Joy

Jenny tried to make small talk with her mom, but no amount of compliments or observations about the nursing homes dining room brought a smile to Pearl’s face.The staff decorated for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving, and an eight- or nine-foot Christmas tree decorated in red and gold ornaments and white lights sat in the corner. Most of the tables were full, and canes and walkers cluttered the walkways. A few of the patients were pushed up to the table in their wheelchairs.

“Can I get you more sweet tea, Miss Pearl?” A young man with overgrown dark hair asked. He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old.

Pearl shook her head and stared at the half-eaten turkey sandwich on her plate.

Jenny's heart sank.

Her mom had been at the nursing home for a week now, and she still wasn't adjusting. Not that Jenny could blame her. For the past 10 years, her mother had lived in their guestroom. With declining health and mobility issues, it had become impossible for Jenny to care for her.

The facility was just five minutes down the road from Jenny’s house. She still took her mom to all of her doctor’s appointments and stopped by for lunch a couple times a week, but there was a distance between them that she'd never had before. As the youngest of three children, Jenny had always been the closest with her mom. Her older siblings were already grown and out of the house by the time she came along, so she and her mother shared a special bond, especially after her father passed away.

But Pearl saw this transition as a betrayal. Jenny had promised to take care of her, and Jenny knew that it must feel like she had given up—that she had broken her promise to her mother when in fact, this was the only thing she could do to take care of her.

After she took her mom back to her room and said goodbye, Jenny left and headed home. The guestroom where her mom had lived for the past 10 years now sat empty, apart from a bed, dresser, and nightstand. Jenny had made up the bed with a spare set of sheets and an old quilt, but all of her mother’s things went with her to the nursing home. The only thing left was the lingering smell of Love’s Baby Soft perfume, a powdery scent that reminded Jenny of her mother when she was young.

It had been a long time in the making, but Pearl breaking her hip six months ago was the tipping point. The recovery had been a challenge, and they tried to bring her home for a few months, but after another fall in the bathroom, Jenny knew it was time.

Pearl had always been fiercely independent, and even moving in with Jenny, her son-in-law, and her three grandchildren was a challenge. She hadn't wanted to give up her little house downtown, right near the flower shop and the library, two of her favorite places to visit. It took about six months, but she adjusted, and Jenny knew that her mom would adjust to this new living situation, too.

Unsure of what else to do, Jenny busied herself by washing some dishes and laundry and writing out the grocery list for the week. Amy would be in school for another two hours and then she could pick her up. But until then it was just Jenny alone with her thoughts. She was no longer her mother's caregiver, and she was no longer really needed as a mom. Amy was nearly old enough to drive and could take the bus, but Jenny had to do something to make herself feel useful. So she would pick up her daughter from school and have lunch with her mom and try to fill her time.

---

Moving her mom into an nursing home hadn’t been a unanimous decision. Jenny and her husband, Ted, were in agreement that Pearl needed more care than what he and Jenny could provide, but Jenny’s older siblings were against the idea.

It’s not that they were mean-spirited people, but her older Julia and James weren’t with their mother every day. They didn’t know how much she had declined over the past few years. They had been away for almost as long as Jenny had been alive, and their only notion of their mother’s health was the glimpses they got when they came for visits around the holidays, reports from Jenny, and brief conversations with Pearl herself, who never admitted truth of her condition.

Two weeks before Christmas, Jenny and her book club met to discuss their most recent read, Little Women. It had been years since Jenny read the classic by Louisa May Alcott, and she found herself connecting with the characters differently than she had when she was a girl.

“I used to think I was most like Jo.” Jenny took a sip of her hot chocolate. The couches in The Melting Plot were pushed into a semi circle, and she sat with Alex, the bookstore owner, Isabella, and Megan. Twinkling lights strung with paper snowflakes blinked in the front window, and their reflections peered back at them in the dark glass. “But now I resonate more with Meg. I’m always taking care of people, whether it’s my kids or my mom. Family is what’s most important to me now.” 

