Coast

by Jay McLean

  Becca’s now refusing to make eye contact with either of us.

  Mom shows up, papers in hand, asking me to sign contracts to things I can’t even think about. She senses my mood, and now she’s part of the silence.

  Part of the wait.

  Tommy calls.

  Becca smiles.

  I don’t.

  Because she’s too far away and I want her next to me. I want her in my arms and I want to go back to this morning when touching her didn’t seem like a crime.

  Mom says, “Maybe just look at the contracts, Josh. Get your mind off things.”

  “Stop.” It comes out harsh, but I don’t apologize. Right now, I don’t need her here as my manager, I need her here as my mom.

  Dr. Richards returns, no Chaz in sight. “We need to talk.”

  16

  —Becca—

  There’s a ringing in my ears so loud it almost drowns out Dr. Richards’s words. After what Josh had said, I was expecting the diagnosis. I guess I just hadn’t prepared myself for it. And definitely not to this extent.

  Frontal Lobe Dementia.

  The three words replay in my head, over and over, while the ringing gets louder and louder.

  Apparently, the CT scans they’d done showed signs of multiple strokes, ones that went undetected, most likely taking course in Grams’s sleep. It could’ve been happening for months, but no one was around to see her decline. Dr. Richards continues to go through the results of the tests, speaking words that I’ve only read about since Josh mentioned dementia. My eyes sting, tears threatening to fall and I look over at my dad, a person who’s been there through my ups and downs over the past two years. I search for comfort, for relief, but what I see is nothing. Not a damn thing.

  “So cure it!” Josh yells, fist thumping on Grams’s food tray.

  I flinch at the sound, shocked at his response.

  “Josh,” his mom reprimands.

  “There’s currently no cure for dementia,” the doctor says, grabbing a chair from the corner of the room and sitting opposite me.

  Josh’s fists ball, his jaw tense, and I close my eyes, preparing myself for a repeat of the anger I’d once witnessed. “So find one.”

  A sob escapes in an unfamiliar sound. Sound. I made a sound.

  I choke on a gasp, my eyes snapping open to see everyone watching me, their bodies frozen, their eyes as wide as mine. Josh is the first to move, first to alter the still image my eyes alone had captured. He stands quickly, pulling me into his embrace. “It’s okay,” he whispers, his hands stroking my hair. “It’s okay.” He repeats the same words, the occasional apology thrown in, while I stifle my cries into his chest. His heart pounds against my cheek, his body trembling. Then he pulls back, holding my face in his hands while wiping my tears with his thumbs. “Look at me, Becs,” he asks. So I do. Because right now, he’s all I know. All I have. “We’re going to get through this. You and me. Together, okay?”

  I nod, choosing to believe his words—even if his words are lies.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the chair he’d just vacated and squats next to me, his hands on mine hiding their trembles.

  “I spoke with your grandmother, Becca,” Dr. Richards says. “I needed to have the conversation with her while she was still coherent. Because of her mental state, we had to discuss a power of attorney. Do you know what that means?”

  I nod at the same time Josh says, “It’s someone to speak on her behalf and make decisions for her when she can’t.” He looks over my shoulder at his mother sitting in a chair next to me. “Like you were with Dad, right?”

  Suddenly, his reaction, his anger, all of it makes sense. I see the fear in his eyes the moment they meet mine. A flashback of the past—of a scared, broken boy who thought he had to take on the world alone. But he didn’t have to. Not then. Not now.

  Dr. Richards speaks, forcing us to break our stare. “We’re going to start Chazarae on some medication. It’ll be ongoing. I’ll need to keep seeing her on a routine basis, and because of how severe the dementia is, it’ll be a good idea to look at alternative living arrangements for her.”

  “Like a home?” Dad asks, finding his voice for the first time since we left the house.

  “She has a home,” Josh says. “She’s not going anywhere.” I can hear the frustration in his tone, feel the anger simmering deep within him.

