Anton (Chicago Blaze 1)

And now it hurts my heart to see him so much smaller. At age seventy-five, he’s lost a lot of weight and is a shadow of his former self. The outline of his legs beneath the white bed sheets is nothing compared to the tree trunks he used to have.

“Who are you?” he asks as he stirs awake from a nap.

“I’m Mia.” I set my textbook down and stand up.

“What are you doing in my house?” He looks from side to side uncertainly.

We’re actually at Goodman House, a high-end long-term care facility for people with Alzheimer’s disease. But I learned the hard way that correcting my grandfather only agitates him.

“I just like spending time with you,” I tell him.

He gives me a skeptical look. “Did you steal my wallet?”

“No, but if it’s missing, I’ll help you find it.”

I don’t know what I’ll be in for when I visit my grandpa on my two days off work. Sometimes he’s happy and content, and other times he’s sullen and paranoid about the people around him. But his disease has reached a point where one thing is always certain—he no longer knows who I am.

“These damn people are always taking my wallet,” he mutters.

“Can I tell you something?” I sit down on the end of his bed. “I admire you and your wife very much.”

“My wife?” He looks surprised.

“Well, she’s gone now. Her name was Clara and she died of a heart attack five years ago. But many years ago, your daughter had a little girl and she wasn’t ready to be a mom. The baby’s father didn’t want anything to do with the baby, either. So you and Clara raised her as your own. You loved her very much and gave her a wonderful life.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’ve always been a very good man, Mac. Someone others look up to.”

He mulls over my words, then says, “I have to pee.”

My grandpa has changed a lot. Sometimes I only see glimpses of the man who raised me. But whoever he is, and whatever he becomes as this horrible disease progresses, I’ll love him.

“Want me to help you get up?” I ask him.

He prefers to be asked, rather than have people just take over and make decisions for him. He swings his legs over to the side of the bed but falters when his back doesn’t have the support of the mattress.

“Can I help?” A nurse peeks in at us through the open doorway.

“I guess so,” my grandpa says gruffly.

At Goodman House, there are silent alarms everywhere. One sounded at the nursing station as soon as my grandpa’s back left his bed. And every time he moves around or gets agitated, a nurse is there within seconds. This place is expensive, but the peace of mind is worth every penny.

“What are you up to today, Mia?” the nurse, Susan asks as we help my grandpa up and out of bed.

“I went to the laundromat this morning and studied while my laundry was going. And then I came here to see Mac.”

“He’s looking good, right? He’s even been sleeping at night a little bit.”

“That’s great.”

Alzheimer’s changes everything. My grandpa was always up at 5:30 a.m. and in bed by 10:00 p.m. But now he has trouble sleeping at night and often sleeps during the day. It causes him to miss a lot of his therapies, but the doctors have assured me this is common.

Susan takes my grandpa into the bathroom and then he insists on getting dressed, so we help him into a pair of canvas pants and a flannel. He doesn’t like that he needs help, and my heart breaks at the way his brow furrows as Susan buttons his shirt for him.

She tries so hard to distract him by talking about the weather and football, but there’s still a part of my grandpa inside him that knows he used to be able to do these things for himself.

“We could go get something to eat and then sit in the library,” I suggest to him.

His eyes light up. “Sure. Maybe Millie will be there today.”

His enthusiasm stings a little, even though it’s irrational. He’s forgotten his wife of forty-nine years and the granddaughter he raised, but he remembers the woman here he’s got the hots for.

Poor Millie doesn’t deserve my jealousy. She also has Alzheimer’s, and she seems like a sweet woman who loves life’s simple pleasures. But sometimes I shake my head inside, because while I know my grandma would want my grandpa to be happy, she’d be heartbroken to know he’s forgotten her.

“Do you work?” Grandpa asks me over lunch of chicken and noodles and mashed potatoes.

“Yes, I’m a bartender.”

He nods his appreciation. “Nothing better than lying down after a hard day’s work.”

“I think so, too. And I’m also in school, finishing up a business degree.”