Page 53 of Off Court Fix

He clears his throat over the line. “I hope you’re doing alright. I realized when I was doing my charting we were due for our regular sit-down to review your mother’s status and care.”

I rub a hand over my face. “Were we?”

“Yes. About a month ago.”

“I saw her the other week,” I tell him, as if that was a substitution. “She seemed well, especially after the fall.”

“Yes,” Dr. Greenberg agrees. “And actually, I’m told she’s been enjoying the physical therapy. It’s been the only time of day she’s eager to leave her room.”

I’m not sure if that should make me feel better or worse.

“Mr. King,” he begins, his tone bordering on a lecture. “The last time we spoke, I mentioned that we are approaching the turning point here. Based on our exams and behavioral assessments, I’m expecting things might take a turn for the worse soon.”

That’s the ironic thing about Alzheimer’s. Isn’t it already worse? What could be worse than my mother’s current status quo—trapped in a body she’s unfamiliar with, a mind that leads her in no direction but circles, unable to recognize her own son? My mother—whether it’s visiting her, thinking about her, talking about her—is a constant reminder I’m not important enough to be remembered.

I know the doctor’s “worse” involves her physical health declining, and likely rapidly. Sometimes I wonder if that’s the better option, if the risks I’ve taken to provide my mother the best care were even worth it.

“Has she stopped eating?” I ask.

“No.”

“Drinking?”

“Well, no.”

“Is she totally incontinent?”

The doctor takes a moment before responding. “I’m sure you’re aware she has her moments.”

“Summer is a busy time at work for me,” I tell him. “I’m kind of stretched thin. Not sure when I can head out to the North Fork. I actually have a meeting now, otherwise I’d offer to stay and chat. Is there any way we could discuss it another time?”

Like never, is what I want to tell him, because thinking about what comes next under the guise of hospice—the end—only makes me feel worse.

“Mr. King.” Dr. Greenberg sighs. “Whenwe get to the point where eating becomes impossible for your mother, it will go very fast. I think we should sit down so we’re on the same page about the next stage.”

I’m desperate to get off the phone. “I’ll call the office and see if I can get on your schedule sometime next week. Thanks for calling.”

I hang up and stare at the ceiling, feeling myself being dragged under the waves of emotion hitting me, seemingly as strong as the tide of the Atlantic Ocean not far outside my window.

* * *

The last time I came to Maxine’s home, I was too stressed and focused on her to let myself take in the incredible property or much of the house itself. And though I’m eager, having had to force myself to keep my knee from bouncing while I drove, I can’t help now but appreciate the charm, the magic of the quintessential Hamptons home with faded, gray shingles and white trim. The house appears small compared to the size of the property, which looks to be around two acres from what I can gauge based on my experience mowing lawns of similar sizes in my past life.

I park and hop out, taking the mason jar filled with a perfect hydrangea clipping from the bushes in the front of my home. After a moment of staring at the door, willing my eagerness to calm down, I raise my balled fist, ready to knock when it opens slowly.

Maxine’s eyes bounce from mine to the jar in my hand. “Is that for me?”

“No,” I tell her, and my gaze falls to my right at the heavily overgrown hydrangea bush flanking the steps. “It’s for your landscaper. Show it to him so he knows what a real hydrangea should look like.” I frown at the dying blooms. “These never get shade, do they?”

“Did you come here to talk about landscaping?” Maxine folds her arms across her chest.

I turn back to her. “Of course not. And of course, this is for you.” I hand her the glass, and she lifts the blue flower to her nose, smiling against the petals and looking up at me through thick dark lashes.

“The last ones are still going strong,” Maxine says as she takes my hand and tugs me inside, setting the jar on a table in the entry as I shut the door behind me. I glance down at her bare feet and smile at the sock tan. She curls her toes and stands on one foot, bending the knee of her other leg.

“It’s a good look on you.”

“Complication of the workplace,” she says. “Not many spots to lay out in London. I’ve missed the beach.”

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