the bullets. His lips twitch, a whisper of a smile, and I feel a flush of something on the edge of love, recalling
a sticky summer road trip to Queensland, Mum bribing us into silence with two packets. We devoured them, bare legs glued to
the sweaty vinyl seats of the unair-conditioned Ford.
“Hello, Griff!”
Tessa, the orderly, pops her head in the door, graying blond curls escaping her bun as if she’s wrestled three mobility scooters
and a laundry cart on the way here. She’s been multitasking since the activities coordinator quit. “Here’s the schedule for
next week. We’ve got that new musician on regularly now, that could be something exciting for you . . . ?”
I nod. “Yes. That could be very exciting for me.” Very exciting indeed . . .
Tessa tilts her head.
My cheeks warm. Did I just say that out loud? “I mean, uh, that could be exciting for him.” I jab a thumb at my brother.
You’ll be single forever, you know! Ursula shrieks. But behind the usual mental chaos, a gentler sound hums: the soothing melody of Frank’s guitar, each note
laced with kindness. Even Griff was moved by it, and that’s saying something.
I’ve been second-guessing my decision to practice ukulele at the nursing home, but my experience this morning has given me a spark of confidence.
Someone once said I’ve got the voice of a songbird.
Technically, the word they used was “crow,” but that’s a songbird, right?
I’ve been making progress in my online lessons, and I recently learned “You Are My Sunshine.” Not well, but practice makes perfect.
I pull my ukulele from my oversized tote. As I start to play, Griff lets out a long mournful groan. He’s trying to sing along!
His eyes mist over. Clearly, he’s moved. Just like with Frank’s music.
I push through to the final line, holding the last note for maximum emotional impact. “Please don’t take my sunshine awaaaaaaay!”