They May Not Mean To, But They Do

31

Joy began to feel that there was another person in the apartment, a stranger, and it was her. She had to watch over this person, this boring, fearful, sickly person. She had to make sure it took its pills. She had to watch its step so it didn’t fall. She made sure it chewed its food so it didn’t choke. She worried about the person constantly; the worry was a weight heavy on her shoulders, on her mind, on her heart. It followed her as she followed this person from room to room, this awful, needy person who was herself.

“I don’t know what to do with her. And she’s an irritating person. What a responsibility!” she said to Molly.

She had begun timing herself in the morning to see how long it took her to get dressed.

“It feels like two hours, and it is.”

Sometimes she didn’t bother to get dressed.

“It saves so much time. Some days I don’t even want to take a shower, but then I think, Well! I’ll do it for my children. I don’t want them to have a filthy old mother with fuzzy gray hair.”

“You’re funny,” Molly always said, laughing, relieved — Joy could hear it in her voice. That was another of the responsibilities Joy had, relieving her children of worry. She did not want them to be upset. And she did not want them to send her to an assisted-living facility in Cincinnati. Or anywhere else.