Alex hummed softly, twirling one of her braids around a tattooed finger. “That’s deep.” 

“I used to feel that way.” Megan picked at a hangnail with a frown. She was the least talkative of the group, but Jenny appreciated her honesty. Megan was not afraid to speak her mind. “Unfortunately, family can be most important to you, but you aren’t most important to them.” She rubbed her naked ring finger. 

Jenny didn’t know the details, but she thought Megan had recently been through a divorce—a nasty one by the sound of it. 

“I do worry about that sometimes,” Jenny admitted, thinking about her daughter’s aloofness and her mother's aggression. She couldn't blame her mom; she was going through a big period of adjustment and was likely feeling all kinds of emotions—depression, anxiety, and probably even some betrayal. Jenny had promised to take care of her, and in Pearl's eyes, Jenny had given up on her. She tried to remember this every time her mom made a snide remark or a comment meant to cut her down, to hurt her.

Before she could stop them, tears built in her eyes, and one dripped onto her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her hand, hoping she hadn't smeared her mascara. “I just don't know what to do sometimes. I do everything I can for my family, and it's not enough.”

Alex's leg bobbed, and she continued to spool that braid around her finger as she thought. Finally, she spoke. “It doesn't matter if they think it's enough. You just have to keep showing up for them. Sometimes people are ungrateful. But you love them anyways and hope for the best. If you're lucky, they'll come around.”

Megan snorted but didn't say anything. Obviously her story hadn't ended that way, and Jenny was grateful that she at least had the support of her husband—even if her mother and siblings didn't quite believe in her right now.

Isabella spoke up. “I think you need to be patient. There are seasons when people that you love aren't able to love you back—not in the way that you need.” 

Jenny reached across the couch and placed a hand over Isabella's. She knew these past few weeks had been hard for the girl, just having moved here and not knowing anyone and barely seeing her husband. Her words of wisdom were as much for Jenny as they were for herself.

After a few beats of silence and the understanding that everything had been said, Alex picked up her sheet of paper with the discussion questions. “Ready for the next one, ladies?”

---

Jenny was stirring a pot of pasta on the stove when her phone rang. It was an incoming FaceTime call from her older sister Julia. She hadn't seen Julia since Easter, when she came to town with her husband to celebrate the holidays. A bit reluctantly, Jenny picked up the call and propped her phone on her cookbook stand. “Hi, Jules,” she said.

“Are you gonna keep Mom cooped up in that hell hole for the holidays?” Julia demanded. No hello, no how are you—just jumping straight into an argument.

“It's not a hell hole,” Jenny said, slamming a lid on the pot on the stove. “And yes, she has to live there. We’ll probably come pick her up and take her out for a few things, but I can't take care of her all the time.”

Julia was driving; her phone was likely clamped in a holder on the windshield, and Jenny could see her turning the wheel and the reflection of other cars on the road in her oversized sunglasses.

“Mom is fine,” Julia said, flicking on her turn signal. It ticked at a maddeningly high rate, matching the rhythm of Jenny’s heart. “You couldn't have waited at least until after the holidays to put her in there?”

It was a miracle that they had even gotten her mom an open spot. Unfortunately, beds only really opened up when someone was admitted to hospice or passed away. And they had only been on the list for a couple of weeks when a slot opened up. It would be foolish not to take it—who knew how long it would be before another room opened up?

“No, I really couldn't,” Jenny replied, gritting her teeth. This was the problem—her sister, and sometimes even her brother, were always trying to boss her around and tell her how to handle the situation that she was living through, not them.

“It's not as bad as she makes it sound. Really, the place is nicer than my house, and their decorations for Christmas are much prettier than anything I could pull off.” Jenny glanced around her house, which was sparsely decorated for Christmas. Aside from the flocked Christmas tree in the front window and a garland on the mantle, she had very few decorations. Her husband had put up some colorful lights in the front yard—nets over the bushes, and icicles on the gutters—but the interior of the house was relatively bare. Jenny just couldn't handle having dust collectors everywhere, especially when she was already stressed out from the holidays.