  “We need to stay calm,” says his mother. I know she’s trying to help, but going by the tick in Josh’s jaw, she’s doing the opposite.

  “Look.” Dr. Richards sets Grams’s chart aside and clasps his hands on his lap. “I know this is tough for you all. I often see family members of patients whose reactions are the same as yours. But there are a lot of facilities around, nice ones, that will look after her better than she can look after herself. She needs constant care and supervision.”

  Josh shakes his head. “I’ll quit skating.”

  “You will not,” his mom snaps.

  My fingers work fast on my phone, my panic rising. “I’ll quit college.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dad and Josh say in unison. Great, at least they agree on something.

  I type again. “You can’t quit, Josh. You’ve worked too hard to give up skating.”

  His eyes narrow at me. “Yeah, well you’ve survived too much to give up college!” The loudness of his voice makes me flinch. He takes a breath, trying to find a calm. “Becca, I’ve made enough money to support her. I’ll do it.” Josh turns back to the doctor. “What do I need to do? My dad—we had to do things around the house so his wheelchair…” His voice fades, his throat bobbing with his swallow. “Do I need to fix—”

  “Josh…” Ella’s hand lands on his arm. “You can’t just stop everything you have going at the moment to look after Chaz. I know you want to—”

  “Shut up!” he blurts. “You weren’t there, okay? She was. She saved me! When you and dad turned your backs on me, she saved me! She practically raised Tommy, and me, because I had nothing. I was nothing. Nothing but a scared shitless little kid and she saved me. And now I need to do the same! Why don’t you get that?!”

  Dad stomps toward us, but I raise my hand to stop him. Then I hold up my finger at Dr. Richards, asking him to wait. He nods once, and that’s when I stand quickly and grab Josh’s arm, forcing him to his feet. I place my hands on his back and push him to the door. The second we’re out of the room, he inhales deeply, his gaze on the ceiling and his fists in his hair. His eyes drop to mine, his lips trembling as he holds one hand over his heart, the other reaching for me. As soon as I’m in his arms, he breaks. “There’s this build up in my chest, Becs. This ache so strong it’s blurring my vision.” He sniffs once. “Or maybe it’s the guilt. Or the anger. I have no idea.”

  “It’s okay,” I try to whisper, but nothing comes out. Nothing. Not that it matters. I doubt he would’ve heard it over the heaviness of his breaths. His chest rises and falls as he struggles with the news, and once he’s calm and his eyes are dry, he takes one more inhale through his nose. “Let’s go,” he says, taking my hand. Josh clears his throat a foot inside the room. “Just tell me what I need to do. Please.”

  —Joshua—

  Dr. Richards makes an appointment for us at his office the next day, saying it’s a lot more “tranquil” than the hospital. I know he directed the comment at me. I don’t care. I don’t need tranquil, I need solutions. Answers. He tells us Chaz is undergoing more tests, more prods, more pokes, and that she won’t be back in the room until later that night.

  The others leave. I don’t.

  I wait until she’s returned and spend the entire night watching her sleep, and while I do, I wonder how it’s possible that God can do this to a woman who’s spent the majority of her life worshipping the words of the Bible.

  With reluctance, I leave her mid-morning, my body aching from fatigue, and go home with just enough time to shower and change before the meeting at Dr. Richards’s office.

  Becca stand
s from her seated position on the porch steps when I pull into the driveway. Chaz’s car is gone, meaning her dad probably is, too. And I try my hardest not to let his actions be the cause of my anger, because there’s so much more happening right now that deserves my hurt than him.

  “Did you spend all night with Grams?” Becca’s phone asks as she falls into step beside me.

  I head for my apartment and try not to look at her. “Yep.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “Nope.”

  She pulls on my arm, forcing me to face her, then looks down at her phone and types away. “Are you mad at me?”

  “I don’t know, Becs,” I say through a heavy exhale. I glance at her eyes—a mixture of sad and hope. “I don’t know what I am right now.” I shake my head. “Why does your dad hate me so much?”

