Dominic

The book slips from my hands, landing on the desk with a dull thud. It’s a handmade collection of new words I’ve found over the past month—my little gift for Celeste. I was supposed to give it to her last week, but that was the same day Mrs. Dolton, the principal, pulled me aside and told me to quit “messing around” with Celeste. I don’t know if it was her tone or the cold look in her eyes that made me hesitate. So, the book stayed in my drawer. Now, as I stare at its worn cover, I feel this hollow ache, like I’ve lost something that could’ve mattered. I’m about to toss it in the trash when a thought hits me—what if I had given it to her? What would’ve happened? She still needs this. With a sigh, I shove it back in the drawer and lock it.

I start packing up my desk, but my phone buzzes. It’s the hospital—a reminder about visiting hours. Mum was admitted to UCSF Medical Center in San Francisco a week ago. The Alzheimer’s had been creeping up on us for years, but this time, it hit harder. She needed round-the-clock care now, and I’m squeezing in hospital visits between school and everything else, trying to be everything for everyone. I push the drawer shut, grab my jacket, and head out.

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The hospital smells like antiseptic and anxiety. As I walk through the quiet halls, I feel the familiar tightening in my chest. When I reach her ward, I find her asleep, her breathing soft and steady. I sink into the chair beside my mother's bed and wait. It’s been a long day, and the exhaustion seeps into my bones. I want to tell her about my day, about Crestview Academy, about the students who remind me so much of how I was as a kid—curious, eager, and a bit lost. Especially Celeste. But I keep quiet, afraid to disturb her rest.

After what feels like an hour, she stirs and her eyelids flutter open. There’s a moment of clarity in her eyes, but then it fades, replaced by the distant gaze I’ve come to recognize. She looks at me, and for a moment, I think she’s forgotten who I am. But then she smiles—a small, faint smile—and I see a spark of recognition.

“Hey, Mum,” I say softly, leaning forward. “Do you remember when you used to help me with my essays?” I’m fishing for a memory, any memory, to pull her out of the fog. “You always had a way of making the words come alive.”

Her smile deepens, but there’s a sadness in it. “Of course, sweetie. You were always such a bright boy,” she says, though her voice is thin, like she’s unsure of the words. “I used to tell my students you’d end up teaching one day, just like me.” Her eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Are you still at the university?”

I reach out, taking her frail hand in mine. “No, Mum. I graduate last year. I’m teaching at Crestview Academy now. It’s a local school. I work with kids, and they remind me a lot of your stories about your students at Berkeley.”

She blinks, her brow furrowing. “Berkeley…” Her voice trails off, and I can see her struggling to grasp the memory, like trying to catch mist in her hands. “I think… I was giving a lecture about literature. But then… the words, they just slipped away.”

I swallow hard, forcing a smile. “You’ve always been a brilliant lecturer. You made people fall in love with literature, Mum. You made a difference. You still do.”

She grips my hand tighter, her fingers trembling. “You’re a good boy, Rowan,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. “Always here with me.” A tear slips down her cheek. “But I’m worried about you. You have your own life to live, your own dreams to chase. You can’t… you shouldn’t be spending all your time taking care of me.” Her voice lowers, raw and pained. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

I lean in, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “Mum, you’re not a burden. You’re my family. You raised me, homeschooled me, made sure I was different—in a good way.” I can’t help the little smile tugging at my lips. “This is nothing compared to what you’ve done for me.” I give her hand a playful squeeze. “And besides, I get to learn from the best every day.” I hesitate, then add, “I’m sure Olivia misses you.”

She looks at me, puzzled. “Olivia?” There’s a faraway look in her eyes. “Who’s that?”

I take a slow breath, my chest tightening. “Your daughter—Olivia Faye,” I remind her gently. “She’s at boarding school in Melville, New York. She’ll be back next month.”

Olivia, my thirteen-year-old sister, hasn’t been home in months. Since Mum’s condition worsened, she’s been avoiding coming back during breaks. I visit her when I can, call her once a week. We have a good relationship—she looks up to me like a father figure. But I know the situation at home scares her. It’s not easy watching Mum struggle with Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t easy for any of us, especially not after the divorce. The thought makes my throat tighten, but I push it down. “She’ll be back soon,” I say again, almost as if I’m convincing myself.

“Oh…” Mum says, the light dimming in her eyes. “Sometimes, I forget… the lectures, the students, even what day it is.” Her voice cracks as more tears slip free. “But I don’t want to forget you. I can’t. You’re my heart.”

I reach over and wipe her tears with my thumb. “I’m not going anywhere, Mum. I promise. We’ll take it one day at a time. Some days will be hard, but we’ll face them together.”

She meets my gaze with an intensity that catches me off guard. “Promise me,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “You’ll keep chasing your dreams. Don’t let my illness hold you back. You’re young, Rowan. You have so much potential. You need to keep moving forward, even if…” Her voice falters. “Even if I’m not always there.”

I nod, my throat thick with emotion. “I promise, Mum. I’ll keep moving forward. But I’m not leaving your side. Not ever.”

She lets out a small breath, her gaze drifting to the window. “Good… that’s good.” She looks like she wants to say more, but the words seem to slip away. “I think… I was supposed to be grading papers today.” She shakes her head. “Or was that last week? The days just blur together.”

“It’s okay, Mum,” I say, my voice calm and reassuring. “We can figure it out later.” I lean in, trying to spark a familiar passion. “Tell me about your favorite lectures. Like the one on Jane Austen. You always used to rave about her.”

Her eyes flicker with a faint light, like a candle struggling to stay lit. “Oh, yes… I loved talking about how Austen captured society’s complexities. Her wit, her… insight.” She trails off, the light in her eyes dimming again. “But it’s like… like the words are just out of reach.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, gripping her hand a little tighter. “We don’t need all the words. I understand. We’ll hold on to the moments we have, even if they’re just glimpses. That’s enough.”

She smiles at me, and there’s a deep sadness in it, but also a quiet strength. “Thank you, Rowan. For understanding. For being so patient.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You’re the best part of my life… even if I don’t always remember.”

“And you’re mine, Mum,” I whisper back. I lean into the silence, letting it stretch between us, thick and comforting. We’re here—two souls, one fading, the other holding on fiercely. And for now, that’s enough.

But as I sit there, the weight of her words lingers in the air, and I can’t shake the feeling that the next time she opens her eyes, I might be just another face in a sea of forgotten memories.

It’s a thought I can’t bear. Yet, somehow, I know it’s a possibility I’ll have to face… eventually.