Page 15 of Maybe Some Other Time

Chapter seven

Peonies & Baby’s Breath

H er therapist warned her that she might not yet be ready, but the only response Thelma had was, “I’m her mother. She’s my daughter. Wouldn’t you go?”

Except Thelma’s therapist wasn’t a parent. She would never know what it was like to lose a child, let alone like this.

Robbie was against it as well, but after some gentle prying, Thelma realized it was because of how uncomfortable the whole thing made him—not some belief that his mother should be spared any pain.

I don’t think he sees me as his mother. To be fair, Thelma sometimes struggled to recognize him as her son, but it wasn’t because she was in denial.

He’s in denial. Still.

The therapist said that was normal for descendants who remembered the time traveler.

Honestly, how would Thelma have felt if her mother had gone missing when she was a child and suddenly showed up, completely unchanged and confused, decades later?

It would be difficult to process, yes. Except Robbie still refused to attend counseling with his mother, and she was keenly aware that he was preventing them from moving on as a family unit.

Honestly, why am I the one taking this so seriously? She was the time traveler! The stranger in a strange land!

So, they went to Great Oak Acres, the “memory care facility” where Thelma’s daughter Debbie currently resided.

With everything else going on in her life, Thelma hadn’t had much opportunity to process the news about her daughter.

She knew what dementia was. She knew it ran in their family.

Yet hearing that her youngest child had it in her mid-60s was as big a shock as hearing that she had already passed away.

Everything Thelma knew about Debbie’s life had been distilled through Robbie, who spoke of one husband and no children.

The husband was older than her and died ten years ago.

Before getting sick, Debbie balanced between being a housewife and an assistant schoolteacher who claimed to have gotten her “fill of children” and relied on the wonder drug of birth control to avoid being a mother herself.

She and her husband had made a home in Sherman Oaks, which was recently sold (at quite a tidy profit) to pay for her end-of-life care, however long it would be.

Megan was the one who told her grandmother that they rarely visited Aunt Debbie.

In fact, when Megan called ahead, she discovered that nobody had been by to see Debbie since the last visit seven months ago.

Thelma swallowed that information as they loaded up in Robbie’s car and trekked to the facility together.

“She’s not gonna remember you,” Robbie said no fewer than five times between his house and the memory care facility. “She doesn’t remember any of us. Just lives in her head all day.”

Thelma glared at him through the corner of her eye.

Still, all those weeks later, she enjoyed watching Los Angeles go by wherever they drove.

Slowly, she came to recognize the modern world, from the bright, LED lights to the smaller, sleeker cars that traversed wide freeways and cozy tree-lined streets.

The billboards were raunchier than she would have liked, but so was the color television that showed pimples on models’ faces while also captivating Thelma’s attention as she watched nature programming in “ultra clarity.”

At least she was allowed to ride in the front of the car now. Still not allowed to cook how I’d like… But she was getting there.

“She’s my daughter,” Thelma said. “I won’t be able to rest until I know I’ve seen her.”

“She doesn’t look how you remember at all.”

“I’ve seen her photos.” Debbie had grown up into a lovely young woman with short, curly brown hair and a sweet, round face.

Thelma didn’t appreciate how much older her husband had been when they married, but he had an amiable smile that suggested their meeting at a modeling agency where Debbie worked as a backroom clerk was fate.

She was his second—but final—wife. And it was through those photos that Debbie had grown stepchildren from her husband’s first marriage.

No wonder she truly didn’t want any of her own.

Between being a secondary mother to her husband’s older children and the kids she helped teach at the local school… even Thelma was exhausted.

But, no… she supposed these sepia-toned and crisp-colored photographs of an aging Debbie did not accurately portray how she looked now. Mid-60s with dementia…

They pulled into the shadiest part of the parking lot. Thelma unbuckled her seatbelt but didn’t hurry to get out. She waited for Megan to leave the backseat and stretch her arms over her head before getting out as well.

Robbie acted like he wasn’t going in.

“Mister…” Thelma peered at him through the passenger side window, which was still halfway rolled down. “That’s your sister in there. Let’s go.”

That grown, elderly man looked at her as if he had just been grounded. And, no, he couldn’t believe it.

