The 30-minute drive to Pebble Creek Nursing Home was never relaxing. My breathing grew more labored and my stomach clenched each time I pulled in the parking lot. A brutal stench of disinfectant and urine punched my nostrils when I entered the barren lobby. A chorus of moans haunted me from the rooms as I clipped down the hall. I kept my head tucked down into my scarf, counting the paces until Momma’s room was in front of me.

“Hi Momma, it’s Marnie.” I kissed her cheek and rubbed her bony shoulder.

Momma inched around, moving her blank stare from the wall to my face. A generous strand of her chalk white, uncombed hair clung to her cheek.

“My God, can’t they even use a comb in this place,” I huffed as I reached for Momma’s silver heirloom brush on her bedside table.

Styling Momma’s hair was like grooming a mannequin. I propped her up in the wheelchair as best I could, but her hunched frame resisted. “That’ll have to do.” I stepped back and reached for the picnic basket. “I have a very special surprise for us today. I honestly don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. I just have to step out to get us one more thing.”

I returned a few minutes later with a Styrofoam cup of crushed ice. Momma was in the same position with a fresh line of drool running down her chin. I dried her face with a tissue and draped a floral cloth napkin across her lap. I wheeled her tray table between us, grabbed a chair and lifted each piece out of the picnic basket, saving the cookies for last.

With our iced milks in front of us, I revealed the chunky oatmeal cookies as if they were an award-winning treat. Momma peered down at the plate for what seemed like hours, studying its contents. She lifted her head up to me, staring blankly for a few seconds. Then her face softened, as if someone snapped her out of her deep trance. With glistening eyes, her lips crept open into a slight smile. A single tear tumbled down her cheek.

“Oh Momma, you remember!” I blubbered, smearing tears from my face. I shot up and lunged at Momma, hugging her tight from an awkward angle.

By the time I pulled away to look at her again, the veil of Alzheimer’s had returned to her face. I lowered myself back to my chair, never taking my eyes off her. I did this for an hour, just in case she came back again.

That afternoon was the first time I ever left Pebble Creek in peace. The very same thing that comforted me for all those years came through for me again. I reached across the passenger seat for a cookie, took a bite and smiled in delight.