I overslept. I could already feel the slight heat of the late morning, especially with the sheets wrapped around me like a warm, comfortable cocoon.

Even with the sunlight shining through the window, my room looked cold and impersonal with its white walls and bare furniture. There were machines all around, one had a screen with numbers running across it and a line jolting up and down, making a beeping sound that wouldn’t stop.

I tried to get up, but my limbs felt too heavy, so I just sagged back into bed. Though my brain was sluggish and slow, I did notice something off. How the sheets felt too thin and stiff and not like my sheets at all, how my body ached when I made even the slightest move, and how my throat felt dry as a desert.

“He’s awake!” The voice came from my bedside. It was my son Mikael.

A man entered the room with hurried steps, striding straight toward me. He had a clipboard in one hand and a concerned, yet hopeful look on his face.

“Water, please,” I managed to say through a sore throat. Agata who was standing beside Mikael burst into tears. The man in the white coat nodded and poured me a glass of water from the sink behind him.

“Welcome back, Ivo. You’ve been in a coma for six weeks.”

I thought I was in the recovery room after the surgery. I thought the procedure had gone fine, and I’d just woken up, but no… I just lost six weeks.

I gradually became more and more aware of what was going on around me. I couldn’t tell which memories of the past weeks were real and which were not. In my dreams, I saw Brandy holding my hand. I tried to squeeze hers in return, but my fingers wouldn’t move. When she let go to walk away, I was completely devastated. I called for her to stay, but nothing happened. I tried to move, struggling to speak or scream but I couldn’t.

Memories from before the accident came in flashes: flowers, Brandy in a wedding dress with her loving eyes, and pain. Pain was always the last memory before the darkness returned and now out of the coma, I was finally awoken from the recurring nightmare. It should have been that day, the moment of truth, but the accident got in the way.

The next day, some doctors came in and asked me several questions. They asked me if I knew where I was, and I tried to say yes. They asked if I remembered why I was here and again I nodded. I remember periods of nothing, peppered with little snippets of memories but trying to communicate with them while intubated and drugged was very difficult.

I was still sedated but at that point, I was conscious enough to have clear memories and soon enough, muscle movement came back to me. A week passed, and I was up and moving on my own with the help of a walker. I still felt dizzy occasionally but my children, always there by my side to give me support, helped me out as best as they could.

Two agonizing weeks flew by and yet I was still confined.

I asked Mikael to get my journals from my office. I wrote my last journal entry and recorded everything I could remember. What better way to reveal to them what their mother and I went through other than by reading our journals. I had to let them know the truth.

“I want you both to read these,” I said to my children.

Mikael looked at me skeptically for a brief moment. Raising a brow, he asked, “What are those for?”

“You’ll find out,” I said as I handed over Brandy’s journals to Agata. “I want you to start with the pink one,” I instructed.

Agata took the journals with clear uncertainty written on her face. She began flipping through the pages. “Whose journals are these, Dad?” she asked.

“They belong to someone who played the biggest and the most important part in our lives.”

“Our lives…” Agata muttered while scanning through the pages. She drew in a deep breath, “Okay, I’m gonna start with this one, Mik, and you’ll read the others, okay?”

“Cool,” Mikael agreed.

Agata started reading Brandy’s journal.

Dear Journal,

It was the most hideous dress I had ever seen. Vivid shades of red, yellow, and blue mimicked Snow White’s dress in the animated film. When I tried it on, I was not surprised to see that I resembled a freaking cartoon character wearing a corset-style, lace-up front costume. All that was missing were red shoes and knee-high socks…

--Brandy’s Perspective--

No one past the age of six should wear a dress like this. It was fine for a six-year-old girl in some kind of play or a Halloween costume party, but not for a twenty-seven-year-old maid of honor for her brother’s wedding. I scanned the dress, trying to think of innocence, beauty, and sweetness but it was all wrong for me.

My brother, Heineken, peeked into my room and walked in wearing the most annoying smile ever. “You look good, Brandy. Are you excited for Carl’s wedding?” he teased and ruffled my hair.

Ken is seven years older than I am and he believed that the age gap allowed him to treat me like a kid. He was married once, for about two weeks, long enough to legally be the father of the product of a drunken one-night stand. The mother promptly rode off into a life of heroin and prostitution. Bitch!

