Beatrice
"Eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six," she whispers to herself. "Eighty-six coffee beans."
She sits staring at a photograph of a bowl full of coffee beans that hangs in front of her.
However, the distraction is but momentary. She starts feeling the anxiety wrap around her like a serpent again.
She looks down at her hands. They're shaking; she's shaking. She's not even drinking the chamomile tea she ordered to calm her nerves.
I should've gone to a bar, she thinks.
But she knows that it doesn't matter where she would've gone because it'd be the same. Truth is, she doesn't feel she's really here. If she closes her eyes hard enough, she might even disappear. Beatrice stayed at the clinic. What is here right now is simply an illusion of her.
She looks down at her phone again. The same message she received eight minutes ago from her husband still plagues the front screen.
"What happened, Bee? Did you get the results? Call me."
She can't respond; not yet. She couldn't possibly articulate the words to say it right now.
These were not the results they were expecting; it was the last thing that they had thought would come from this.
She had been feeling strange for a few weeks now, and her mind had seemed foggy and distracted, but all the tests she'd taken had simply been preventative.
"How am I going to tell them?" she thinks. What am I going to say to the girls? Sorry, but mom's going to stop being herself soon? Mom will forget who all three of you are? Mom will be gone?
She starts crying again. Her sobs are silent and drowned by the interior of her sweater's sleeve. She doesn't want anyone to see or hear her; it's the reason she sat facing the wall.
After a few seconds, she calms herself down. She takes a sip of her tea.
"There are over five million cases in the country alone," Dr. Stone had said, "but of those only five percent occur before the age of sixty-five. It is pretty rare for Alzheimer's to develop so early. I am really sorry Mrs. Hurston, but we're here to help you in any way we can."
Forty-eight, Beatrice thinks, I am only forty-eight. How in the world did I get so lucky?
She laughs nervously.
Tears threatened her eyes again.
She thinks about her three daughters, and about how each will react to the news.
Lisa, who is fifteen, will probably understand the situation better than the others. Heather, who is twelve, will take it extremely hard. She's always been the most sensitive, but recently she's been a bit more difficult; she might get angry or even stop speaking to her altogether.
The thought makes Beatrice sadder. But it'll be the hardest with Amy, who is only seven. She won't understand what her mother is going through or why she is going through it.
"I mean, I don't even understand why," Beatrice thinks.
She starts crying into her arm again.
She thinks about her husband of nineteen years, Ben. He's strong, she thinks, he'll be able to look out for the girls when I'm gone. He can be there at their prom night, their wedding, and even when they become mothers if I can't be there, she thinks.
She hurts inside; her heart keeps breaking in places where she thought it was already crumbled.
She looks up, but through her blurred vision, she can only see a mush of brown where the photography stood. She wipes her eyes and starts to control herself again. It'll be okay, she reassures herself.
She stays thinking for a few minutes.
"Amy?" calls a voice. It's the barista.
The sound of her daughter's name quickly catches her attention. She turns to the counter and watches as a man in a gray suit walks over to retrieve his drink. That's strange, she thinks as a smile draws on her face. It's probably for his daughter or wife, she concludes. She watches as the man leaves the shop.
"What am I doing here?" she asks herself. "That man is probably heading home to his family and I'm here crying that I won't have time with them. I can't waste the short time I have left by not being with them."
She takes out her phone and responds to Ben telling him that she'll be home to talk soon.
She gets up and walks to the front of the shop. The white doors invite her to the outside. She exits.
The first thing she sees outside is an older man sitting on a chair with a dog at his feet. He's wearing filthy clothes and has an unkempt appearance. It makes her sad to see them.
She walks over to him and takes out her wallet.
"Please sir, let me help you," she says.
He looks surprised.
She takes a twenty dollar bill from her purse and offers it to him.
His eyes widen.
"This is very nice of you," he says. "But it's too much."
"Please take it. I insist," she says with a half smile.
"I wish I had something to give you," he says embarrassed.
"Could I at least pray for you?" he offers after a few seconds.
"I would like that," Beatrice responds.
In his prayer, the man thanks God for Beatrice and her kindness, and he asks Him to bless her and her loved ones.
The prayer makes Beatrice smile. Another tear appears on her face after he's done, but it's a different kind of tear and this time she embraces it.
As she enters her car, Beatrice realizes what she needs to do.
We need to make memories, she thinks. We need to go out and enjoy the time I have left. I need to take the girls places.
I'm probably going to have to stop working soon anyways. People don't look for forgetful therapists, she thinks with a laugh.
She grabs her phone and plays her favorite song as she turns on her car. Then she starts driving away. Away from here and towards her family.
