Page 45 of The Strawberry Field
“She’s in a care facility in Roanoke,” I say, in as even a voice as I can manage.“She has dementia.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sawyer says.
“I considered bringing her here to stay with me,” I say,“but she had a stroke. And for now, at least, she’s getting the care that she needs.”
“I’m so sorry, Jake. That’s an excruciating decision to have to make.”
I put my attention on a particularly deep-rooted weed.“We think we have all the time in the world to fix the things in our lives that need fixing. And then, one day, we wake up and realize that we don’t have that kind of time at all. In my case, I let too much of it go past without saying things that I wish I had gotten around to saying to my mom. I lived too many years focused on the things I thought she neglected to do for me, instead of realizing all the things she did right. And there were plenty. I know that now, as an adult who’s had to figure out how to make it in the world. It’s not an easy thing. And certainly not for someone who started out as my mom did, with a baby and no one to help support her.”
“You can still say those things to her, Jake. She may not hear you as she once would have, but some part of her will know.”
“You believe that?”
She looks up at me then, meets my questioning gaze with sincerity in her eyes.“I do.”
“I’d like to.”
“You need to say the things you need to say, Jake. For her, but for you as well. She’s still here. That’s what matters. There are so many things I wish I’d said to my parents that I’ll never have the chance to now. Regret is an awful pill to swallow.”
The sun has moved higher in the sky, and Sawyer wipes the back of her hand across her forehead.“It’s gotten warm out here,” she says.
“Yeah, it has. How about a glass of water?”
“Sounds good,” she says.
“Come on. I’ll fix us both one.”
We walk through the field to the grass that leads to the house. Hattie follows us, tail wagging lazily. We take the stairs to the deck and step through the French doors of the kitchen.
“Do you mind if I wash my hands?” Sawyer asks.
“Of course not. The guest bathroom is just down the hallway there.”
“Thank you.”
She disappears from the kitchen, and I pull a couple of glasses from the cabinet, fill them with ice and then with water. When she returns a minute later, I hand one to her. She takes the glass with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, but there’s something quieter in her face than yesterday. Not ease, exactly. Just… less fear.
“Thank you so much. That looks wonderful. Your house is beautiful. Did you do any of this?” she asks, waving a hand at the decor of the kitchen.
“Yeah. Actually, I kind of did a complete renovation of the place. It needed an update, and I needed somewhere to put my focus.”
“You did a great job,” she says.“I love the colors, and the cabinetry is beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say.“Have you thought about keeping your parents’ place?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head and glancing down.“I haven’t.”
“You could, you know. It’s a good place to live. I mean, I think it’s a good place.”
“It’s okay, Jake. I know what you meant.”
She walks over to the glass-paned doors that look out across the lake, stands there, silent, before saying,“How are you not angry about what happened to you, Jake?” She turns to look at me then.“I mean, you essentially had your life as you knew it taken away from you.”
“I was, for a while,” I say.“I’m not going to deny that.”
“What changed?”
I don't need to think about my answer. I remember the exact moment. “I came across this interview with a psychiatrist, a Holocaust survivor. She was in her late eighties at the time but full of life and purpose. She talked about being sent to Auschwitz with her mother and sister, about how the guards separated them on arrival, promising they’d be reunited soon. Her mother was gone that same day.”