However, Scotch, my four-year-old nephew, is the most amazing person in my life; so amazing that I could look past the days of him giggling away while we cleaned up the crapped-filled diapers and green-pea-mush vomit. Speaking of baby vomit, I eyed the Snow-White-inspired dress once more and slumped in an armchair. Maybe I’d “accidentally” set it on fire during the wedding rehearsal.

Carlsberg peeped in and grinned, “How’s the dress, Brandy? Would you believe that I didn’t even have it made? Apparently, some other brides tend to be afraid of being ‘out-prettied’ at their own weddings. This means that there are a few more dresses like that in the wedding boutique, stored in case there’s any kind of accident with this one.”

“Why, Carl, why?” I groaned. “This is overkill! This dress is for ugly brides with hot friends. Can your Italian bride not think of a better theme?”

“I find it cute and amusing, and it’s actually because Ken doesn’t want you hooking up with Mia’s cousin’s sister-in-law’s best friend’s brother or something, and neither do I. The dress is perfect for hiding all your curves and killing all your momentary self-confidence, making you conveniently unlovable to passersby,” Carl said.

“What? What are you talking about?” I sputtered.

Ken dangled a little pink notebook in front of my face.

“That’s my journal! You sneak, you freak!” I gasped and grabbed for it. “How did you find it? I hid it so well.” I pouted.

Carl sighed, “You know how much she loves fairy tales, Brandy, and this is going to be my wedding. Please just be happy for me and bear with that dress for about two hours or even less?” He took the journal from Ken and tossed it to me. He smiled, I smirked, and then we linked arms and laughed. No matter how ugly the dress was, I loved my brother, and I would wear the dress for him. “I have a date with a certain Italian girl that I think is engaged to me. I expect you to be wearing the dress on the big day.”

“Wait, have you visited Dad’s grave yet?” I asked.

“Yeah, of course. I asked for his blessing,” Carl said.

“H-how about Mom? Did you pay her a visit?”

“No.” Carl shook his head.

“Why not?” My eyebrow raised. “At least just let her know, or ask for her blessing as well.”

“Brandy, there’s no use. She won’t understand. She can’t even recognize me.”

“She’s still our mother.”

“I know, and nothing could change that, Brands,” Carl said in a low voice. “But even after seven years, I could still hear Dad crying for help in my sleep.”

Years ago, our mom accidentally killed our Dad. At the time, mom had slipped back to the grip of her disease, and not recognizing the man she was sleeping with, she thought that Dad was raping her.

There must be a criminally culpable state of mind that accompanied her act, but since she was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, a murder charge was easily defended. As a result, she was turned over to the Lady Guinevere Center for Alzheimer’s. Just like that, the woman I have cherished all my life was gone, in more ways than one.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Ken spoke from behind Carl. “Brands, mom’s disease has gotten worse. She’s starting to be uncommunicative, and soon, she’ll stop talking.”

“Yeah, last time I checked, her doctor said her Alzheimer’s is now in its last stage.” None of us spoke but after a few seconds, Carl broke the silence and said, “Come on, Brands! Cheer up, don’t ruin my day, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to practice my Italian accent.”

As Carl left, he added, “If it’s any consolation, I had to have them make it uglier, just because you’re too cute.”

After he left and Ken soon after, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Ugh!

Carl’s wedding is on Friday and our flight to Verona on Monday. It was the only thing that was keeping my dress from being accidentally torn to shreds.

After spending almost the entire morning of preparing and packing things for our trip, I went to visit Mom.

I brought with me a photo of Carl’s graduation day. In the picture, I had icing all over my hair because of the cake fight my brothers started. We were all hugging her and putting icing on her face. The picture made it look like everything was okay.

I smiled at the memory of that day and bit my lip to stop myself from crying.

I walked into the center and down one of the hallways.

I visited my mom so often that she actually thought I worked at the center and preferred me over anyone else. Sometimes she even called me her mom. It is never easy when you become the parent of your parent.

Also, she resented some of the staff when they helped her go to the toilet and bathe her. She had always been uptight about getting undressed and frankly, some of them performed their tasks robotically. They seemed to think that Alzheimer’s patients are unaware of their surroundings and would not notice much. I think, however, that even in her condition, my mom could recognize crappy attitude, and she resented how some of them treated her for making their jobs difficult.

