I have a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. I think I might be sick.
“I’m just kidding,” Nancy says quickly when she sees my face. “I’m sure she just forgot. She was ninety-six, after all!” She takes her phone out of her bag, looks at the screen, then stuffs it back in. “Anyway, I can’t wait any longer. If you see the Coopers, tell them I’ll try to come back later tonight.”
My head is spinning as I watch Nancy get back into her car. That was an incredibly disturbing conversation. Everyone on the block assumed poor Mrs. Kirkland had just taken an innocent spill down the stairs. She was ninety-six, after all, as Nancy said.
Elderly people fall. It doesn’t have to be something sinister.
Chapter 19
Comment on April’s Sweet Secrets YouTube video:
In every episode of the show, April says goodnight to her mother. Want to know a secret about April?
She hates her mother.
A few times a year, my mother guest stars on my show.
It’s a bit of a challenge, to say the least. She is pretty out of it these days. But at the same time, she gets a huge kick out of helping me with cooking. I tell her exactly what to do—mix this, pour that—and she does it for me. The viewers love these shows. I get so many positive comments and usually a big uptick in hits.
That’s why I want to do a show with my mother now. I’ve been getting so many negative comments lately. I desperately need some positivity right now.
Shady Oaks Nursing Home is about a forty-minute drive from our house. There were closer nursing homes, but I liked the feel of this one. When I walked in, I just got the vibe that it was a place my mother would like. It was expensive, but I was willing to pay anything. It’s for my mother, after all. She deserves the best.
Unfortunately, my life has been so crazy lately, I only manage to visit once a month. Sometimes less. I feel guilty about it, but most of the time my mom is so out of it that she hardly even notices when I come. And I make sure the nurses play my show for her every night. I even bought her an iPad so she could watch it.
Shady Oaks has over a hundred beds, and it’s a large, new-looking building of two stories with trees dotting the entrance. Not that the residents seem to spend much time outdoors. I had imagined my mother sitting outside on the lawn, but in all the times I’ve visited, I’ve yet to see one resident enjoying a sunny day.
To get inside the facility, you have to press a red button, which unlocks the front door. In order to leave, you have to punch in a four-digit code. Shady Oaks has a dedicated memory care unit, and it’s not uncommon for those patients to try to escape. Fortunately, none of them can remember the code.
I head over to Shady Oaks with Bobby after school the next day. In one hand, I’ve got my camera and tripod, and in the other, I’ve got a grocery bag filled to the brim with ingredients.
Delilah at the front desk waves at me when I come in. She always has a great smile. “Welcome, April. Hi, Bobby! Are you two here to film again?”
I nod eagerly. “We’re making no-bake cheesecake today.”
“Sounds delicious! Leave some for me!”
“Actually…” I reach into my reusable bag of groceries—I always shop with reusable bags. “I brought some cheesecake bites for anyone who gets hungry in the meantime.”
Delilah’s face lights up as she takes one of my cheesecake bites. They’re so easy to make. I probably break out my mini muffin tin about three or four times a week.
“Mmm…” She moans as she samples one of my cheesecake bites. “April, these are incredible!”
“Take another!” I smile as she eagerly obliges. “Also, I was wondering if you would be all right if Bobby hung out with you while I’m filming?”
She seems thrilled. “Of course!”
Delilah gets Bobby set up with some paper and magic markers, and I leave a few more cheesecake bites, then I go into the nursing home by myself. The memory unit is at the other end of the building on the first floor. I walk down the familiar, well-lit hallways, my wrist straining with the weight of the grocery bag. I always buy too much.
Peggy Lewis is waiting for me at the nursing station. She has close-cropped gray hair and has worked here for over thirty years. I always offer her some pastries when I come, but I get the distinct feeling she doesn’t like me. I think she judges me for not coming to visit more often. And another nurse confided in me that Peggy doesn’t like the way I film episodes here, even though the rest of the staff get a huge kick out of it and I got the approval of the nursing home director.
I rest the bag of groceries on the counter in the nursing station and breathe a sigh of relief. “Hi, Peggy,” I say in my most chipper voice. “How are you today?”
Peggy doesn’t crack a smile. “It’s been a rough day. We’ve had a few residents with behavior issues.”
“But my mother is okay?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Are you asking if she’s camera ready?” Without waiting for an answer, she adds, “She’s fine. She’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”
Peggy doesn’t offer to help me with my camera or my bag, but thankfully, two other nurses come over and practically fall over themselves to help me get set up. And they also help themselves to some of my cheesecake bites.
As promised, my mother is waiting in the kitchen. It’s not so much the kitchen as it is a part of the dining area with a refrigerator and sink. You can’t do any cooking per se in the kitchen, which is why we’re going for the no-bake cheesecake.
There’s a small circular table in the kitchen, and that’s where my mother is sitting. She’s only in her sixties, but she looks much older. She could easily pass for eighty. Her hair is all white, even though she used to dye it when I was growing up. There are bags under her eyes and her cheeks are so sunken, they have shadows. Every couple of seconds, she smacks her lips, which I was told is a side effect of the medication. She’s staring ahead, her eyes blank.
It’s strange to see her like this, even after all these years. If there’s one word I would have used to describe my mother before she got sick, it would have been “feisty.” Or maybe “strong.” She raised me all by herself after my father died, and she did a really good job. It’s so hard to see her like this.
“Mom?” I say.
For a moment, she simply stares straight ahead. She’s on several medications to control her agitation, and for a moment, I’m scared she’s too out of it to participate in the show. But then, after a long hesitation, she looks up at me.
“Hello, April,” she says.
I beam at her. “You remember me.”
She doesn’t respond to that.
“We’re going to make cheesecake together, Mom,” I say. “Won’t that be fun? And I’m going to film it.”
Her eyes fall on my camera, sitting atop the tripod. “Film it?”
“Yes! You’re going to be on YouTube! Like a movie star.”
My mother just sits there, contemplating this revelation. I’m still not entirely sure whether she’s up to helping me. But she doesn’t have to do much. She doesn’t even have to talk or stand up. Her dementia is so advanced, there’s not much she can do anymore. But I can give her a bowl and let her do some mixing.