Chapter 2

"Ethan, I think we need to adjust your mom's medication."

On Sunday, Helena was washing dishes in the kitchen, her back to me.

I was looking over my mother's medical reports and didn't look up.

"What do you mean?"

"Lately, she's been waking up a lot at night. She gets agitated, cries, and screams. I can't sleep at all. Last night she kept me up until 3:00 AM. You know I'm not young anymore. I can't pull all-nighters like this."

She turned off the faucet, wiped her hands, walked over, and sat across from me.

"I know a neurologist, Dr. Arthur Jenkins. He specializes in dementia, and he has amazing reviews online. How about I set up a virtual consultation? We can do a video call first."

I hesitated.

My mother's prescription had always been managed by the general hospital, taken strictly according to the doctor's orders.

"Helena, we should go to the hospital to adjust her meds."

"Booking an appointment at the hospital is such a hassle. Plus, it's freezing outside. What if she catches a cold on the way?" She clutched her silver cross necklace. "Dr. Jenkins is a wonderful man. A quick FaceTime call to ask some questions won't hurt. We don't have to change the meds right away."

That afternoon, Helena initiated the FaceTime call.

On the screen was a middle-aged man with glasses, wearing a white lab coat. A medical license hung on the wall behind him.

He flipped through the photos of the medical reports I sent, asked a few questions about her symptoms, and quickly reached a conclusion.

"It's mid-stage Alzheimer's, accompanied by severe Sundown Syndrome and paranoia. Her current dosage is too conservative. I suggest adding one tablet of Olanzapine before bed."

"Don't we need to go to the hospital?"

"You can try this for two weeks first. If there's no improvement, bring her in. I'll send you the prescription."

I looked at Helena, and she nodded at me reassuringly.

"Dr. Jenkins is highly professional. He adjusted the meds for several seniors I cared for before."

That night, my mother took the extra pill of Olanzapine.

The next morning, she didn't wake up.

I thought she was just sleeping in, so I didn't worry. But by noon, she was still unconscious. Panicking, I went to shake her.

"Mom? Mom?"

Her eyelids fluttered. With great effort, she opened them a crack, mumbling something incoherent.

"Don't worry, Ethan. It's just a normal drug reaction," Helena said, walking in with some liquid food. "She'll be drowsy for the first couple of days. She'll get used to it."

From that day on, my mother spent less and less time awake.

Before, she could at least sit in her wheelchair and watch TV, occasionally uttering a lucid word. Now, she slept seventeen to eighteen hours a day. Even when she was awake, she was in a vegetative daze, looking at the world through a thick fog.

She stopped talking about the caregiver tying her up.

Not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't.

Her mouth would open, her tongue struggling to move, but the only sounds she made were tiny whimpers that died instantly.

I comforted myself. At least she's peaceful now. This is a good thing.

Helena’s Instagram stories became more frequent.

Day 1: "Made some pumpkin puree for Sarah. Fed her spoonful by spoonful, and she smiled."

The photo showed my mother with her eyes half-closed, her lips pulled into a faint, empty grimace.

Day 2: "Soaking up the sun on the balcony. Sarah said it feels warm."

The photo showed my mother wrapped in a heavy coat on the balcony, her face deathly pale under the sunlight.

The comments below were always the same:

"Helena, you're better than a real daughter!"

"Such a kind-hearted soul!"

"Sarah is so blessed to have you."

I liked the posts.

That weekend, I came home early from work.

When I opened the front door, the house was dead silent.

My mother was sitting alone in her wheelchair, facing the balcony, completely motionless.

Helena was nowhere to be seen.

"Mom?"

No response.

I walked over and knelt in front of her.

Her eyes were completely hollow, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. Her pupils were dilated.

"Mom, it's me."

Her eyes slowly rolled toward my face.

She stared blankly for a few seconds.

Then, her right hand moved.

Slowly, like seaweed drifting underwater.

She stretched out her finger and touched my palm.

Slowly, she began to trace words on my hand.

One line. Another line. Then a cross.

T-I-E.

She was spelling the word "TIE."

The blood rushed to my head.

She started writing a second word. She paused several times, her finger shaking violently.

I stared down at my palm, my muscles tense, not daring to move.

Suddenly, the front door clicked.

"Ethan? You're home early today?"

Helena walked in carrying groceries, smiling warmly.

My mother's hand snapped back instantly.

It was a reflex too fast for an eighty-year-old.

She shrank back into her wheelchair, clutching the hem of her shirt, her eyes glued to the floor. In a split second, she regressed back into a helpless, senile old woman.

Helena put down the groceries and walked over.

"Sarah, did you miss your son? Look, he's home! Are you happy?"

My mother said nothing.

"See? She's confused again," Helena said to me with a sigh. "It comes in waves. She was chatting with me right before I left to buy groceries, and now she doesn't even recognize you."

Chatting?

My mother hadn't spoken a coherent word in three days. Who was she chatting with?

But I didn't ask.

Helena was already kneeling beside her, tenderly changing her shoes into warm slippers while humming a soft tune.

That night, as I was working late in my study, I heard a noise from my mother's room.

I pushed the door open.

Helena was sitting by the bed, holding a cup of medicine.

"Oh, she just woke up. Perfect time for her meds."

My mother kept her head turned, her mouth clamped shut.

"Come on, Sarah. Be a good girl. Take your medicine so you can sleep," Helena’s voice was dripping with artificial sweetness.

My mother turned her face away.

Helena grabbed her jaw, forcing her face back.

"Sarah, if you don't take your meds, your sickness will get worse. You don't want to be a burden to your son, do you?"

Tears streamed down my mother's face, soaking into her white hair.

Her mouth opened.

The pill was shoved in, followed by a splash of water.

Helena wiped her hands and stood up. Only then did she notice me standing at the door.

"Oh, Ethan! You scared me."

"She didn't want to take it."

"But she has to. Dr. Jenkins said we can't stop the Olanzapine abruptly, or the symptoms will bounce back worse than before. You don't want her screaming in the middle of the night, do you?"

I remained silent.

Helena walked over to me, lowering her voice.

"Ethan, let's be honest. Your mom's condition is worse than you think. This stage... I've seen it in other seniors I cared for. Once she gets past this phase, she'll be fine. If you're really worried, why don't I take her to Dr. Jenkins tomorrow for a proper checkup?"

"No need."

I closed the door and walked back to my study.

I sat down and opened my palm.

The words my mother traced were gone, but the ghost of her fingernail scraping against my skin remained.

TIE.

She wrote "TIE."

I whipped out my phone and texted Leo: "Can you look into that Dr. Arthur Jenkins for me?"

Three minutes later, he replied: "Send me his full name."