Every time I visit her, she wants me to take her home, and it always broke my heart. It made me cry and sometimes when I couldn’t control myself anymore, I’d lose it right in front of her. I wish I were stronger.

There are days when Mom would be lucid. She’d have these inexplicable moments of clarity when she would come out of her walled-off state.

“Hi, Brandy! It’s good to see you here again,” greeted Jessica, one of the caregivers.

“Hi, Jess. Nice to see you too!” I greeted her cheerfully. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the garden.” I thanked Jess and headed to the garden. When I got there, I found her staring blankly at nothing.

I walked toward her, and when she saw me, her eyes glistened. “Mommy, where have you been?” Mom asked.

“I went to see my brothers. We’re preparing for a flight to Verona tomorrow and have Carl’s wedding on Friday. I wish you could come and meet his bride.”

She didn’t seem to understand anything that I said. Then she blurted out, “Have you seen my daughter Brandy? I haven’t seen her all summer. I wanted to talk to her.”

I bit my lip and knelt down in front of her. I tried hard to blink away my tears and put up a fake smile. I held her hand and showed her the picture.

“I remember this picture. This is my only daughter Brandy and my son Carl, Ken, and Gin. Their names are funny, aren’t they? My husband gave them names like that because he is a bartender in a local bar in our small town in Phoenix,” she recollected. “We took this picture together celebrating Carl’s graduation in high school. Oh, they are putting icing all over my face,” she continued while laughing in between.

“You look so happy in that picture.”

“I was,” she replied then she hugged me. “Mom, tell my daughter I love her,” she whispered over my shoulder.

“Yes, of course.”

Nurse Jess came and announced that it’s about time for the residents to go to lunch so I got up and nodded at her. I looked at my mom again, and I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. She didn’t seem to know what’s going on around her.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, okay?”

She nodded.

I hugged her goodbye like I always did after my visits. As I did so, I said, “I love you, Mom.”

To my surprise, she said with great clarity, “I love you, too, Brandy.” Then as soon as she was lucid, she was gone again.

I couldn’t help it. I started sobbing loudly.

After my visit to the center, I drove back to my apartment. Before flying to Verona the next day, I needed to submit six articles to my editor-in-chief. He’d have my head on a plate if I didn’t.

I was an advice columnist for The Boston Daily. I went by my pen name Juliet, who on paper was the most hopeless romantic girl ever.

Unlike the real me. After what happened to my mother, I became paranoid. Alzheimer’s disease ran through my blood. Every generation has their representative, mostly women, and I was the only girl in the family. I became afraid… afraid that I would be next.

I started writing another article for my column and replied to one of the letters one of my avid followers sent me. The letter said:

Dear Juliet,

I’ve been dating a guy for about six months, and it was going great until about two weeks ago when I accepted a job offer and moved to another state. I couldn’t be happier having a wonderful career and living the life that I’ve always wanted, and he has been supportive of me, except for two things. First, we could barely see each other due to his work schedule, but we made it work at first. Now, however, I don’t know when I’ll see him, and I’m not sure how to approach the situation. Second, it bothers me is that he never tells me he loves me. I don’t feel that I should have to ask him to say the words. I love him, but I don’t want to be attached to someone with whom I never get to spend time with anymore and will probably never get to hear those words from. I really don’t know what I should do, and any advice would be helpful.

Thank you in advance,

Ms. Neglected

***

Dear Ms. Neglected,

You say that the relationship was going great until two weeks ago, which means that the employment and long distance situation has skewed your relationship. I’m sure that everything feels out of control right now.

My advice is to focus on getting yourself where you want to be so that you can make decisions about your relationship with more confidence. I encourage you to initiate some kind of frank, authentic conversation with this guy.

As for the “I love you” stuff, it’s a personal thing. Some people have to hear those three words, some people don’t. It’s something to think about for sure and with all that’s going on, ask yourself “Can I be happy in this relationship?” If no, then it’s time to go. Right now, your future is the most important thing.

I’d just focus on what comes next for both of you – your career and his schedule.

Sincerely,

Juliet