Embracing Emma (Companion to Brisé) (16 page)

“Please, I’m as silent as a mouse. Light as a feather.” Phoebe and James danced for the New York Ballet Company years ago and love to give each other hell. Emma comes in with her tousled hair, sleepy eyes, and her blanket wrapped around her.

“What’s going on?”

“Welcoming committee,” Brett teases her as he drops a kiss on the top of her head. She pulls back, gravitating to me, and I know I’m wearing a smirk but can’t seem to wipe it off my face.

“Morning.” I kiss her lips quickly as not to make Luke uncomfortable. “I had Dad and Pop make mimosas, and I went to the bakery to get treats.” I admit why we are there to everyone. In times like this, it’s important to rally and support one another. It could be a donut or vodka . . . they both serve their purposes.

“Thank you.” Phoebe digs into the box, and I hand Emma her own box. Full of donuts.

Luke watches as a smile takes over Emma’s face and meets my eyes. So many emotions swirl through them, but the main one is the same as mine. We’d do whatever we have to for that smile.

“Sit down.” Luke eyes the three pitchers James whipped up. “Let the crazy begin,” he chuckles as he pours glasses, and I fix Emma some hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. As much as she is hurting, today it’s important to create a moment of joy, one we can all pull from in the coming days.

The days pass too quickly. I find myself trying to fit as much as I can in a short time. We go see Nana in her new environment, and Emma grudgingly admits she seems better. No pressure for her to perform, she is comfortable slipping into her fantasyland. I take her back to the skating rink and hold her close, I sneak picnics at the dock with her, I take her four wheeling, and we see every chick flick released.

I steal kisses.

I beg for touches.

I revel in her caresses.

And I love her.

Chapter Seventeen

Emma

I
have no clue how I’ve managed all this change without a nervous breakdown. School, homework, AP classes, Nana, time for Holly . . . and this damn separation from Will. Three months apart, only two visits, and I’m ready for an uninterrupted week for Thanksgiving. That commences in a few hours, and the time dragged at school. I watched his games, my dad subscribing to the alumni channel so we wouldn’t miss them. It became a ritual, Saturdays at our house had Brett, James, my parents, and me all outfitted in our Eagles gear, crappy food, screaming and cheering. They didn’t make the playoffs this season, but he made a name for himself. Watching through a screen, removing the distraction of thousands of fans cheering and yelling, allowed me to focus, study him. His body moves like my mom’s when she dances, fluid and strong. As he drops back to complete a pass, I hold my breath, knowing I’m watching him do what he loves, and it’s a beautiful sight. Each loss I’d hear the discouragement and determination in his voice. Upset the team hadn’t been able to topple their opponent, but at the same time that fueled him to work harder, study plays longer, be a leader for the rest of the team. He was coming into his own, and while I don’t begrudge him, I feel my role in his life is being sidelined. Sure, he says the right things, carves time in his grueling schedule for me, acts interested in what I’m doing, but he’s striving towards his dream, and I’m left watching from the stands.

The one time I went to see him was a disaster. Our time was perfect, but it was short-lived. He was pulled in all directions that weekend; practice, workouts, meetings, appearances, and the game. In the forty-eight hours we had we spent most of that time with hundreds of others. Sleep was the only time we had to ourselves; and it eluded us all weekend. By the time I left on Sunday, he was dragging ass, and I was more annoyed and frustrated than I was before I arrived Friday. Not at him, just at the circumstances. We both agreed it wasn’t the ideal situation for me to come during football season. Their next off week he was able to sneak home Saturday, and we spent the rest of the weekend in our own world. The connection sparked, the laughter flowed, and the peace I’ve been searching for engulfed me. He seemed to need it as much as me, and left Sunday afternoon as the boy I fell in love with . . . the man I continue to fall in love with. He still hasn’t picked a major, focusing on his general education courses, getting the pre-requisites handled. Some of my AP classes are the same as his; making me crave the times we did homework together.

He doesn’t understand my dream to become a social worker, but after seeing all that Nana’s care entails, I want to do that for another family. The same way they’ve held my hand, let me cry on their shoulder, guided us to understand and come to terms with what we can expect; we’re lucky to have the resources we do, but a lot of families aren’t as fortunate.

I step through the doors of Nana’s facility and check the time. Three hours and he’ll be home. I have an extra pep in my step as I sign in and greet Betty, the day administrator. “You’re looking happy, Emma.”

“William comes home today.” My Nana’s small room is filled with pictures, and William is in several of them. We look at them at least once a week, allowing her to try to remember people and places, or allowing her to make up whatever story she has concocted while staring at the images. Her mind is less in the present tense but more clear at the same time. Her outbursts are limited. The activities and brain games they do here have done a world of good. Every few weeks she’ll have a lucid day and be able to engage in conversation with us like nothing has changed. I know those are fleeting and have learned to embrace them as they come. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt when the next time she’d have no idea what we discussed, most of the time recognizing me but not knowing me. Sometimes I’m Phoebe, sometimes I’m her granddaughter but she can’t remember my name, sometimes I’m Emma a dear friend . . . no matter who I am, I’ve been able to feel the love she carries for each of those individuals . . . for me no matter who I am in her mind. That’s been the true blessing of this journey. Love and all its facets, the different paths it covers, the different ways it’s given.

Love is the steady. The constant in our journey. She loves me, and I love her.

Love is the true black and white in my life. Love doesn’t hurt. Circumstances hurt, decisions sting, but love heals. No matter what form.

