Page 8 of All Bets are Off
“You most certainly did not tell me that,” Mom says. I know I told her at least twice, but I don’t argue. She’s been having these moments of forgetfulness for a while now, and they’re worrying me.
The coffee tastes off—like she’s poured freshly brewed in with old grounds. When she isn’t looking, I dump mine into a nearby bush.
“I’m going to take us somewhere nice for lunch,” I tell her when she sets down her empty cup.
“That sounds lovely. I’ll dress up a little.”
Inside, she disappears into her room, and I go to mine.
I’m dressed before she is, so I sit on the living room sofa and scroll through my phone. It rings in my hand.
Ah, West’s noticed I’m gone.
“Hello?” I ask casually.
“I got your note.” He sounds pissed.
“Awesome. Mom says hi.”
“You little sneak, thinking you’d give me the slip.”
“Uh, Ididgive you the slip. Or are you outside Mom’s house right now?” Turning toward the window, I peer out, half expecting to see him. But the front yard’s empty.
“Logan, be careful.”
“West, no one is trying to kill me.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?” When West doesn’t answer, I huff. “I promise, West.”
I hear him release a breath.
“Mom’s disappointed you didn’t come with me, just so you know,” I tell him.
“Give her my love,” he says.
We disconnect just as my mother descends the stairs, and I give her West’s message.
“That sweet boy. Why didn’t he come with you?”
Frowning, I explain again that West has work to do.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Well, are you ready to go eat?”
Grabbing the keys to my rental car, I watch my mother lock up the house. She seems perfectly natural, and I tell myself to stop worrying.
The restaurant is over-priced and crowded with the after-church crowd, but I can tell my mother is enjoying herself. After discussing various topics without her seeming off, I begin to relax.
Then, as we’re leaving the restaurant, she says, “That was a lovely meal, Logan. I wish your father could have gone with us.”
“Yeah. He would have loved that salmon. Remember how he used to order it every time we went to a nice restaurant?”
She chuckles. “He still does. He had the salmon just last week.”
Fear settles over me when it sinks in that she think my father is still alive. I worry about it the entire drive home, and I’m relieved when, as soon as we’re inside the house, she announces she’s going to her room for a nap. Collapsing onto the sofa, I stare into space. I can’t ignore what’s happening any longer. At Christmas, I noticed Mom’s cooking wasn’t as good as usual. A small thing, but the fact that she didn’t notice it herself was really odd, as she prides herself on her holiday meals. I also noticed that trip that she seemed a little forgetful. I put it down to stress when, over the past few months, she seemed normal during our phone conversations.
But talking about Dad like he’s still alive when he’s been dead for years is far from normal. Although in good health, she’s seventy-five, making the onset of dementia a real concern.