I can't see you anymore.
Your doors are closed to me.
I stand outside your building in the parking lot. I'm not close enough to read the sign, but I know it's there. It's everywhere, on every door of the retirement center.
Nobody can come in. Nobody can visit anymore.
Yesterday, a CNA at the nursing home section was diagnosed as positive. That's not even your building, You are in the Independent Care section, and there should be no crossover of personnel. Except that many of the staff all eat at a common employee cafeteria. So, yes, it's good to be overcautious.
But that does not make the separation any easier.
I stand in the parking lot. Straight ahead is your room. The curtains are closed.
I call your number. It rings and rings. The hair on my neck pricks up. What if I'm waking you up from a sound and blessed sleep? What if you're not in your room? No, that's not possible. I understood that now, instead of visiting the dining room, everyone is served their meals in their room.
What if you're not in your room because they've taken you to the nursing care facility? What if...you've got it?
Stop stressing. Surely, they would have told me.
And then I hear the phone being picked up.
MAYMA: Hello? May I help you?
ME: Mayma? It's me! Your loving grandchild!
MAYMA: Oh, Lord, boy! It's good to hear your voice!
ME: How are you? Are you okay?
MAYMA: I feel fine. Especially now that I get to hear your voice.
She always says she's fine. Even when she was in the hospital to have a benign tumor removed from her lung, she said she was fine. Even when she had pneumonia last year, she was fine.
ME: You can do better than just to hear my voice. Open your curtains, Mayma, and look out into the parking lot.
She did so. She saw me and waved widely, grinning broadly. Was that tears I saw, or was that a trick of the light? Thankfully, the phone cord extended to where she could stand at the window. I had tried to get her to take a cell phone, but she would have nothing to do with it.
MAYMA: Land's sake, boy! It is so good to see you! What a miracle! This means the world to me!
ME: I wish I could get closer, Mayma, but you know, with everything going on...
MAYMA: I know. If it was up to me, I would come out and hug you like nobody's business.
ME: I'm so sorry, Mayma. I would too, but you know we can't do that.
MAYMA: I don't care. I've lived a full life. I'd take the chance.
I was close to bawling like a baby. Time to talk about something else.
ME: How's the food? Are you eating ok?
MAYMA: It's tolerable. It's not like the shrimp 'n' grits like you blushing bride makes. I really miss our family dinners.
ME: I'll get her right on that. And we'll have a heaping helping sent over tomorrow.
MAYMA: I appreciate the kind gesture, but I don't know if they'll let it in. And you know it won't be the same if I can't be there at the table with y'all. How is my great-grandson?
ME: He's a screaming toddler mess, but he loves and misses you. Maybe I can bring him with me next time.
MAYMA: Maybe you shouldn't ought to do that. I'm not sure this whole mess here would be good for him to see, And he needs to stay safe. It breaks my heart, but it's best to keep him home.
She seemed to falter a bit. And then I heard a dry cough.
I see the hall light start to flood around her door. A nurse enters her room. She wore a mask and protective clothing. She stood behind Mayma and had a tray of something. I couldn't make it out clearly, but it wasn't food. I think it was medical supplies.
As the nurse got closer to Mayma, I could hear her through the phone.
NURSE: ...time for your test, dear. It won't take long.
ME: Mayma! What's going on?
MAYMA: Nothing to fret about. My temp's up a bit, and they're just trying to be sure. Now you go on and have a good day. I'll talk to you again soon. I love you, boy. With all my heart. Don't you forget that.
ME: (gulping back tears) Love you too, Mayma.
She closes the drapes.
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I come back the next day.
She's no longer in her room.
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