"So..." I began again lamely. Still no response, though I thought I saw her eyes flicker in my direction. Maybe. Or maybe it was just a trick of the awful fluorescent lamps overhead.
I fumbled for something to say for a minute, but came up with nothing. After a few more false starts, we sat in silence. I tried to pretend it was a comfortable, companionable silence, but it felt like I was just sitting in the room with dead air. Hesitantly, I reached out and patted my mother's hand. I instantly regretted it; her hand was papery and cold, like some fragile doll's.
We sat like that for what seemed an eternity. I hated this, these visits; it all felt like a sham. I watched her dull, blank stare, directed at some middle space hanging just below the pocked styrofoam-esque ceiling. I could remember a time when her blue eyes were human, when they were overflowing with compassion and humor and life. Seeing her like this seemed to me grotesque, morbid.
I remembered visiting my grandmother, my mother's mother, at a place similar to this, a "home" full of bland, moribund despair. Maybe it was even the same one. It was there I had learned to hate nursing homes at an early age.
"Look, Mama," my mother said in that voice of saccharine cheer reserved for small children and the mentally disabled. "I brought Lily to see you. Isn't she just a little doll?" She hoisted me up so that I was eye level with my grandmother. I squirmed frantically. "Look, she's got our eyes, Mama!" It was true, I had the same electric blue eyes as both my grandmother and my mother. However, in my mother's face they were animated, full of warmth and life. In my grandmother's, they were just blank unseeing blue marbles. It was terrifying seeing those eyes in that slack face, with wispy curls pasted to her skull. My mother assured me more than once that my grandmother had been quite the beauty in her day, but I saw none of that. Visiting her at that young age, she barely seemed human.
"She's happy to see you," my mother said to me, a broad smile pasted across her face. I stared at her. My grandmother had barely blinked during the whole exchange, much less given some indication of happiness. "Take your grandma's hand, Lily," my mother continued. Her smile was fixed, plastic.
I shook my head fiercely. This place smelled funny, these people were weird, and this...zombie in a wheelchair didn't seem like any grandma I knew. All my friends' grandmas baked cookies and gave comfy hugs.
"Lily." My mother was still smiling, and her voice was still cheery, but there was
I fumbled for something to say for a minute, but came up with nothing. After a few more false starts, we sat in silence. I tried to pretend it was a comfortable, companionable silence, but it felt like I was just sitting in the room with dead air. Hesitantly, I reached out and patted my mother's hand. I instantly regretted it; her hand was papery and cold, like some fragile doll's.
We sat like that for what seemed an eternity. I hated this, these visits; it all felt like a sham. I watched her dull, blank stare, directed at some middle space hanging just below the pocked styrofoam-esque ceiling. I could remember a time when her blue eyes were human, when they were overflowing with compassion and humor and life. Seeing her like this seemed to me grotesque, morbid.
I remembered visiting my grandmother, my mother's mother, at a place similar to this, a "home" full of bland, moribund despair. Maybe it was even the same one. It was there I had learned to hate nursing homes at an early age.
"Look, Mama," my mother said in that voice of saccharine cheer reserved for small children and the mentally disabled. "I brought Lily to see you. Isn't she just a little doll?" She hoisted me up so that I was eye level with my grandmother. I squirmed frantically. "Look, she's got our eyes, Mama!" It was true, I had the same electric blue eyes as both my grandmother and my mother. However, in my mother's face they were animated, full of warmth and life. In my grandmother's, they were just blank unseeing blue marbles. It was terrifying seeing those eyes in that slack face, with wispy curls pasted to her skull. My mother assured me more than once that my grandmother had been quite the beauty in her day, but I saw none of that. Visiting her at that young age, she barely seemed human.
"She's happy to see you," my mother said to me, a broad smile pasted across her face. I stared at her. My grandmother had barely blinked during the whole exchange, much less given some indication of happiness. "Take your grandma's hand, Lily," my mother continued. Her smile was fixed, plastic.
I shook my head fiercely. This place smelled funny, these people were weird, and this...zombie in a wheelchair didn't seem like any grandma I knew. All my friends' grandmas baked cookies and gave comfy hugs.
"Lily." My mother was still smiling, and her voice was still cheery, but there was
