I played Tetris with the contents of the fridge trying to find a place for six containers of ricotta cheese.
“Are you kidding? I’m looking forward to it. It reminds me of when Eric had the hockey team over. There’s no way those skinny boys can eat as much as they did.”
“You’d be surprised,” I muttered.
“They seem very sweet,” she said. “And they need a mom.”
That they did. When I held up a wholesale-sized box of the fruit snacks Sammy loved, she directed me to a long cabinet. “Sammy looks good,” I said. “I like the beard. How is he doing?”
She didn’t answer, and the rattle of grocery bags stopped.
“Mom? Is he okay? Is it his heart?” My heart skipped just thinking about something happening to Sammy. It was easier to pretend everything was fine at a distance. I knew very well all the potential problems that came with the genetic condition, keeping up on the medical literature was practically a hobby of mine, but there was still so much they didn’t know about adults with Down Syndrome.
Part of that was that, historically, people with it had died early. Back in the thirties, the life expectancy had been nine years. I couldn’t imagine having lost Sammy so young. Luckily, due to advances in medical science and major changes in how the children were treated, Sammy could potentially live as long as anyone. Hopefully longer than poor Bitty.
“No. His heart is fine, right now. Thyroid’s under control.” She turned me, a bunch of jewel-colored heirloom carrots with greens still attached in her hand. She ran her palm absently over the soft leafy greens. “I’m just worried about his…his mind. His cognitive functioning.”
I gripped the counter. “Are you thinking, what, Alzheimer’s? Dementia?” Recent research suggested that people with Down syndrome aged prematurely, suffering from age-related conditions like cataracts and hearing loss earlier than people without it. Tragically, Sammy had a greater risk of dementia than I did.
She tugged at the greens as if she might pull them off and then placed the bunch of carrots carefully on the counter. “Doctor Fiore isn’t worried yet. She thinks it’s a result of his sleep apnea getting worse.”
Sammy never had been a great sleeper. Getting him to sleep had been a challenge, and he’d often woken up during the night.
“I thought he had a CPAP machine?” Sammy had shown it to me a few months ago. I’d told him it made him sound like Darth Vader. He’d liked that.
“He has one, but he’s decided he hates it now. He puts up a fight when he has to wear it.”
“Great.” Sammy may be smiling and happy a lot of the time, but when he got an idea into his mind, he could be more stubborn than a mule. I knew for a fact that he was grumpier and harder to deal with when he was sleep-deprived. He got even more stubborn and intractable if such a thing was possible. “I thought he’d seemed a little subdued our last few calls. But I thought I was imagining it. Damn it.”
“We’ll work it out,” she said. “We always do.”
“Maybe I can talk to him. Find a way to make it cool?” I offered.
“Are you going to be around long enough for that?” she asked, not looking at me as she opened the fridge.
That was Mom, always going for the kill. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here this time, but I promise, I won’t disappear from your life again. I’ll visit. Maybe we can all go on vacation.” That was a great idea. I could take Mom and Sammy and Grace and Eric and go somewhere special. And Bob, I guess. I’d probably have to bring him. Had Sammy ever seen the ocean? I couldn’t remember.
“I know you can’t tell me about your mysterious job, but what happens next for you and Eric? I mean, is this serious or are you going to scamper away and leave him alone again?”
I started to protest, to reiterate that that wasn’t what happened, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe there was a kernel of truth in what she said. I fell back on my least favorite option, the truth.
“I don’t know exactly what comes next. I’ve got stuff going on, outside of Eric. And there I things I need to talk to him about.”
“Didn’t spend much time last night talking, eh?” she said.
“Mother!”
“Don’t ‘mother’ me. By the time I was your age, I had two kids already. Not like I