Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Baking soda.” I close my eyes and sigh, slumping against the counter. “God, help us.”
I finish my breakfast quickly. I want to check on Aunt Geneva before I have to call in for my first meeting. They’re on Paris time, so they’ll be deep into their day. I need to look like I’m deep into mine, too.
I pad upstairs and down the hall, hesitating at Mama’s closed door, but then moving on. I know how self-conscious she gets when she makes mistakes that remind her of how her brain is betraying her. I tap on my aunt’s bedroom door. The muted sounds of Kirk Franklin’s “Melodies from Heaven” make me smile.
“Aunt G,” I call softly. “You all right in there?”
“Come on in,” she answers.
Her surgery was a few days ago and she just came home yesterday. She’s on bedrest at least for the next three weeks, possibly longer. Abdominal hysterectomies have some of the longest recovery times, and considering her age, she has to take it easy and be really careful.
She’s propped up in bed, Velcro rollers in her hair, Bible on her lap.
“Morning.” I walk into the room and settle on her bed. “Did you sleep well?”
“It was kind of a rough night. I don’t want to take too many of those pills they gave me.”
“You had major surgery, Aunt G. Some pain is expected and taking meds to help manage it is okay.” I study her face, concerned by the faint lines of strain around her mouth. “Need help going to the bathroom?”
She grimaces. “I hate this, but I think I might.”
“Come on, young lady. Let’s get this over with.” I pull back the covers, help her to her feet and to the bathroom.
Once we’re done and she’s back in bed, she looks worn out.
“Thank you, Hen,” she pants, slightly short of breath even from that brief journey.
“Of course.” I get the covers settled back around her and fluff the pillows behind her head. “You all set? Need anything?”
“I probably won’t get around to it,” she says, “but hand me that big crossword puzzle book and my phone in case I get bored laying here on my back.”
I grab the hefty book from her dresser. I’ve seen her working on these more than once, pencil clenched between her teeth and brows drawn in concentration.
“I do ’em to keep this old brain of mine active.” She accepts the book and caresses the tattered pages. “I do Wordscapes on my phone sometimes, too. If I’m gonna get it, it’s probably too late to do anything about it now, but still…”
Aunt Geneva shrugs and looks up—searches my face for understanding.
Get it. Alzheimer’s.
I’ve thought of it, too. How can I not wonder if this thing that hunted Mama down later in life might one day come for me? Even if I didn’t have a relative diagnosed, Black people are almost twice as likely to develop Alzheimer’s. So, yeah, I think about it.
“I heard jigsaw puzzles are good, too,” I tell her with a smile. “And I started taking some new supplements. I think about it, but we’re gonna be fine.”
I drop a kiss on her head and she nods, her lips twisting with something that is half grin, half grimace of discomfort.
“You eat? Don’t neglect yourself, Hen, taking care of us old birds.”
“Mama cooked some breakfast.”
“Did she make them grits?” Aunt Geneva asks cautiously.
“Aunt G, you could have warned me!”
As soon as our gazes catch, our lips start twitching and we both laugh, even though this is some tough shit we’re navigating. When life deals you the worst hand, the biggest test is how you get through it. Laugh, cry, wail, whine—doesn’t matter. Just through. And here with them the last few days, I see more clearly than ever, that’s what Mama’s doing. What we’re all doing. The best we can to make it through.
“As closely as I watch her,” Aunt Geneva says, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes and the last of the humor from her face, “she sometimes manages to get the salt and the baking soda mixed up. No idea how or why, but it makes for an interesting mac and cheese. I’m usually with her. She doesn’t get to cook alone, but every once in a while, something will slip past me and we end up with baking soda in the grits or something. She hates me standing over her shoulder, as she calls it, but it’s the best way for her to still do what she loves so much and stay safe.”
“The eggs and bacon are good,” I reassure her, holding on to my smile for as long as I can. “Want some?”
“Yeah, and there’s some grapefruit in the fridge. Cut me one up?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get up tomorrow to help her with breakfast.” I glance at my Apple Watch. “I have a few meetings. I’ll bring your food, do my meeting, and then be back to check on you when I’m done.”