There are times my mood shifts and I don’t know the cause. But I was fully aware of why I was shutting Dion out and was not up for a therapy session. Which is how I ended up threatening to stab him if he didn’t go back to his place and him looking at me like I was the biggest disappointment he’d ever met. While I loved waking up to him, what I had to do today always has an adverse effect on me and I desperately needed to be alone for it.
I asked him to leave for his benefit, not mine.
And because today was going to be brutal, as always, I called for a car instead of driving.
On the way over, I allowed myself to retreat a bit. This was the only way I knew how to preserve my strength.
Because I’d need it, I always needed it, after.
So as the city flew by, I promised myself that I would explain this to Dion, right after I apologized for being a bitch.
Twenty minutes later, pushing the buzzer, I was allowed entrance, signed my name and then took a deep breath.
Each time I did this I never recall the walk, sights, or smells. I literally blank out until I’m standing in front of this door. Just raising my fist to knock takes everything I have.
When the voice on the other side says, “Come in,” I do and the second I see her, I mourn the woman I had taken for granted.
“Hello, Miss Marilyn,” using the name she liked to be called.
“Hello,” she says inviting me to sit. Hands in my lap she asks me who I am and so not to upset or confuse her I respond, “My name is Mercy, Miss Marilyn.”
“Mercy,” she thinks on it. “Unique, it suits you.”
I wanted to crawl into her lap and beg her to remember it was she who gave me the name to. But I stay put letting her take this visit where she wanted it to go. Nothing good ever came out of Miss Marilyn being agitated.
Another lesson I learned the hard way. Willing someone to remember you doesn’t work. Neither does peppering her with questions hoping it triggers a memory. Early on, I hadn’t known better.
Years of trial and error have taught me otherwise.
“Did you come to play cards?” she asks reaching for the deck that sits on her bedside table.
“Yes ma’am,” I force myself to smile. “Do you have a favorite game?”
Not missing a beat, she says, “Poker.”
Her memories may be gone, her mind in a place that I’m no longer welcome, but her fingers were just as nimble now as they were when I was a kid. I was glad she didn’t lose the skill of shuffling. I was glad she had something.
When she was first admitted, I practically lived here.
Sometimes I sat as a stranger in the dining hall watching her eat, other times I wasn’t even able to get that close. I’ve pretended to be a patient’s daughter who was lost in the hall. I’ve even pretended to be the janitor claiming I needed to clean her bathroom. I’ve brought her favorite books happy to spend hours reading to her. Just like when I was little, I wanted to be the daughter she needed me to be.
Except each time I come, the harder it is to return.
But the hardest part of all was looking into the eyes of a woman I loved and not seeing that love returned.
If I never came back, Miss Marilyn wouldn’t remember to miss me.
We were about twenty minutes into the game when she asks, “Who are you?”
“My name is Mercy, Miss Marilyn.”
“Mercy,” she thinks on it. “Unique, it suits you.”
“My mom really loved Marvin Gaye.” Though loved was an understatement. My mom had been obsessed with him and sang his songs so much my dad and I were convinced she wasn’t even aware of it.
On cue, she begins to sing, “Whoa mercy, mercy me. Ah things ain’t what they used to be, no no.”
Just like that I wanted to pull her to me and ask if she remembered me but then she blinks and it was gone. Taking the frame from her dresser, she runs her finger over it before handing it to me. Holding it as I’ve done a hundred times before, I fight the tears back. I knew what was coming and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to take it today. But I knew, if I let one tear fall the visit was over.
“That’s me,” she says sitting to my left but far enough away I couldn’t touch her. “I’m wearing the beige hat.”
“Yes,” I reply softly. “I see.”
“Isn’t she beautiful?” she asks pointing to the teenage girl laughing at her mom’s joke. My dad had taken this picture of us at Cedar Point right after I had screamed my head off on the Demon Drop.
“She looks very much like you,” I say careful not to confuse her.
“Turn it over,” she orders me and for just a moment I considered refusing. But this wasn’t her fault or her battle. It was just fucking unfair but, I turned it over and watched her expression as she read her own handwriting, “Mercy, age thirteen.”
And like a rerun I can’t escape, she says, “Would you look at that. Her name is Mercy too.”
“Yes ma’am it is.”
“Why you two could be sisters,” she smiles as she raises the frame holding it next to my face.
“Miss Marilyn,” I say softly. “I believe it’s time for me to go.”
“But you just got here,” she exclaims and when her eyes light up, I knew mine were dull. Because when she says, “My Mercy, when is she coming?” instead of answering her, I could only kiss her cheek and because she let me, I’d put this visit in the ‘good day’ column. Because for my mom, I was a stranger and I never knew how she would handle receiving affection from me.
Showing myself out, I closed the door behind me and to the wood I said, “I love you, Mom.”
When I turned around to leave, I found myself in the comfort of Dion’s arms and because of that let myself cry.