Portrait of a Memory

I was looking through the classifieds while sipping coffee at my local coffee shop. Yes, the classifieds in an honest-to-God newspaper. I’m also one of those people who still types her letters on a typewriter—unironically. But that’s beside the point. I was sifting through the classifieds because in my spare time I like to do commissioned work for the elderly. They happen to be the only ones who still subscribe and write to the actual newspaper. As I was perusing past the “clean my house’s” and “walk my pampered pooch’s,” something caught my eye:

NEEDED

Portrait artist to paint my husband’s portrait.

Serious inquiries only.

Please call ASAP.

Will be compensated based on completed work.

555-6102

Elenore

Well, I happen to be an artist. My paintings literally pay my bills. So, I decided to call Elenore.

“Hello?” a sweet, elderly voice answered.

“Hi. Is this Elenore? I’m Jane. I’m calling in response to your ad in the paper.”

“Hello, Jane. I am delighted to hear this. My husband was my hero. I miss him so much. Can you paint, dear?”

Can I paint? I chuckled to myself. “Yes, ma’am. I am quite the artist.”

“That’s good to hear. I’d like to get started this afternoon, if possible. It’s very important. I’m at the Greenvale Nursing Home, dear. Make sure you sign in up front. The nurses will show you to my room.”

Nursing home. Those words made my insides heavy. “I look forward to seeing you this afternoon, Ms. Elenore.” I hung up. I went home to gather supplies. I looked at the gold heart-shaped locket gathering dust on my nightstand. For a moment, I considered putting it on, but then decided against it. It was still too soon.

I arrived at the Greenvale Nursing Home around 1:00 p.m. I sat in the parking lot trying to muster up the courage to walk in. As I approached the automatic doors, I could already smell that distinct sour smell that all nursing facilities have. If you’ve spent enough time in one, you know what I’m talking about. It smells like sour cream or plain yogurt. I can’t decide. I signed in at the front desk. Name: Jane. Guest of: Elenore…I didn’t catch her last name. Time In: 1:22? Seriously? I sat in my car for twenty-two minutes? Nurse Greg took me down the linoleum floored, fluorescent lit hallway. We passed a room with a lady knitting while watching some talk show way too loudly. We passed another room with a man who was snoozing somewhat comfortably in his rocking chair. And then we passed a room that was being cleared of its previous owner’s belongings. I felt a familiar lump in my throat. “Here we are,” Nurse Greg said, rescuing me from my rabbit-hole of a mind.

“Thank you,” I said to Nurse Greg as he sauntered away. “Elenore?” I peeked my head past the courtesy curtain.

“Hellooo?” she replied in a sing-songy tone. “Is that Jane?”

“Yes! Hi, Elenore! I’m so excited to get started! Do you have any photos of…wh-what was your husband’s name?”

“Albert. And, no, unfortunately I no longer have any photos of him. All of my albums were lost in the house fire.”

My heart sank. This poor little, old lady. “I’m so sorry to hear that. But, um, how am I supposed to paint Albert’s portrait?”

“Well,” she replied. “He’s dead and I have no photos anymore. However, I do still have my memories. Only for a little while longer, though.”

“Oh?” Her words became hard to digest. Suddenly, I was transported to another lifetime.

“Alzheimer’s disease is a cognitive disorder,” explained the doctor. “This means all of your grandmother’s cognitive functions have begun to decline and will continue to decline. There is no cure, but we can manage her symptoms and keep her comfortable. I do highly recommend placing her in a nursing facility where she will receive around-the-clock supervision. Alzheimer’s can get messy. It’s hard on caregivers. I’m sorry to say that your grandmother’s case is particularly aggressive.”

“Aggressive?” I asked, fidgeting with the locket around my neck. “What do you mean by that?” I knew exactly what he meant by that. My head was whirring.

“Unfortunately, it means that she’s on the lower end of the prognosis scale. Most patients live about four to six years after the diagnosis. It begins with balance issues and memory problems, and then eventually progresses to…”

“Jane?” I heard Elenore say.

“I’m sorry, Elenore,” I shook the memory out of my head. “You need me to paint Albert from memory?”

“Yes. This is why the ad said, ‘serious inquiries only.’ If you can’t do it, I’m going to have to ask you to go. I don’t have much time.” Elenore assertively tried to straighten her stiff body.

“I can do it!" I assured her quickly. "I’m very willing to help you. It’s just…can I ask what you mean by you only have your memories for a little longer?”

“I have Alzheimer’s disease. My memory is slipping a little more every day. The afternoon is when I am at my most lucid. I miss my Albert so much. He was my hero. I just want to be able to see him whenever I want. But like sand, he’s slipping through my fingers," she paused and held her hands out as if she could feel literal sand slipping. She clenched her fists. "I know I’ll join him soon enough. But I need his image to keep me company. I want his portrait to be the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing I see when I fall asleep. I want him by my bedside, like I was for him near the end.”

That lump, thick like honey developed in my throat again. Tears began to blur my vision. “Elenore, I cannot wait to work with you.”