“That may be true, but it's still not home,” Julia said. “She's homesick, Jen. She needs you. She needs me. And James. It'll be another week before I head that way, but do you think that you could—I don't know—try to do something to cheer her up a little bit?” Julia's voice softened.

Jenny knew that the situation was hard for her—just in a different way. Jenny had in-laws to take care of over in Cincinnati and grandchildren. Every year got a little bit harder for her and her husband to sneak over to Virginia for a couple of days. Jenny tried to be empathetic, but at the same time, Julia chose to put down roots eight hours away from her hometown—eight hours away from her widowed mother. But you don't really think about those things when you're 22 and in love and getting married to your college sweetheart.

“I'll see what I can do,” Jenny said, wondering how in the world she could do more than she already was.

---

Jenny was determined to give her mom a great Christmas, even if she wasn't living in her house anymore. On Sunday morning she picked her up from the nursing home at 8:30 sharp to take her to Sunday school. She drove a few minutes across town and then helped her mom out of the passenger seat and unfolded her walker for her. Together they walked inside, and she escorted her mom to her Sunday school classroom on the first floor of the classroom building. She had been coming to this class for widows for years, and the women in this room were some of her mom's best friends. Pearl smiled when she walked in and gave another white-haired woman a squeeze.

“I'll see you after class, Mom.” Jenny shut the door behind her.

She met her husband, Ted, outside of their Sunday school classroom—a group for middle-aged couples. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and helped her shrug out of her pea coat before they entered together.

After Sunday school, Jenny met her mom at the door outside the widows’ class and walked her to the sanctuary. They chose a spot near the Chrismon tree to the right of the stage, and her mom admired the white and gold baubles decorating the evergreen tree.

For many years Pearl had helped decorate the tree and even created many of the Chrismons herself, crafting them by hand with love and care. But now she was too frail to get on a stepladder to decorate the tree, and her hands shook too much to string beads or make delicate stitches. So she just admired it, and Jenny knew that her mom wished that she could still do all the things that she loved.

Jenny and Ted acquiesced Pearl’s request to stay out for the entire day. They took her back to the house at lunchtime and shared some egg salad sandwiches, and then midafternoon they headed back to the church for a Christmas handbell recital. Every single year since Jenny was a little girl she had been to this handbell recital. It was comprised of two parts: the children's handbell choir and the adult handbell choir. She had been forced to participate when she was a child, but after she graduated from high school she left her bell-ringing days behind. Her mother, however, had been playing handbells most of her life and loved it, only giving it up when her eyes were too weak to read the sheet music.

As the ringers chimed their bells, Jenny kept an eye on her mother, watching as she tapped her foot in time with the music and closed her eyes to listen to the brass tones echo through the sanctuary. By the time they reached their final piece, tears were dripping down Pearl's face, and Jenny fished a tissue out of her purse, offering it to her mom. Her mother had never cried at a handbell recital before, and Jenny's heart sank.

When they got back to the car after the recital, it was dark outside. The exterior of the church was decorated with white, red, and green lights, and a huge evergreen tree sat on the front lawn wrapped in white lights and decorated with oversized Christmas balls.

It really was the most beautiful display of Christmas lights in the entire town, outshining even Main Street with the light-wrapped lamp posts and Christmas window displays. A life-size nativity set sat in the grass, a spotlight aimed on Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus huddled inside a primitive wood structure.

Pearl shuffled her way down the steps with help from Ted, and Jenny rolled her walker up to her so that she could walk herself back to the car. When they were closed into Jenny's SUV, Pearl sniffled, more tears running down her wrinkled cheeks.

“Mom, what is it?” Jenny asked, placing a hand on her mother's arm. She was so small, so frail beneath her winter coat. Jenny gave her a light squeeze.

“Oh, it's just that things are changing.” She blew her nose daintily into another tissue.

“Thank you for taking me today. I had a really nice time, but it's just not the same being in the audience as it is ringing for myself.” She took a deep inhale and then released a wet cough.

