25
Julia
The rehab center we move my mother into is perfect. Well, as much as a sterile facility can be. Located a few miles outside of Sparrow Lake—I can easily ride a bike—it’s on a sprawling ten-acre estate with assisted living apartments, a hospital for emergency care, and the rehabilitation wing. Pretty landscaping lined the sidewalk when I wheeled her in. A nurse met us with a smile and showed us to her room.
Eric brings in the last box from the truck and sets it on the floor. There were only two, one with her clothes that I washed at my house, the other full of photos and mementos she’s been hanging on to.
The room is not big, but it is private. I pull out a purple comforter I splurged on at Target and make up her bed. A small kitchenette, basically a fridge, microwave, and sink are on the right. A desk is on the left that overlooks a walking path with trees and little gardens.
I take in the tiny Christmas tree in the corner of her room.
It’s so much better than the car. Tears well up in my eyes. I swallow them down.
The doctor and his staff helped me apply for a grant from a foundation for homeless people to cover what the state doesn’t. He assured me this place would assist with her loss of motor coordination on her right side, the speech therapy, plus the memory issues she’s experiencing. We met her speech and occupational therapist at the hospital several days ago. A psychologist also visited. She’ll be receiving counseling for her addiction.
My chest tightens with hope, strange and alien. The feeling is a precarious thing, as if I’m afraid to believe in a happy ending. It’s possible her stroke was the best thing that could have happened.
Mom runs her fingers down the beige curtains in the window, and when she speaks, it’s slurred. “Pretty.”
I open a cannister on the counter. “They have all these teas for you to try. Peach honey? Peppermint? Do you want me to make you some?”
She points to a recliner. Eric nods and wheels her over, then eases her into it by basically picking her up and sitting her down.
I make the tea using the microwave while Eric unpacks the boxes. He picks something up and holds it up. “Who’s this nerd?”
I groan at a picture of me winning a medal for an art contest in fifth grade.
“Me.” I snatch it out of his hands while he hovers behind me.
“Nice mullet,” he murmurs.
I poke him in the side. “Our neighbor was in beauty school. Sherry. She’d come over and offer to cut my hair to practice. You think I would have learned after the mullet, but I wanted blonde highlights once and she begged to do them. My hair came out with one giant white streak. I don’t know how that even happens. Mom rushed to the drugstore and got a toner. It didn’t work and I looked like a skunk. Good thing it was before you met me.”
I reach up and brush a kiss over his cheek. We’ve been spending as much time together as we can these past few weeks. Between hockey and classes and my job, it’s not much, but we’re making it work.
He grins and takes the tea I made for him while I set Mom’s on the side table next to her, then pause as I realize the mistake. She can’t drink that. Adjusting to her needs will take some time. I rummage in the cabinets and find a tumbler with a lid and straw and pour it in.
Mom stares at the photo still in his hand. “Keep.”
I raise my brows. “You want me to keep it?”
She nudges her head at Eric.
“She wants me to keep it,” he drawls in a triumphant tone as he tucks the photo in his wallet.
I smile and turn on the TV to PBS, where Downton Abbey is on, and Mom nods her approval.
After the nurse comes in to help her with dinner, Eric and I say our goodbyes and step out into a cold wind. He tightens his arm around me and ushers me to the truck.
“You okay?” he asks as he opens my door and peers down at my face.
“It’s a nice place. She looks happy.”
He glances at me. “But…”
“I just hate leaving her. She doesn’t know anyone, and it’s all new, and she can’t even walk on her own. What will she do when she needs to get up and go to the bathroom? What if she gets sick?”
“She’ll get to know people. She has a buzzer if she needs help. There are nurses monitoring her.”
I sigh. “Thank you for helping us. I don’t know how I would have done all this, mentally, without you.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Glad to do it. How did you get this scar?” He strokes the scar on my temple that my hair usually hides.