The Rule of Threes Marcy Campbell (animal farm read .TXT) 📖

Grandma swatted it away and reached down to take mine instead. She squeezed it, and I squeezed back.

Jasmine talked fast to my mom, but slowed down when addressing Grandma, who she called Mrs. Hanson. She spoke more loudly to Grandma, too, even though Grandma had no problem hearing, as long as her hearing aids were in.

“And here is the aviary, Mrs. Hanson,” she said as she walked up to a huge glass case with a half-dozen birds flitting around some little trees.

They were very different from the types of birds I watched on the feeder outside our dining room window. These were brightly colored parakeets, in gorgeous green and blue. There were those colors again, in nature this time. Nature always knew what she was doing.

I put my face very close to the glass, catching the notice of a mostly green bird who cocked his head toward me, fixing me with a stare from one black eye that looked like a tiny marble. I wondered what he felt like, being trapped.

Mom asked Jasmine a bunch of questions about exercise programs, and what kind of food they served, and rules about visitors. For a moment, I thought about Tony, and what rules there might be for him visiting his mom. Was it even allowed? He hadn’t seen her yet, as far as I knew, and she kept not calling him when she was supposed to.

“You and your daughter are welcome to stop in at any time during visiting hours,” Jasmine said to Mom, pointing at me. “We highly encourage as much family interaction as possible. The fact that you live nearby will make things so much easier for you.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we were thinking,” Mom said, nodding. I wasn’t sure who “we” was, me or Dad? From the look on Grandma’s face, not much information had been shared with her either.

Jasmine turned down a hallway with a sign that said “Memory Lane,” which opened into a kind of mall. It almost looked like a movie set, with fake storefronts that seemed old-timey, not my mom’s old times, but Grandma’s, maybe. There was a shoe repair shop, and a hat store, and a place selling “Ice Cream Sodas for 25 cents,” but you couldn’t go into any of the shops because they were all fake. That seemed sad to me, and also kind of mean. Being promised an ice cream soda for 25 cents and finding out the door wasn’t really a door but just a painted rectangle with a knob that didn’t turn? Mean.

There were a half-dozen old people sitting in this “Main Street,” some on benches, others in wheelchairs. Jasmine called them “residents.” One of the residents gave me a look that was kind of creepy, and the medicine-y smell was stronger here, which was starting to give me a headache.

Grandma looked like she had a headache, too. And why wouldn’t she? This place was nothing like her home. It wasn’t warm and cozy, and didn’t have the right smell or the right things, like that box in her bedroom of Grandpa’s clothes that she wouldn’t donate even though Mom told her to. You’ve got to be in sync with your space, I knew. Everything in my own room, from the way my closet smelled to the way I draped my gray sweater over my chair, was totally me. I thought of Tony again, in our spare bedroom, living out of a duffel bag.

I pulled on Mom’s arm. “Can we go now?” I whispered.

“No, Maggie, we still have a lot to see,” Mom said, shaking off my hand.

“Maybe she’d like to see the birds again,” Jasmine offered. She smiled sweetly at me, but I could see that was fake, too, just like Main Street.

“I’ve heard enough,” Grandma suddenly said, making all three of us jump back. She hadn’t made a peep the whole time. “We need to go, Susan,” she said. “Maggie doesn’t feel well.”

I didn’t know how Grandma knew that, but she was right.

“But I haven’t even shown you the cafeteria,” Jasmine exclaimed. She looked from Grandma to my mom and back again.

“Seen one, you’ve seen ’em all,” Grandma said. We turned and headed back toward the way we came in. Grandma led us.

In the car, Grandma searched her purse for the sandwich she’d already eaten on the way to the assisted living facility. She must have forgotten. Was that a sign of Alzheimer’s or just a normal, forgetful thing?

“I’m starving,” she said, so Mom suggested we go to a drive-thru and grab something, but Grandma didn’t want to.

“I don’t want to eat that terrible food,” she said. “The aide will fix me something at home.”

My mom had hired a home health aide to look in on Grandma each day, to make sure she was taking her medicines and eating right. I guess I should have figured out things were getting worse when that happened, but I just thought it was because we lived too far away to check in on her as much as we should.

I saw the golden arches pass by my window and quietly sighed with disappointment. There went the McDonald’s. The thought of some salty French fries had my mouth watering.

“I wish you had paid more attention on the tour, Mom,” my mom said to Grandma, irritation in her voice. I wondered if Grandma could hear it as clearly as I could. “That facility comes highly recommended.”

“By whom?” Grandma asked. “The zombies they have living there? Who knows how many drugs they’re giving them. Just drug them, and keep them quiet, that’s the ticket.” She shifted in her seat, adjusted her giant purse on her lap. “Zombies,” she growled again.

There might be a bunch of things happening to Grandma’s brain, but it was pretty clear we were still on the same page, at least about the facility. That place felt creepy. I wondered if Mom was overreacting about Grandma’s forgetfulness. She seemed like her normal self to me right now.

I watched the