“Did she go to your wedding?” Thelma asked. “Was she there when your daughter was born?” No, she actually had to ask these questions because she hadn’t been to those events.

Robbie muttered something, arms crossed in front of the steering wheel.

“What was that?”

“I said what does it matter? ”

Yet he got out with a huff, locking the car as the three of them approached the main entrance of Great Oak Acres.

“Who’s this?” the receptionist on duty asked after welcoming Robbie and Megan by name, as if that was how they shamed the rarer visitors around there. “Why, you look a lot like Mrs. Pearson!” She referred to Debbie’s married name. “It’s the cheeks, love. Actually, you look a lot like…”

As she narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, Thelma froze. Does she recognize me from an old picture in my daughter’s room? Robbie had mentioned that Debbie claimed many of Thelma’s things when they grew up, which might have included her wedding and graduation photos.

Robbie cut in. “This is Thelma. Debbie’s daughter.”

The receptionist, who bore the nametag Carlotta, blinked in rapid succession at the older man standing before her counter. “Debbie has a daughter? That’s new to us.”

Thelma knew she needed to direct this ship before it crashed into an iceberg. “Yes. I’m Debbie and Paul’s daughter. Thelma Van der Graaf. Named after my grandmother.”

“Oh, that’s who you look like! We know all about your grandma here. Debbie’s told us the story of how she went missing so many times. Poor thing. I always wonder what happened.”

A nurse appeared, this one more calcitrant than Carlotta. “What’s up, Car?”

The receptionist addressed her directly. “This is Debbie’s family. Including her daughter! Did you know she had one? She ever mention it?”

The nurse, whose nametag heralded Linda, raised one stiff brow and shook her head.

Her hands remained firmly in her cozy sunset-pink sweater she wore over her turquoise scrubs.

Curly brown hair was held high on the back of her head as a ponytail bounced with her movements.

“Never heard her say anything about a daughter. Considering I’m the one who takes care of Debbie and cleans her room every day… ”

Oh, Thelma was ready for this, too. She and Megan had come up with it during a Chrononaut & Family class.

“They gave me up for adoption when I was born,” she said.

“Couldn’t take care of me, financially speaking.

Of course, my adoptive parents told me about it when I got older, and I managed to reach out to my birth mother, Debbie, a couple of years before I got sick.

Now I’m living with my uncle and my cousin, so I thought I could finally come visit her here… ”

Robbie glanced between her and Linda, as if he didn’t know this lie would work.

“Cool,” was all Linda said as she motioned for them to follow. “You’re in luck. She just got up from her nap. I’m sure she’d be happy to have some visitors.”

Thelma’s heart thundered in anticipation of what she would see when she finally held her daughter again.

How bad is she? Is she gaunt? All of Thelma’s interactions with dementia were through her grandparents, and she was never around them much.

Back then, such people didn’t live as long, she garnered.

Now they’ve got places like these to keep them alive with some dignity.

Maybe. It could always be worse than Thelma surmised.

They were sat at a table in the lounge, where they were instantly surrounded by elderly women whose mouths always hung rictus as they inched forward in wheelchairs and old men who shuffled along the metal grip bars attached to the walls.

A large, white cat prowled the hall, purring, growling, and chirping at whoever paid it any attention.

Thelma held her green 1950s purse in her lap as she anxiously awaited her daughter’s arrival.

Megan was glued to her phone as Robbie’s eyes glazed over while staring into the distance.

“Here they are!” Linda’s voice took on new life as she escorted someone toward them. “It’s your brother, Robbie, and your little niece Megan!”

A woman with no teeth and wrinkles that sagged her whole face down toward her chin attempted to grin.

Thelma held back a gasp. That’s not my daughter…

It couldn’t be. Even when compared to pictures of Debbie as an adult, this woman looked nothing like her.

Where was the body fat? The chestnut brown hair?

Or even the rigid shoulders and perfect posture like she had in all of her photos?

“And I’m told this is your daughter, Thelma.” Linda stood Debbie in front of the table. Megan put down her phone but couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact. Robbie nodded to his sister, sighing. As for Thelma?

She continued to hold her breath, gazing into big blue eyes that knew her.

“Debbie…”

“Ma?” That was the first full word Debbie uttered when she arrived at the table. “Mama!”