I sit on the side of the single bed and breathe in the warm stuffy air that reminds me of dust and my aging parents. Dad lies on his back, settled under the covers. Thick brown curtains shut out the oncoming night. Although he is heavily shadowed, I can still see the deep worry lines etched into his face. He clutches one of my hands with both of his.

Mom is watching a game show in the living room. The audience’s applause is loud and distracting. She already said her goodnights to Dad. Two weeks ago, I inadvertently witnessed their nightly ritual, heads close together, soft murmurs, then a kiss on the lips. I didn’t realize they still connected romantically in that way. They hide it well.

“Are you okay, Dad? You seem a bit worried.”

“Just the regular.”

“What’s the regular?”

“Money.”

His answer surprises me. I look into this hard-working family man’s eyes, now in his late eighties, and wonder why he would be worrying about money? He looks shrunken and vulnerable in his tiny bed, in this tiny house. “There’s plenty of money, Dad. No need to worry.”

“Will there be enough for your mom?”

His body’s tired, worn out. He knows what’s coming and is understandably concerned about the future of his wife of sixty-six years.

“There’s more than enough savings and there’s the property too.”

His eyes hold mine as he raises his head off the pillow. “But who will take care of her?”

I know he means after he’s gone. Mom can’t live on her own, not with Alzheimer’s. Mom and Dad have always worked so well as a team. The last few years Dad’s been the brain and Mom’s been the brawn. Each makes up for what the other lacks. But his failing body is reaching its threshold and his wife’s mind is retreating, bit by bit, into oblivion.

My instinct is to relieve his worries, to soften those deeply etched lines on his kind face. “You don’t have to worry about Mom, Sandy and I will always take care of her.” I don’t know why I’ve included my sister in a promise I made. It just slipped out.

His grip on my hand lessens. I see a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Once the promise has been spoken, whether my sister is in or not, I realize I meant what I said. Taking care of Mom won’t be easy, but I know this pact with Dad is right. I’m in for the long haul.

***

Six months later:

The darkness of night raises Mom’s anxiety. I skirt the room and draw the heavy drapes. Once her show is over, I turn off the television. We move to the round maple-wood table and sit across from one another. She folds the tablecloth neatly to one side, clearing a smooth playing surface. I shuffle until Mom gives me her ‘enough already’ look. I pass her the deck and move my hands to my lap to prevent them from providing any unwanted assistance.

“How many?” Mom asks.

We’ve been playing this game for as long as I can remember. “Seven for Rummy.”

The old blue deck is our favourite. The cards have weakened over time. Their flexibility is kind to arthritic hands and much easier to manipulate than a new pack. Her stiff, bulbous-knuckled fingers execute one further shuffle, then she cuts the deck in two and stacks the piles, one on top of the other.

“Don’t trust me, eh?” I smile wide.

She grins, then counts out loud as each card is laid on the table. She turns over the top card and places the deck face down beside it. We each pick up the hands in front of us and begin to sort.

“I don’t have anything.” I glance at her, then back to my cards. “Too much shuffling.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing here either.” She continues the familiar bluff.

“You dealt. I go first.” I reach for a card from the face-down deck. I ponder the ace of spades and cast it onto the discard pile knowing Mom will snatch it up.

“I should get going soon.” Mom looks at the darkening kitchen. “Dad will be wondering where I am.”

I peek over my shoulder at Dad’s desolate leather chair, quiet and empty next to the picture window. I rise from my seat and flip the switch for the light. The chandelier brightens the kitchen, chasing those lingering shadows away.

“There, that’s better. Your turn Mom.”

“Okay.” She picks up the ace and discards a three of clubs. “One more hand and then I have to go.”

I need practice distracting her one-track mind. I slide a nine of hearts off the deck, a companion for my jack, and discard a six of hearts. I’m not kidding about having nothing in my hand. I consider my bunch of misfits. As usual, she’s going to slay me.

“I don’t know where everyone is.” Mom takes a card off the deck, tucks it into her hand, and discards a four of diamonds.

“Who, Mom?” I flip over the eight of diamonds from the top of the deck and put it beside the nine of diamonds in my hand. “Who’s everyone?” I discard a four of clubs.

“Tom and Hilda. They dropped me off this morning. I thought they would be back by now.”

“We’re not at Tom and Hilda’s.”

“Right.” She nods. “I’m at Jim’s. I’m supposed to be babysitting but I haven’t seen anybody all day.”

My brother moved away years ago. “This is your home. You live here, Mom.”

She glares at me like I’m still the lying five-year-old I once was. I try again to distract her from her current path of destruction with a face card. She likes face cards almost as much as aces: they’re flashy and worth more points. I watch her expression as I add the queen of clubs to the discard pile. “Here you go.”

Mom sighs and tries not to smile. “Might as well pick this up, it’s better than nothing.” She throws out the ten of hearts.

I pick up Mom’s discard. “Thanks, I needed that.” I slip it between the jack and nine of hearts in my hand and toss a five of diamonds onto the pile.

She frowns. “At least you could give me something good too.” She picks up the top card. She frowns deeper, smiles softly, tucks the new card in the middle of her hand, and rearranges them. Mom stares at her cards, moves one more, then lays down the ten, jack, queen, king, and ace of spades. Changing her mind about the ace, she snatches it off the table like a hot potato and adds it to her hand. She smirks and places her final cards on the table. Three aces. “That’s it.”

“What? I thought you didn’t have anything.” Nothing wrong with her faculties in the card-playing department, she does this every time.

“I did, then I didn’t.” Mom flashes her poker face, picks up her pen, and easily tallies our scores on the white notepad.

I gather the cards together and start shuffling for the next round.

“I need to go home now. Dad will be wondering where I am.”

“You live here, Mom.” I get up, walk to the living room, and turn on the overhead light. I pretend I’m Vanna White from Mom’s favourite game show. I swing my right arm towards her small burgundy leather chair that matches Dad’s. “Do you recognize this chair? Or how about this picture?” My finger points towards the winter farm scene on the far wall.

Mom hesitates. I see confusion in her eyes.

“You’ve lived here for over forty years.” I speak softly, slowly.

Mom shakes her head. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of the mother from my childhood and her all-knowing expression when she’s positive I’m lying.

“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true,” I smile and nod.

She looks so fragile. I can tell she wants to believe me but her distorted memories conflict with my words. “I promise I’ll always tell you the truth, Mom.” Even as I say it, I have an inkling that one day I’ll regret it.