  Her frown is instant. Her thumbs, however, hesitate. “He’s just protective.”

  “Of me?”

  She shrugs.

  I take a moment to carefully select my words. “There has to be a reason why he feels the need to shelter you from me. The only thing he has to go by is whatever you’ve told him. So I guess that proves how you feel about me. Maybe the other night was a mistake. I should’ve never asked you to stay with me.” Her mouth opens, no words come out, and I’m reminded again of why and how she is the way she is. “It’s okay, Becs. Seriously. We got caught up in the moment and it’s cool. I’m not mad.”

  She inhales deeply, her chest rising slowly and falling quickly. Then she uses two fingers and points to her eyes. I don’t really understand why, but I keep my gaze on hers as it lowers so she can type on her phone. “Please don’t shut me out. Don’t push me away.” She glances up at me, making sure I’m still watching her eyes—eyes I was drawn to from the moment I saw her. Then she taps her phone, her thoughts echoed through the digitized voice, “Not again, Josh.”

  My knees weaken at her words, words unintentionally destroying every thought process, every ounce of sense I’d spent the entire night trying to find, and before I get a chance to respond, she adds, “I understand that Grams is important to you. But she’s important to me, too. She’s my grandmother. And everyone’s treating me like they’ve forgotten that. It’s bad enough that she has.”

  “I know,” I say quickly. I pull her into me, her hands trapped between us as she continues to write.

  “And then there’s this whole thing between you and Dad, and I don’t know who to be near, who to comfort…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She returns my hug now, her tear-soaked eyes meeting mine. My lips meet hers, only for a second before the honking of a horn pulls us apart. Becca’s arms drop, her gaze shifting between the car and me.

  “Go with him, Becs. You need each other right now. You’re her family.”

  * * *

  Martin and Becca are waiting outside the office for me, along with the last person I thought would be here. Mom shuffles on her feet, her hands clasped in front of her and her discomfort evident. I feel like a kid—a kid who’s disappointed his mother—which is exactly what I am. And all of a sudden, my heart’s heavy, caused by the weight of my guilt. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

  “It’s okay, Joshua. You’re going through a lot.”

  “It doesn’t excuse the way I spoke to you, though. Nothing does.”

  She smiles, but it’s sad. “You know I love Chazarae, right?”

  “I know. I was just being dumb.”

  She inhales deeply, before she rushes out, “Josh. Out there, in the skate world—”

  “Stop. I don’t want to think about it.” Especially with Becca and Martin right fucking here.

  “Just let me finish.” She steps forward. “Out there, you’re on your own. The pressure’s on you and you alone to succeed, and you do an amazing job of that. There’s not a single person out there who can say you struggle to do things on your own… but this doesn’t have to be one of those moments. You have Becca, Martin, and you have your mamma.”

  I can’t help but smile. “And I need my mamma.”

  She cups my cheek and pouts at me. “And I’m always going to be here, sweetheart.”

  * * *

  Dr. Richards’s office is small, or maybe it’s Martin’s behemoth frame. Add to that the giant elephant in the room and there’s barely enough oxygen to cover us all. Becca and my mother sit on the chairs opposite the doctor. Martin paces. I stand by the closed door doing everything I can to focus on the reason we’re here and nothing else.

  “I spoke to Chazarae again after discussing her situation with you all yesterday,” Dr. Richards says, his eyes scanning the room, making sure he’s giving everyone the same level of attention. “In her case, time is a big issue, so I asked her again about who she wanted as her power of attorney. I mentioned that Martin was here, and so was Becca, and she understood, to a degree. But she still chose you, Joshua.”

  I nod, not at all surprised. “Okay.”

  “There’s some paperwork to fill out, information we’ll need from you… her PPO, HMO, life insurance—”

  “I have no idea what any of that means. My son and I are covered through my team, but…”

  Martin scoffs.

  I glare at him.

  Mom says, “I’ll take care of all that. Don’t worry.”

