A few minutes later, I was half listening until she uttered my mother’s name.
“I saw that no-count Martha Littlejohn today at the Piggly Wiggly,” Vera said.
I gave Vera my full attention, afraid of what past sins or secrets she might utter in a moment like this. What awfulness might she unearth to a nurse or attendant she mistook for me? And if she did, would they take her seriously or chalk it up to her brain’s dysfunction?
Vera continued, “She hightailed it outta that store, too, when I told her not to come around my house no more. Ellie and Sammy mine now. Anyway, she got to moving.” Vera gave a woo-hoo kind of chuckle like she had won the battle between them. I sank back into the chair, watching her with a guarded eye like an overprotective mother hovering around her firstborn.
“I baked sweet potato pies,” Vera went on. “You want some sweet potato pie?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I offered a weary smile. Baking was one of the few scattered memories that time and illness allowed Vera to hold on to. She hadn’t baked a pie in as many years as Martha Littlejohn had been dead. I missed one, but not the other.
“You seen Sammy? He ain’t come by the house in I don’t know when.” Vera removed a handkerchief from her dress pocket and twisted the end with thin brown fingers. “I want him to put up my screens so I can open up the windows around here.”
“I’ll tell him to stop by.”
“How about Ellie? You seen Ellie?”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I’ll tell her to stop by too.” I rubbed Vera’s arm, more for my comfort than hers. We sat in silence for a few minutes until the door swung open. A male attendant with two gold teeth symmetrically placed in the front of his mouth barreled inside holding a dinner tray.
“Time for dinner, Ms. Henderson,” the attendant said in a loud cheery tone, baring his toothy golden wares.
Vera’s smile dissipated into a grimace and I sensed trouble right away. I patted Vera’s shoulder and clicked the Barcalounger into an upright position.
“Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes,” he said, placing the tray on the table in front of her. Vera’s eyes set squarely on the man, a lion on her prey.
The attendant gave a wary look at Vera, then at me and back at Vera. “We got you some sweet tea, just like you asked.” The attendant smiled, lifting a white doily from the top of the tall glass.
I moved in and lifted the stainless-steel top from the entrée dish. “It looks good, Vee.” The attendant waited quietly for a few seconds before I chimed up again. “Let me help you with your napkin.” I shook loose the paper napkin and tucked it inside the collar of Vera’s blouse.
“I’m not eatin’ that shit!” Vera said, her icy glare still locked on the attendant.
He gave a nervous laugh. “Aww . . . Ms. Henderson, the food around here isn’t that bad, is it?”
“I said I’m not eatin’ that shit.”
“Okay . . . I’ll just leave it here. You can eat later.” The attendant cast a glance at me looking for rescue.
Vera glowered at the attendant, her eyes steeped with anger. The kind of countenance that I had only seen since moving her into the nursing home but was becoming more frequent with the progression of her illness.
The attendant leaned slightly in Vera’s direction with a tentative smile. In an instant, Vera sliced her thin brown hands through the tray, sending Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and dishes careening against the wall and onto the floor in a loud crash. The attendant darted back to avoid the flying food.
Vera bent a pleading face to me. “Miss, please help me. They’re trying to poison me in here. Please help me.”
The attendant gave me a sympathetic nod before he knelt down to clear the food and broken glass strewn across the floor.
“Vera . . . listen to me. No one is trying to poison you.” I grasped Vera’s hands. “It’s okay, sweetie.”
“Get me outta here! I wanna go home!” Vera’s pleas, demanding at first, soon swelled into the sort of hiccup-sobbing that always made me feel so guilty for doing this to her. She just wanted to be somewhere familiar. Two years and all my visits failed to make this place feel like home to her.
“I’ll get a mop,” the attendant said quietly as he carried out the remnants of Vera’s meal.
“Thank you.” I turned back to Vera. “Shh . . . Vee, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
I stroked Vera’s hands, fighting back my own tears. I missed her so much even though she was right here beside me. The heartache hits different when someone you love so deeply is physically present but mentally a hundred miles away. The attendant returned and cleaned up the mess. I still held on to Vera even after he left, until the hum of the heater lulled us both into subdued silence. I sat on the arm of the Barcalounger, holding her close and stroking her gray braids. This woman who had once been a dominant force in Chillicothe was like a small and fragile bird in my arms, her wings broken by the dementia. After a few minutes, Vera fell asleep in my arms. I used to think being here in the safety of this facility was better than her ambling around in that old farmhouse alone. Now, I didn’t know what to think anymore.