Page 67 of Call Me Anytime
After a long but fun day at Dom’s parents’ house, I shouldn’t be surprised that this is her current state.
Even looking into my eyes, the eyes of her very own daughter, doesn’t bring the comfort it should. If anything, it spurs feelings of familiarity, but when you can’t pinpoint why there’s a familiarity, it creates chaos. And confusion. And fear.
“Can I brush your hair, Sherry?” I ask her, gently guiding her toward her bedroom.
“You want to brush my hair?”
“Of course I do. It’s one of my favorite things.” Her smile is soft as I ease her down into her favorite chair beside the window of her room. “How about I help you get ready for bed, and I’ll brush your hair once you’re under the covers?”
“Okay, Ziva.” She nods. And I slide her slippers and socks off her feet.
Physically, my mom is still capable of dressing and undressing herself, still fully mobile and able to do things for herself. It’s her mindthat causes the roadblock. Mornings are always her best times, the sun turning the darkness to light. But sometimes, nighttime is hard for her. The fatigue that has already set in from a long day combined with her Alzheimer’s can make it difficult for her to think through even the simplest things.
When she’s anxious and nervous like this, I focus all my energy on keeping everything around her calm. Including me. My voice, my touch, my movements. Everything I do is with tenderness and care.
I help her remove her pants and shirt and slide her nightgown over her head. And as I’m guiding her toward her bed, a deep-seated sadness, one I often try to compartmentalize, takes root in my belly. Both of my parents taught me well, taught me to never hold hate in my heart, but by God, I hate this disease that’s stealing my mother from me.
I’ve watched her progress from a woman who occasionally forgot to put on deodorant or take her medication—early signs we didn’t fully understand at the time—to someone who rarely remembers her own daughter. I’ve seen her go from a woman who once cared for an entire coop of chickens and her goat Gary, to someone who’s completely forgotten how she likes her coffee.
Her life, her memories—they’ve all been stolen, and I have to swallow against the emotion in my throat as I gently run the brush through her hair. She’s lying on her side, her back toward me, and her body is curled beneath her comforter and the weighted anxiety blanket that I’ve added to her bed for the night.
“That feels nice, Ziva,” she says, her voice just barely above a whisper. “How many cameras did Gibbs want you to install?”
“Just the one.”
“Is Tony monitoring it?”
“Mm-hmm,” I answer while my hand guides the bristles through the locks of her hair.
“Have you realized you’re in love with Tony yet?” she asks mid-yawn.
Her question should be innocent, but man, it threatens to send my mind soaring straight toward Dom. So much has happened betweenus. So many unspoken things. And my brain wants to fixate on all of them, especially the kiss we shared in the kitchen this morning and how amazing he and his family were this afternoon.
Am I falling in love with him?
Sheesh. That question feels so loaded that I’m afraid to put my finger anywhere near the trigger.
Even though I never give her a response, her eyes grow heavier with each soft brush until she can no longer hold them open at all.
But I keep brushing. And brushing. And instead of thinking about Dom or the way I feel about him, I just savor this quiet moment with my mother. Savor the peace I get from seeing her relaxed and asleep in her bed when I know that tonight could’ve gone a very different way.
Today was a busy day for her. Leaving the house and going to a stranger’s home is a big obstacle for someone like her. And when you combine that with meeting new people—all of Dom’s family, to be exact—it creates a risk for uncontrollable behavior that stems from stress.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy we went. I’m happy for the moments I got to see her laughing with Dom’s grandfather Louie. And I’m happy with the way his entire family embraced my mother with open arms.
But it also makes me remember that most people wouldn’t have. And not because they’re mean, but because they simply don’t understand.
Once I’m sure she’s asleep, I set the brush down on her nightstand, press a soft kiss to her forehead, and whisper, “I love you,” into her ear before I turn on the small night-light beside her en suite bathroom and leave her bedroom, clicking the door closed shut behind me.
But when I walk out into the living room of the big farmhouse, my ears are graced with the kind of silence that makes my mind race and my thoughts run wild—one hundred miles per hour toward Dom.
After he dropped us off at the house, he headed to the station. And even though he didn’t give me the details of why Shane wantedhim to come down there, I overheard enough of his conversation in the car—when Shane was a calling a second time to see how far out he was—to know there’s something going on withthecase. The same case that brought Dom into my life in the first place.
The same case that’s resulted in two different girls—who just so happened to work the same CMA line as me—ending up dead.
When I check the time on my phone and see it’s a little after midnight now, I can’t stop myself from calling him.
“Hey,” he greets me on the second ring, but his voice sounds tired and a little off. It carries a quiet rasp, a heaviness that makes me wonder how much he’s been carrying on his shoulders tonight. “Everything all right?”