I see her playing Bingo with a few other residents, guarding her Jolly Ranchers like they are gold. That’s what they play for here—candy. All varieties. All flavors. All coveted. I laugh as I lean over and kiss her cheek. She stares at me for a few minutes. Her hands clap, and she gives me a hug. “This is my granddaughter,” she tells all her friends sitting at the table. I have no name today, and that’s okay. Today she still knows she loves me, and I’ll take that over an identity any day.

“Yes, I am.” I beam with pride. “I’m Emma.” Ms. Wilma, Nana’s walking partner stares at me for a few seconds. Her eyes are mischievous, and I never know what she is planning. One thing that doesn’t change is the fact that she has absolutely no boundaries and doesn’t know the meaning of personal space. Before you know it, she is touching you, following you, and talking your ear off. Some days she will walk in circles, lapping the facility, and each time she sees you, it’s like the first time. Whether she’s on lap ten or one hundred, she is happy to see you. I’ll take her crowding me, asking me the same question ten times . . . I’ll take it all because that is all she has. She had a full life at one time, but like letters that fade over time on a sign, her memories dim, her sense of realism demolished. This is her reality, and I’m accepting she has given me a place in it. Nana smacks her hand as it was getting to close to her candy.

“Nana, no hitting.” I know it wasn’t done in meanness; she smacked my hand too many times to count, as I would reach over and grab something she was chopping or cutting. I’ve seen her chase my dad with a wooden spoon for the same offense. It’s just her way, but I have to curb that reaction from her because it’s frowned upon, and she isn’t doing it with a full understanding. One slap in reprimand can turn into a tantrum and become difficult to control.

“Tell her to keep her hands to herself.” Nana winks at me. Today is a good day. Not every cylinder is firing, they never will again, but more are functioning than not.

“Let’s go sit over there.” I lead her to the couch. “William comes home today.” She hasn’t seen him in anything other than pictures in months and even if she won’t remember this conversation tomorrow when he comes to visit, a warning can help. When she sees him, it can trigger a flash, and if she has been reminded, we might evade a reaction.

“William?” Her forehead creases as she’s trying to remember. I don’t push her or remind her. It will either come or not. “The neighbor boy?” He’s so much more, but I’ll take it.

“Yes, Nana. He’s been at school and wants to come see you tomorrow.” Her hands go to her hair, fluffing it.

“That’s fine. Just make sure I’m not in my housecoat.” I laugh because they have a strict schedule here. Seven o’clock they are dressed, regardless of if they agree.

“I will. We’ll come after breakfast. Maybe I can sneak you a bear claw. I know those are your favorite.” I still sneak reminders in just not in the typical way.

“You know it. Can you bring some real coffee? The stuff here is not fit to drink.”

“A fancy latte?”

“No.” She cups my cheek. “A coffee. The real kind.”

“Deal.” Tomorrow may be a rough day. It may be a great day. Each one is different for us, but especially for her. I’ve learned to take them in stride, cherish the good. I play a few rounds of Bingo and when she and Ms. Wilma get up to start their walks, I help the aide clean up the table. Funny, when they decide they are done, that’s it. They get up and leave, like they can’t be bothered with salutations. They don’t lack common courtesy; it’s just a quirk their personalities have taken. I find them; say goodbye, and I can tell Nana is fading. It’s late afternoon, and that’s the time it usually happens. Exhaustion and illness are the biggest triggers to Alzheimer’s and the reason for the strict schedule. They’ll be eating dinner shortly and retiring to bed. I wave to Ms. Betty and wait to be buzzed out. I’ll have just enough time for a shower before I’m back in Will’s arms. Nine days with him. Two hundred and sixteen hours. Not nearly enough time, but each hour I will hold dear and pull from until Christmas, which brings three weeks of bliss.

I rush in the house, after running over the grass and clipping the trashcans. Luckily my driving mishaps involve stationary items. I’m not picky; the corner of the garage, my dad’s lawn mower, the mailbox (several times), trashcans, sprinkler heads. It’s a gift.

“Hey,” I call.

“I see you arrived in style,” my dad quips, standing at the front window.

“If you weren’t so lazy, you’d have brought the trashcans up. You’re getting sedentary in your old age,” I tease.

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Somehow, baby girl, I think you’d find a way to let us know you were home. Eleven-dollar trashcans seem to be the easiest and most cost effective way. Now that you’re home I’ll bring them up and see if they’re salvageable.”

I stare at him. People need not wonder where I get my smart-ass personality. “You keep tempting me I’ll look at it as an obstacle course getting to the house.”

“We could be so lucky.” He winks at me.

“You may want to try the dollar store for garbage cans.” His look brings me to laughter. “Hey, just trying to help. I’ve got college coming up, and I’m trying to be cost effective.”

“Or I could do a service to all and take your keys.” I narrow my eyes at his idle threat.

“Then I’d just have to sucker Mom into letting me have your keys. She gets kind of busy and can’t shuttle me all around town.” I know I have him. His little red sport car is his baby.

“You wouldn’t.” His eyes widen in fear, true fear, because he knows I’m not bluffing, and my mom would do it just to make her life easier.

“Try me, old man.”

“I give. You win.”

“Say uncle.” I reach for his keys.

“UNCLE!” I think the next town over heard him. I go to him, kiss his cheek, and head for the shower.

“The master has become the student,” I throw over my shoulder at the same time I shut the bathroom door. I can’t hear him, but I hear the mumbling. He’s probably plotting how to install a retina or fingerprint scanner for the ignition of his precious. The smile doesn’t leave my face as I get ready. I throw on shorts and hoodie, go to the window, and count down the minutes until I see the familiar truck pulling in across the street. I fly out the door, cross the street, and I am in his arms while he’s still opening the door.