Three Squeezes
I drive while trying to keep myself detached from the woman in the passenger seat. She is my mother and she is mumbling about people doing "this, that, and the other", as she puts it. None of what she"s saying is positive. She is having a cranky day.
Good, I think. That makes it easier.
I"m taking her to her daycare center, the place she hates more than any other on Earth. It is a daycare center for people with Alzheimer"s Disease.
To make the painful drive easier I perform what has become my driving ritual. I begin to imagine a brick wall going up between us. She talks her nonwords, strings of them, not making any sense at all, and I add brick after brick in my mind. I want the wall tight and secure. If it becomes weak I start to remember her the way she used to be, the way she should be. And then I can"t do what I need to do. How could I take her someplace she doesn"t want to go? So I try to forget who she is, much as she has forgotten me, by adding the bricks and driving on in silence.
But then she does something that crumbles the wall and crumbles me. She reaches over and grabs my hand. Before I can pull away she squeezes it three times. One, two, three...and the wall comes down.
Ever since I can remember, my mom and I have had our secret squeeze. One squeeze for each word; I love you. She squeezed to give me courage on the first day of school. She squeezed to give me reassurance when I was a teenager and didn"t want to hear her words. She squeezed to tell me she was sorry when we"d had an argument. She squeezed to say, "That"s the one" as we looked at the white wedding gown in the window. And she squeezed when words stuck in her throat as I handed her a baby girl named Ellen. I love you. Silently. Just between us.
The wall torn down, I turn to face her. She says to me, "You"re such a pretty girl, do you know that?"
The words are hard for her. Sometimes they come out wrong or go places she didn"t intend.
"I"m not sure who you are," she says.
I tell her that I am her daughter. She looks surprised. I tell her that the baby in the back is her grandson.
This is the one act I don"t mind performing in the drama of Alzheimer"s. Every time I tell her that she has grandchildren her eyes light up with tears and sometimes she squeals like a little girl in utter delight. She looks at him, as if for the first time, and he waves his two-year-old hand at her, used to the routine, used to the woman-child who is his grandmother.
"Oh I wanted one of those!" she says. "I wanted one of those!"
I tell her that she had babies. I tell her that I am her baby and she is my mother. She looks confused. She says my name, and I"m relieved she"s remembered it. But she is confused as to who I am, nonetheless.
"I used to be your baby" I tell her. She laughs because this is funny to her.
"I don"t know, I just don"t know," she says. "But I have loved you forever." And then three more squeezes.
The tears come freely for me now. This causes her concern. Her brow furrowed, she rubs my hand.
"What"s the matter? What can I do?" she says.
She sounds just like herself. Hopefully, I turn to face her, but with one quick glance I can see she"s not there. She begins talking nonsense, about "those people" and all that they do wrong.
The magic settles and I start to rebuild the wall. I stop, however, after a couple of bricks. Instead I reach over and grab her hand. I squeeze it three times. She smiles at me and says again, "You"re such a pretty girl. I have loved you forever."
She is sincere. She could pick me out of a crowd of thousands. She wouldn"t know who I am, or be able to connect me with the baby that floats in and out of her memories, but she"d know that she"s loved me forever.
Three squeezes. Her way of telling me that all is not lost. Her way of telling me her heart has not forgotten. Her way of telling me, of all the things she did in her life, I was the most important.
(實習編輯：夏根建)