None of the residents said anything the first time Young Guy held my hand in the big front room, but I know they noticed. Baldy flew into a coughing fit. Southern Lady’s eyes narrowed, then widened. Really Old Lady smiled, but then, she always smiles. (She probably wouldn’t smile if she knew what we got up to at night.) But after a while, they start to like it. I start to like it. And, it might be dementia, but I can’t actually remember a time before his hand rested on mine.
Today it’s the usual suspects in the big front room. And the guy who does the garden. Every now and then, he comes inside with flowers and hands them out. The ladies love that. But today the garden is covered in white stuff, so he must have gotten the flowers sent from somewhere warm.
“Gabriela!” he says when Latina Cook-Lady walks past. He hands her a special bunch of flowers wrapped in brown paper. “Congratulations.”
She gives him a big, happy smile. Today she announced that she has a baby in her belly, and everyone is really excited. I know I should feel excited, too.
Next he gives me a flower. “How are you this morning, Anna?” he asks.
“I’m okay.” I feel bad for not remembering his name. I do, however, remember the name of the flower. “Lovely alstroemeria.”
His face tells me he’s impressed, and I feel pleased.
“Well, well,” he says, “you know your stems. Let me guess, you used to be a florist?”
“Do I look like a florist?”
He considers that. “Now that you mention it, no. What did you do?”
“I was a paramedic.”
I may as well have said that I was the person in charge of the United States. Southern Lady’s mouth pops open, her husband’s eyes widen, Baldy even stops chatting to his imaginary wife.
“You know what a paramedic is, right?” I say, chuckling. “I didn’t say…” I try to conjure up the title for the person who goes to the moon, but it’s temporarily—or permanently?—just out of my reach, “you know, a space person.”
“It must have been exciting,” says Really Old Lady. “Speeding around in those buses with sirens and the lights flashing.”
“Traumatic, more like it,” Baldy says. “Who do you think scrapes the bodies off the street after they leap from those tall buildings?”
“There was some of that,” I say. “But it wasn’t all sirens and dramatics. There was a lot of looking after people who’d had too much alcohol to drink. A lot of routine transfers from places like Rosalind House into the hospital.” Or the place where they keep dead people, I don’t say. The residents start to look a little bummed, so I decide to afford them what they are looking for. “But it had its moments. Once I had to help restrain an A-list famous person who went off on a drug-fueled rampage in a hotel room. And”—I can’t help a smile at this one—“I delivered a baby once, right on the floor of a shop-center place.” I can still see the slimy little thing—a boy—peering up at me from between his mother’s legs. The newspaper had run a story on it, but I’d let Tyrone pose for the picture. The bright lights liked him more than they liked me.
The residents coo and I sit a little taller. It’s been a while since anyone has listened to me like this. Like I know what I’m talking about. “And there was one time—”
“There you are, Grandpa!” We all turn to look at a young girl with spiky yellow fuzz on her head, hovering in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt. I just really need to talk to my grandpa.” The girl is looking at Baldy, but then her eyes scan the room and stop at me. “Oh. Hello again.”
It’s weird. She’s definitely looking right at me, but she doesn’t seem even slightly familiar. She must have mixed me up with someone else.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says. “I wanted to thank you. Your advice worked.”
I study her. She’s too young to be a friend of mine, and if Baldy is her grandfather … I don’t get it. No, I definitely don’t know her.
“I came into your grandmother’s room, remember? A few months ago? I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and found you, and we started talking and you gave me some wonderful advice—”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else.”
Baldy, suddenly, is beside the girl. He pats her shoulder.
“I’m sure it was you,” she insists. “You must remember. I told you that Grandpa was worried I’d be cursed if I got married, and you told me to tell him that I’d rather have a year of true happiness than die without knowing what happiness was. And it worked, we’re getting married, right here in the garden of Rosalind House next year!”
As someone with Alzheimer’s, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good seeing a “normal” person get confused. See, I want to say, it can happen to anyone. This young woman seems perfectly together, of sound mind, and still, she is confused.
“My grandmother isn’t a resident here,” I tell her, grateful for this nugget to hold on to, proof that I’m not the one who is confused. “I am.”
There’s a strange sudden stillness in the room. The girl’s gaze bounces to Baldy’s, then slowly slinks back to me.
“I … see,” she says finally. Her cheeks are a little pink, and I hope I haven’t embarrassed her. “I must be thinking of someone else.”
* * *
A few minutes after Baldy has gone off with his granddaughter, Young Guy and I trundle toward my room. We make the decision to do this without a word, just a look and a nod. Like an old married couple. Given the fact that we’re not likely ever to be an old married couple, I’m glad we’re getting the opportunity now. White flakes are fluttering down outside, and it’s cozy in here. As we walk, he takes my hand. I’ve never been the sentimental type, but the hand-holding is growing on me.
Baldy and his granddaughter are in the entry-hall bit. If Baldy ever possessed the ability to whisper, he has lost it now, and I hear the words “dementia” and “sad.” They’re talking about us.
“I just feel so sorry for them,” she says. “They’re so young.”
I keep walking. I understand that people feel sorry for us. I’d probably feel the same if it had happened to someone else. But Young Guy stops, and because of our interlinked hands, I stop with him. Baldy and the young woman look at us.
“You don’t need to feel sorry for us,” Young Guy says. “We’re a l-lot luckier than most.”
Then he gives me a little tug and we walk together to my room.