Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Get me my teeth!” Harry demands. “I’m gettin’ outa this fuckin’ madhouse,” he explodes.
“Now, Harry . . .”
The man pivots, his hands landing heavily on Fin’s shoulders. “Son, have you ever been in prison?” he asks earnestly, spittle lashing his captive’s face.
Fin, God bless him, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he holds the man’s gaze without recoiling from his aged, dangling almost-nakedness. Meanwhile, I don’t know where to look. Time is not easy on the body. But this is what I mean about changing facilities. The staff are great here, but there aren’t enough of them. This door breaks regularly, and the whole place is just tired. Baba deserves better, and I want to give her that.
“I can’t say that I have,” Fin answers calmly.
“You’d be popular there,” Harry says, patting his cheek. “I’ve been in the clink,” he adds, his tone confidential. “And I’m not going back.”
“Harry,” the nurse cajoles. “He’s a former lay preacher,” she adds as a quiet aside. “He thinks this is prison, bless him.”
I give a tiny nod in understanding. But also, I see the similarities.
“Lack of inhibition and sensory issues are classic dementia symptoms,” I offer Fin’s way. Like I just read it from a piece of frightening literature, the kind they supply you with at a diagnosis.
“That’s right,” the nurse says. “Come along, Harry. Let’s go and get you dressed.” With that, she turns Harry in the opposite direction. “You don’t want all the ladies ogling, do you?”
“Dead birds don’t fall out of their nests,” he mutters in response.
“I’m sorry about that,” I mutter to Fin, then I roll my lips inward. I’m not laughing. What I want to do is cry. Dementia is so cruel, stripping people of their dignity. But I also can’t help but wonder how Oliver Deubel would’ve reacted to this situation. Something tells me it would not have ended so well.
“It’s not your fault. Is there a washroom?” he asks, pointing to his face.
My heart sinks. I suppose it looks like he’s coming in.
“I can leave,” he offers, coming out of the washroom and wiping his palm across his face. He obviously doesn’t want to, and I’m not sure why. I sometimes wish I didn’t have to come here myself. Harry’s outburst isn’t the worst I’ve seen. At least it was mildly humorous. Sometimes, a dementia patient’s outburst can be traumatic for all concerned.
The facility is understaffed and underfunded. It’s all flowery wallpaper and cheap melamine, and though they’re mostly cheerful, the staff wear the strain of their jobs on their faces without realization or intent.
“It’s okay.” He’s here now. He’s seen the place. He must’ve noticed the pervasive scent of cabbage and disinfectant already. I suppose all that remains is to see what kind of day Baba Roza is experiencing.
“This way.” I glance down at the paper espresso cups. “She’ll complain this is cold now.” If we’re lucky.
“Do you want me to go grab fresh ones?”
“It’s okay. Thanks, anyway.” And he hated the label nice. Maybe I should’ve said decent. Because he is.
I knock softly on her door, which is already open (and never locked), and find Baba sitting in her facility-issued chair, dozing.
“How long has she been in here?” Fin asks softly. He looks too big for the tiny room.
“Not so long. She’d been diagnosed more than a year ago but kept it secret. It wasn’t until she fell and had to be hospitalized that I found out. I didn’t have any choice but to put her in here.”
Put her in here. Like a pet in a boarding kennel. Unlike a pet, she won’t be coming home after the holidays.
I glance around the room and try to see it with his eyes. The hospital-style bed with the flowery duvet cover from home. The cream crocheted doilies she made years before. The religious icons on the walls and the framed pictures of passed loved ones.
“Your grandfather?” he asks, pointing to a black-and-white photo of my stern-looking grandfather.
“Dedo,” I say, using the Macedonian name for grandfather. “I never met him.”
“You look a little like him.”
“I look like my mother, but I have my father’s coloring. And his peasant DNA.”
Fin gives a tiny frown, but it’s true. No matter how much exercise I undertake or macros and calories I count, my body is always preparing for a harsh winter or a drought, hanging on to its fat cells, just in case. Yet the way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess.
“Zdravo!” My grandmother comes to life like a jack-in-the-box, all arms and smiles and warmth. “My Mila!”
She lets loose a string of Macedonian I can’t even guess at.
“English, Baba, remember? I don’t understand.”
“Yes, yes. I remember. Ah!” Her eyes widen and sparkle like diamonds. “You have brought Alexander,” she announces, holding out her hands. Aleksander, it sounds like in her accent, a hard k.