At The Greens, to my surprise, the front door is locked.
I ring the bell, and knock a few times. After a moment, the door opens, revealing a nurse in a surgical mask. “I’m sorry,” she says, “we’re not open.”
“But these are visiting hours,” I reply. “I’m here for Hannah O’Toole.”
The woman blinks at me. “We’re closed by order of the governor.” She says this with judgment, like I should know better.
Which, I mean, I do.
“I’ve been away for a while,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie. “Look, I don’t have to stay long. It’s kind of a crazy thing—I was under the impression that my mother had passed away but—”
“I’m really sorry,” the nurse interrupts. “But this policy is meant to keep your mother safe. Maybe you could … ?just call her?”
She closes the door in my face. I stand in the chilly breeze, leaning on my quad cane, thinking about her words. Normally, every few weeks, that’s exactly what I do.
I am about to dial my mother’s number when a car pulls into the parking lot. An elderly man gets out with a bag of birdseed. Instead of going to the front door, however, he walks around the side of the building. Near one of the patient’s screened porches there is a bird feeder. He pours a little of the seed into it and then notices me watching. “I’ve been with her for fifty-two years,” he says. “I’m not going to let a virus ruin a perfect record.”
“You’re visiting your wife?”
He nods.
“How?”
He jerks his chin in the direction of the porch. Like my mother’s, it’s a sealed box without an entrance—no one can enter the apartment from out here, but the resident can be outside in a safe way. A door slides open from inside the apartment, and an aide wheels out a woman. She has white cotton-candy hair piled on her head, and a blanket over her narrow shoulders. She is staring vacantly past the man.
“That’s my Michelle,” he says proudly. “Thank you!” he calls to the nurse, who waves and disappears back inside. He walks closer to the screen, pressing his hand against it. “How’s my doll?” he asks, and the woman doesn’t respond. “You have a good week? I saw a cardinal yesterday, at home. First one this year.”
He doesn’t even seem to notice or care that I’m eavesdropping as he talks to her. His wife is motionless, expressionless. It makes my heart hurt.
As I am about to leave, he starts singing in a clear tenor the Beatles song with her name as the title. “Très bien ensemble,” he says, “très bien ensemble.”
Suddenly his wife sparks alive. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she says.
“That’s right.” A grin splits his face. “That’s right, honey.”
I hurry away around the corner, toward my mother’s screened porch. I dial her phone number. A moment later, she answers. “Hi, it’s Diana!” I say brightly. “It’s so good to talk to you!”
Those sunny, bright inflections at the ends of my sentences, I know, are how she will figure out how to respond. It will have nothing to do with my name, or our relationship, which she doesn’t remember.
“Hi,” she says, tentative but upbeat. “How are you?”
“It’s such a beautiful day,” I say. “You should come out on the porch. I’m right here, enjoying the sunshine.”
She doesn’t respond, and to be honest, I don’t even know if she can manage the sliding door onto the porch. But a moment later, she steps out into the little space, looking around like she can’t remember why she went there.
I wave the hand that’s not holding the phone. I rip my mask off my face. “Hi!” I say, almost desperately. “Over here!”
She sees me and walks to the edge of the porch. I do the same, and the phone falls away from my ear. She looks healthy and steady and all the things she was not in my dream. Unexpectedly, my throat is so tight I can’t speak.
She flattens her hand to the screen and tilts her head. “Is it warm for this time of year?”
I know she has no idea what time of year it is, but this is her way of trying to pry open a conversation.
“It is warm,” I manage.
“Maybe they’ll let the fire hydrants run,” she says. “My daughter loves that.”
I am afraid to move, to speak, because I am afraid to ruin this moment. “She does,” I say.