Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“Oh, yes, I like the petunias.” She glances up to look at me. “Would you like to see them?”
I nod. “Yeah, Mom. I’d like to see them.”
Watching my mother walk closer to me with a sweet smile is really messing with my head.
She’s so fragile. So different. Not the woman who raised me.
My father gives me quick directions to go out the back of the building toward the garden, and I wrap my mother’s tiny arm in mine and lead her out of the room.
Once we’re in the hallway, my mother smiles up at me. “How’s Greer?”
“She’s fine. She went to visit her father today.” I open the back door and we step out onto a brick path.
“I always adored Greer. Are you good to her?” It’s strange to have my mother asking about Greer. It’s like I’m wading through her memories. What all does she remember?
I think about how I’m always good to Greer. No matter what. Even when we’re not fake dating, I’m good to her. “Yes, Mother. Always.”
“You always had a thing for her,” my mother says.
As my mother guides me along another winding path through the lush sanctuary, the garden unfolds before us in a kaleidoscope of colors and fragrances. Each step covered in vibrant blooms, their petals swaying gently in the whispering breeze.
We pause in front of a cluster of fiery red flowers. Their crimson hues blaze against the backdrop of greenery, a striking contrast that draws the eye.
My mother halts before the scarlet blooms, her fingers delicately tracing the velvety petals as if communing with nature's beauty. There's a softness in her gaze, a momentary respite from the fog of forgetfulness that clouds her mind. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
I ignore my mother’s comment about having a crush on Greer when I was younger and focus on the flowers. “Yeah, they’re beautiful.”
“You should take some home to Greer.”
“Maybe later, Mom.”
She turns to face me, and the woman I’ve known my whole life shines through like the monster I remember. “She was always too good for you,” she says, and then it’s like the sweet mask of dementia slips back down, covering her face.
I agree with my mother, nonetheless. “She is too good for me, but it will not stop me from being my best for her every day.”
Instead of pissing me off like in the past, it saddens me that my mother doesn’t think my love is good enough for Greer.
Wait.
Am I in love?
Yes. I am. I love Greer.
The weight on my chest intensifies as I think about my love for Greer. As I think about what Greer deserves in her life. About my anxiety, and how it’s nearly crushing my existence.
She deserves a man who can give her what she needs.
Am I that man?
“That’s good, dear,” my mother says, touching the petals of the flowers. “So pretty,” she says.
We walk further down the path, and I can see this is taking a lot out of my mother. She appears weak.
So I stroll with her back to her room and chat with my father for a while. As I’m leaving, I lean over to give my mother a kiss on the top of her head.
“Thank you for coming, Roman,” she says with a big smile. “I’d like for you to keep coming. I miss seeing you.”
Tears well in my eyes as I think about my mother living out her days here in the nursing home. Not remembering her life. Some days, not even remembering who she is.
It’s a hard way to live, and something I don’t wish on my own worst enemies. Coming here today was an eye-opener.
I say my goodbyes and head out of the building. When I reach my SUV, I pull my phone from my pocket and check to see if Greer has texted yet. As I’m looking at my phone, it rings.
It’s her.
“Hey, was just thinking about you,” I say into the phone.
“What were you thinking? How wonderful I am?” she teases.
“Always.” My mind travels back to my mother’s words in the garden.
She is too good for me.
My heart races as Greer tells me she’s ready for me to pick her up. The world closes in on me as I try to catch my breath.
“Greer,” I croak into the phone, raspy and nearly incoherent.
“Roman? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Her voice is panicked and I hate that my anxiety is impacting her. It makes my attack that much worse.
“I’m fine,” I reassure her, though every fiber of my being feels like it's on the brink of collapse. I try to summon the breathing techniques Marley taught me, hoping they'll provide some relief.
It isn’t working.
“Roman, are you at the nursing home? I’ll be right there.”
She hangs up, and I spot a bench closeby and take a seat, willing my body to calm down. Breathe.