Somewhere

Joe, the newest resident, is playing the piano. His hair is disheveled and he is missing his top front teeth. He stops mid-song, stands up, pats his pockets and yells “Has anyone seen my car keys?” The other residents look around their tables, shake their heads “no.” Dorothy is confused. “What’s he looking for?” Erma yells “KEYS!” He sits down and begins playing again.

My mother and I are in the Café Bistro at Menorah Village Memory Care Center. Today, she thinks we’re in a hotel lobby. “This is my kind of music!” she says as she taps her slender fingers to the beat of the notes. He’s playing White Christmas: it’s May and almost everyone’s Jewish.
 
My mother’s legs, weakened by cancer, no longer work, but she doesn’t remember so she tries to stand up out of her wheelchair and join Rhea who is dancing in an improvisational style, making small punches in the air and whooping noises as she circles the piano.
 
Joe finishes his song, to applause. People are hobbling out of their rooms, drawn to the noise. “Any requests?” he asks the growing crowd. Faces light up but no one can remember their favorite song, you know the one that goes “duh, duh, duh”? Oh, what’s it called?
 
“I have an idea!” He raises his hand, wiggles his fingers and puts them on the keys. After a few notes, the residents start to smile and nod in slow recognition. Warmed up, they sing the wrong words to I’ll Be Seeing You with gusto.
 
It’s almost 4:30. Dinner time. The audience starts to get restless, their eyes moving between the piano player and the dining room where the lights have come on and the tables are set. Health aides circle the residents, going to the ones they know need help making their way to their favorite tables.
 
The bistro crowd thins out. There is a bottleneck of walkers and wheelchairs at the dining room entrance. Joe has moved on to Somewhere over the Rainbow. My mother forgets many things but not lyrics to her favorite songs. Her eyes tear up as she sings, pink outlining the whites that have yellowed from jaundice.
 
“This song is really pathetic when you think about it, isn’t it?” she says.
 
“How so?”
 
“Wishing you were someplace else, someplace better?”
 
Joe stops playing. He stands and pats his pockets. He looks directly at me and says, “I don’t know where I am.”
 
“You’re about to go to dinner!” I tell him. I am getting the hang of “redirecting” people with dementia rather than honestly answering questions that might upset them.
 
He scrunches up his forehead, purses his lips and nods his head, considering what I’ve said. He steps away from the piano bench and walks closer to the table where my mother and I are sitting, holding hands.
 
“I guess I’ll go to dinner then,” he says. “Will you join me?”
 
“My mother will be in there soon,” I answer.
 
“I was asking you,” he says, pointing his finger at me for emphasis.
 
“No, I’m going to head home. You’re a lovely piano player, thank you for the concert!”
 
He starts to walk away, patting his pockets, but stops, comes back and puts his face close to mine. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue at me; he wags it several times from right to left along his toothless upper gum in a lewd gesture. He turns and walks to dinner.
 
“What was that?” my mother asks me.
 
“I don’t know. He just moved in. I think he’s confused.”
 
“We all are, Rebecca. Imagine living a whole life to end up in a place like this. It will happen to you, too. Are you prepared?”
 
“I like it here!”
 
“Well, why wouldn’t you? All the men love you!”
 
“I guess I found my crowd, mom!”
 
“Maybe you can finally get a husband.”
 
My mother continues to move her head to a beat, her small hand in mine, as if the music were still playing.