  “Look,” Martin says, finally stopping his useless, mind-numbing back and forth pacing. “She needs to go to a facility where they can take adequate care of her, right? That’s what this is all about. So how much is this going to cost?”

  I clear my throat and step behind Becca and Mom and speak directly to the doctor. “The cost does not matter. I’ll cover it. But I really don’t like the idea of her being in a home. It just doesn’t sit right with me.” I think about all the things that came to mind last night while I was watching Chaz sleep, her breaths even, her body peaceful. I thought of all the moments she’s encouraged me, pushed me to be a better person, a better son, a better father. I swallow the lump in my throat and add, “She’ll just be a patient there, not a person. And what about her garden? She loves her garden. And her TV shows. And church? Can she even still go to church?”

  Silence falls, just for a moment before Mom surprises me by saying, “I agree with Josh. What about in-home care?”

  “That’s a possibility?” I ask the doctor, hope kicking in for the first time in days.

  Dr. Richards leans back in his leather chair and crosses his legs. “It’s a lot pricier.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Martin scoffs. Again. And I crack. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “Josh,” Mom warns.

  Becca stands, her hand on my chest, her back to her father. She shakes her head, another warning—only hers is silent. I inhale a calming breath and force myself to ignore him the way he’s ignored me.

  Dr. Richards answers, “I’m concerned. I think it’s important for her to socialize and be around people who understand what’s going on with her. As we all know, she’s alone the majority of the time. In a facility, she’ll be around—”

  “Other people like her?” I interrupt. “She has friends. She has a life, and she’ll continue to do so outside of this disease. I’ll make sure of it.” The words fall from my lips, rushed and unapologetic.

  The doctor seems to concede. “A live-in nurse is an option. I can gather some files and résumés for you to go through.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that.” I turn to Becca. “Is that good with you, Becs?”

  She nods.

  “And immediate care until then? What does she need?” I’m glad Mom asks because all I seem to be doing is shoving my opinions and demands in people’s faces.

  “She can be discharged soon. A nurse will come by the house and make sure she has everything she needs. She’ll also speak to you all so you can make sure she takes her meds on time, every day, until she’s comfortable with the routine.”

  Martin clears his throat. I don’t look at him when he says, “I have to be
back at work in a couple days, so…”

  So… Good.

  “I can stay at the house, or drop by and check in on things. At least until Josh starts skating again and we’re comfortable with whoever we choose,” Mom says, lifting some weight off my shoulders.

  Becca types away on her phone. “I don’t have classes for another week and a half. I’d be a lot more comfortable going back if we could get it done before then.” And the weight returns, only now it’s doubled, crushing my insides. Because she’s leaving. I knew she would be—but not this soon, and having her actually say it makes the countdown real. She looks over at me before going back to her phone. “Will that be okay, Josh? If we do it together, that should give us enough time, right?”

  And at her words, I remind myself that a week and a half with Becca is better than no Becca at all. “It’s perfect, Becs.”

  17

  —Joshua—

  My mom goes back home, back to work, back to making phone calls and excuses for me, while the rest of us go back to the hospital. None of us seem to know what to do, how to act, so we sit in silence and watch Chazarae sleep. She sleeps a lot. Apparently this is the new normal. At some point, I fall asleep, too, sitting on the chair next to her bed with her hand in mine. That’s when Rob and Kim show up with Tommy, their quiet voices waking me. Becca introduces them to her dad while Tommy sits on my lap, a frown on his lips as he holds Chaz’s fingers. “Is she going to be okay like last time?” he asks me.

  I stare at my son and I try to think of the right words—words that will shelter him from the pain and the heartbreak of life. But he’s older now than he was when I went through this with my dad, so I give him the truth, because he deserves nothing less. “She’s not going to be the same, bud.”

  “But you said Ma’am wasn’t going to be deaded like Pa.”

  “And she’s not, but her memory is fading and she might not always act the same as you remember her. When she wakes up, she might not know you.”

  “But I’m Thomas Joshua,” he says, beaming up at me. “Ma’am loves me. She’ll remember.”