“Markie?” she whispered.
Mark stopped breathing.
“Is that you, Markie?”
Mark’s face crumpled.
“It’s me, Mom,” he said. “It’s me.”
“You got so big,” she said. “When did you get so big?”
“While you weren’t looking,” he said.
She reached across the table and held his face in both her hands. She looked at him for a long time. Like she was memorizing him.
Ezoic
“My baby,” she said. “My baby boy.”
Ezoic
Then, as fast as it came, it was gone.
She blinked. She let go of his face. She looked around the kitchen, a little confused.
“Joe,” she said. “Do you want dessert? I think there’s ice cream.”
Mark wiped his eyes.
“I’d love some ice cream, Frannie,” he said.
We moved her into the memory care home in Webster Groves four days later.
It was a good place. Diane was right. A garden with roses and a fountain and benches. A piano in the common room. Nurses who knew every resident’s name and the names of their grandchildren and what kind of music they liked.
