Wanda knocked on my door around six on a Thursday, already dressed like she was going somewhere, and asked if she should bring anything for dinner. I stood there for a second not understanding the question, because there was no dinner. I hadn’t invited her to anything.
She was so certain about it, standing on my porch with a small dish of something covered in foil already in her hands, that for a moment I genuinely wondered if I’d forgotten inviting her myself. That happens sometimes, you doubt your own memory faster than you doubt someone else’s, especially someone who says things with as much conviction as Wanda does.
The Conversation That Followed
I asked her, gently, when I’d supposedly invited her, and she said Tuesday, over the fence, when I’d apparently mentioned making a roast. I hadn’t made a roast on Tuesday. I hadn’t made a roast in weeks, if I’m honest, and I certainly hadn’t invited anyone to eat one. I told her this as carefully as I could, and watched her face do something complicated, a flicker of doubt crossing it before her usual certainty came back and she insisted she remembered it clearly, right down to what I’d been wearing.
I didn’t push it further. I’ve learned, over the years of knowing her, that there’s a difference between correcting Wanda on a small fact and correcting her on something she’s built a whole evening around, dressed for, brought a dish for. So instead I told her the roast idea sounded wonderful and asked if she wanted to just come in anyway, and we’d figure out dinner together, which is not exactly a lie, more of a redirect.
What Actually Happened That Evening
We ended up eating whatever I had in the refrigerator, which was leftover chicken and a salad that needed using up, plus whatever was in her foil dish, which turned out to be deviled eggs, an odd but not unwelcome addition to the meal. She never mentioned the roast again that night. I don’t know if she forgot the whole misunderstanding or just let it drop the way I had, but either way the evening turned out fine, better than fine actually, once we were both sitting at the table instead of standing on the porch arguing about a dinner that never existed.
This Isn’t the First Time
It’s happened before, small things, a date she’s sure was set that wasn’t, a conversation she remembers having with me that I don’t have any memory of at all. I used to correct her every time, thinking I was being helpful, keeping the record straight. I’ve mostly stopped doing that, not because the facts don’t matter, but because I’ve started to understand that being right isn’t always the kindest thing to be in a given moment.
I don’t know exactly what’s going on with her memory, and I haven’t asked directly, because it doesn’t feel like my place, and because I suspect she wouldn’t welcome the question even if I asked it as gently as I know how. She’s still sharp about most things, opinionated as ever, remembers the exact year each house on this street was built and who lived there before the current owners. It’s just certain specific things, appointments, conversations, that seem to slip and reshape themselves into something slightly different from what actually happened.
What I’ve Started Doing Instead
I’ve started writing things down when I talk to her now, small notes to myself, not to catch her out but so that I have something to check against quietly, for my own peace of mind more than anything. And when she’s certain about something that didn’t happen the way she remembers it, I try to find the version of the evening that can still work, the way I did with the roast that turned into leftover chicken and deviled eggs.
A Thing I’m Not Sure How to End
I don’t have a tidy conclusion for this one. I don’t know what happens next with Wanda’s memory, whether this is a passing thing or the start of something that gets harder for both of us. I just know that on a Thursday in April she stood on my porch certain of a dinner that never happened, and instead of making her feel foolish about it, we ate chicken and deviled eggs together and it was, in its own strange way, a genuinely nice evening.
A Conversation I Haven’t Had Yet
I’ve thought about calling her son, who lives a few states away and calls her every Sunday from what I understand, just to mention what I’ve been noticing lately, the missed dates, the certainty about things that didn’t happen. I haven’t done it yet. Part of me worries it’s not my place, that I’m not family and don’t have the standing to raise something like this. Part of me worries that if I do call, it sets something in motion that neither Wanda nor I can slow back down once it starts.
For now I’ve settled on just paying closer attention myself, showing up for the dinners that do happen, going along gently with the ones that don’t, and trying to notice if the pattern gets worse rather than staying roughly where it is. I don’t know if that’s the right choice. I just know it’s the one I’ve made, at least for now, and I reserve the right to change my mind about the phone call if the Thursdays like that one start happening more often than they already do.