For Audrey

“Come Martha,” she says, pulling me alongside her. “I want to eat breakfast”.

I sigh on the inside but give her a bright smile. I don't correct her verbally, but in my mind, I say: No, it's Audrey, you even insisted that I be named Audrey! I also internally remind her that it's twelve fifty-seven so technically it's lunch time.

I've long given up on arguing, it's better this way, arguing makes her uncomfortable and nowadays I'm the only one with the patience to let her be herself.

We leave the memory clinic, and I assist her into the car. I'm grateful that my mom lets me use hers because I know my all-electric vehicle would probably make her panic.

We drive to the Cafe that's not far from the assisted living home she resides in. It makes my stomach ache that she no longer lives with family, but none of us are able to provide the kind of care she needs. This is the best I can do. I take her to every single appointment, and do all her laundry, I take her on outings; but once a week, regardless of any other plans I take her to Honey Blossom, a cafe that reminds her of one that her sister and her would meet at to catch up, they went there so frequently that's where she met grandpa; he bought her a coffee one day, and then another, and another, until one day he asked her out.

"This place never changes! She says beaming as we walk through the door. I love that we still do this."

"Me too." I smile, helping her slide into a booth. She has a favorite table by the window, so she can watch people pass by, but last time she fell out of the chair, luckily, she was unharmed. I pray she doesn't notice, but it's always the sense of familiarity that disguises itself as memory.

"So, tell me, what's been going on with you!"

I readjust myself a bit to shoulder the discomfort. I hate that question. Because I don't know how to pretend to be Great Aunt Martha. I don't know how to pretend to be any of the people she sees. And unfortunately, she never sees me, not anymore. It's been a year since she even spoke my name.

My mom and her were close, her most favorite memories were watching Audrey Hepburn movies together. She really wanted to name my mother after her, but my grandfather wanted to name her after his mom, so they named my mother Evelyn, making her middle name Bettie after my Grandma’s mother. So, to make my grandma happy I was named Audrey. But she doesn't remember that anymore, at least, not the parts where I exist as Audrey. Sometimes she took a big drink of a heavily sweetened coffee and partway through the swallow, would slam her palm down on the table and excitedly say "d'know what, Martha?"

And then I'd say, "No, what is it, Elaine." Instead of Grandma.

And she'd blot her mouth with a napkin and say, "Evelyn is gonna name the baby Audrey if she's a girl. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes it is! So, you got your Audrey after all!"

"Yes I did, and we'll watch all her programs together, just like her mom and I did."

She frowns a little and I realize I haven't answered her yet. "Oh I always talk about myself, Elaine, tell me about you. How are you doing?"

She pauses for a moment to assess how she's been doing, struggling to remember things about herself.

"Well, I was at the apartment the other day, there was a nice nurse there helping me with the spice rack, we were out of salt. So, I called George to bring me some on his way home."

I nod. Well, Great Aunt Martha nods. I'm a placeholder for the people she loves. I'm ok with that. There are no spices in the kitchen and none of the appliances work. Though they keep some things like that in the rooms to 'facilitate a sense of normalcy', I'd argue that causes more stress. They moved her to an Alzheimer's unit when she asked a nurse where the hotel pool was, standing in her undergarments, holding a bedsheet as a towel. I laughed then. It was silly. It seemed harmless. The nurse, when she called, seemed tired. I send the unit chocolates now on holidays as a thank you.

“I'm so lucky to have George.” She dips her finger into her coffee. “You did ok for yourself too.”

Grandpa passed away two years ago. Great Aunt Martha is in a skilled nursing facility recovering from a hip injury. Mom is at home trying to cope with the process of losing her mom. It's better that I'm here so mom can hold onto the Elaine–Grand–Mother that she knew.

She plucks her finger out of the coffee again and brings it to her mouth. I can see the flesh growing pink and I feel like an idiot that it took me this long to realize what was happening. “Hey, no. Pick it up to drink it.” My tone comes out angry in its rush to protect her.

“I am drinking my coffee.” She snaps back. She pushes her finger in again, the ceramic mug tips a bit, and I can see a scalding mess approaching. I gesture for a waitress to come over and ask for a to-go cup. We don't have to leave, but I have to make sure she doesn't hurt herself. Or the trips out have to stop.

They bring our breakfasts; another reason I love this place other than the proximity–all day breakfasts. We get the same food. I always pick what she orders. That way, she doesn't argue with the waitress about our orders being switched when they aren't. Or if she gets confused about whether or not something is edible, she can see me eating it. Really, though, it's for times like these. Hash browns, pancakes, fried eggs, and bacon are set out before us. She picks up each utensil and then puts it back down. I grab my fork and slice into a bite of pancake and then another, making an even bigger show of it the second time. There's a strange look in her eyes as she watches me and it chills me because I know in these moments she's definitely not Grandma, much less Elaine. She lets go of a syrup-soaked pancake and wipes egg yolk on her blouse. Slowly, concentrating making her face crease even more, she picks up a spoon and jabs it into the center of the stack. She pulls it up but doesn't manage to get a bite. She watches me slice into my food again, and again, she stabs into hers; this time she's rewarded with buttery, sweet, bread. Syrup sticks to her cheeks, but I'll clean it later. Better not to agitate her. Deep blue eyes seem shiny and lively again compared to the dullness that had overtaken them moments ago.

When she's exhausted her tolerance for eating, I load the rest of our food into boxes and pay. She thinks we've sat there until closing time, even though the lunch rush we had initially beat is now on its way in. No use telling her it's only been thirty minutes. 

In the car she stares out the window. I know she can tell something is different, but I doubt she'll ever understand what it is. She's just on the other side of town, but it's still new to her.

All too soon we're back at the assisted living home. We smile and wave at the nurses as we pass and walk to her door arm in arm, sisterly, swaying just a little, but with a more mechanical and clumsiness to it.

Inside she sets her purse down and I turn the sink on. It's only cold water but we'll make do. I perform a more thorough job wiping her face and then set out fresh clothes for her to dress into.

When I've made sure all her needs that I can possibly assist with have been met I gather my things and her laundry and set them by the door.

On my way across the room to hug Grandma goodbye she gives a small, startled gasp. “Evelyn!” She all but stumbles forward. “It feels like it's been so long!” She always hugs me the tightest when she thinks I'm mom.

“Oooh, I've missed you so much!”

“I've missed you too.”

“How're my Grandkids!”

There's a knot in my diaphragm hindering me from breathing or talking.

“They’re fine.”

“When are you going to bring Audrey over? I remember she likes bunnies, so I got her this little doll.”

I laugh a little and, in my mind, I say: no Grandma, I’m Audrey, and you like bunnies so I got that doll for you, but out loud I say, “Thank you, Mom. I know she’ll love it. I’ll bring Audrey next time I visit so you can give it to her.”