Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
After Dom dropped us off earlier this evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about how my mom had woken up before me this morning and walked out of the house without me knowing. Or the fact that if Dom hadn’t been in my driveway, installing a new battery in my Civic, I have no idea what could’ve happened to her. I warred with myself over whether I should use the extra security camera I still had unopened in the box—a leftover from my order a few weeks ago. I couldn’t decide if it violated my mom’s privacy in some way, but eventually, keeping her safe became my top priority.
Luckily, Sherry thinks Gibbs and Tony instructed me—Ziva—to install this new camera and is none the wiser.
When I realize the clock is nearing eleven, I coax her into turning off NCIS, just as the credits start to play on one of her favorite episodes. In “Requiem,” from season 5, Gibbs doesn’t hesitate to help a childhood friend of his daughter, Kelly. You find out that both Gibbs’s daughter and wife were murdered, and the episode ends with a wild underwater rescue from Sherry’s favorite character, Tony DiNozzo.
It’s her favorite part—she claps and cheers every time she watches it, and tonight was no different. Though, while she was giving Tony a standing ovation, I kept thinking about how ironic it is that she’s attached Tony to Dom.
Of all the people on her favorite show, she sees Dom as Tony and me as Ziva. The two characters she loves to see get together.
“One more?” she asks, and I shake my head, reaching out to hold both of her hands and pull her up from the couch. I can tell by the uncertain look on her face that the dark night is bringing confusion and uncertainty.
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 mind that 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 between us. 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.