It had been a few years since her mom had rung in the recital, but Jenny thought she knew what she meant. She was probably nostalgic, wishing for Christmases past—for her health, her abilities to see her sheet music, and the strength to ring those bronze bells.

Pearl was silent for the rest of the car ride back to the nursing. Jenny and Ted walked her back to her room and made sure she was settled comfortably in her armchair before they left for the evening.

“That went well, all things considered,” Ted said, slipping into the driver’s seat. Jenny buckled herself into the passenger seat and sighed.

“I suppose so,” she replied.

“What's wrong?” Ted asked, grabbing her hand and stroking her knuckles, his rough thumb pad rubbing back and forth.

“Everything,” Jenny grumbled. “Mom's miserable, and it's all because of me.”

Ted drew her hand to his lips and gave it a kiss, his lips warm against her cold skin. “It's not your fault. You're just the easiest person to blame. Nobody wants to admit that sometimes life gets out of your control. They wanna place the blame. And you're just the most convenient target.”

Jenny loved her husband, but he was too damn logical most of the time, always seeing things from 30,000 feet. Right now she was up close and personal with this pain, and she wanted him to be there with her too. But she knew that his perspective was clearer than hers. He could look at an issue and gather all the facts without showing a hint of emotion. That’s probably what made him such a good lawyer. But Jenny was not graced with those skills. No. Logically she knew that her mother's misery wasn't her fault, but it sure felt like it.

“Things just aren't the same,” Jenny said. “I'm trying really hard to make her feel comfortable, make her realize that just because she doesn’t live with us anymore doesn't mean that she's not part of the family. But no matter what I do, it's not enough.”

Ted was quiet for a moment, thinking. He admired the small diamond on his wife's ring finger, something he bought for her while he was still an undergrad, and though he could afford to buy her a much nicer ring now, she had refused, wanting instead the simple band.

“Maybe,” he started, “things shouldn't stay the same. They aren't the same, so maybe we should stop pretending.”

---

Jenny thought about her husband's words for most of the night, replaying them over and over again. Things aren't the same, so maybe we should stop pretending.

He was right—even if Jenny brought her mom to every Christmas activity and re-created every happy memory they had together, she would not feel the same way because things were changing. Her mom was getting older. Heck, Jenny was getting older. Her youngest child was a sophomore in high school. In the blink of an eye, she’d be off to college and then Jenny and Ted would have the house to themselves for the first time in twenty-two years. 

The next morning, Jenny woke up, made herself a cup of coffee, and got out a pen and paper. If things couldn’t be the same, then she needed to try something new. Come up with something different that her mother had never experienced before. 

She started jotting down ideas, and by the time her coffee mug was empty, she knew what to do next.

---

“All right, is everybody ready?” Jenny stood in the nursing home’s parking lot with a small group of people—the women from her book club, Alex, Isabella, and Megan, who was still dressed in her scrubs from work there at the nursing home; her husband, Ted; her daughter, Amy; and her siblings and their spouses. A few of the ladies from her mom’s Sunday school class had also joined them, and they were all dressed in red, green, and white—classic Christmas colors. She handed each person a sheet of paper with lyrics to classic Christmas carols printed on both sides.

None of the people in the group were particularly skilled vocalists, but they were more worried about delivering Christmas cheer than an applause-worthy performance. So once everybody had their printout, Jenny led them through the front doors, heart pounding. The activities director met them in the lobby and directed them to the sitting room. Just inside the front door, a small group of residents were seated in a half circle facing two large picture windows overlooking a wooded area.

The activities director ushered them all into the space in front of the windows, and they stood in a straight line facing the residents. Some were seated in chairs; others were in wheelchairs. The activities director stepped in front of them and gave a quick introduction before taking a seat near an older man wearing suspenders and a flannel shirt. Jenny searched the small audience for her mother but did not find Pearl anywhere.

Jenny cleared her throat. “A one, two, a one, two, three, four… Joy to the world!”

The rest of the group joined in—off-key and offbeat at first, but within seconds they synced up and sang the first verse of Joy to the World. Some of the residents sang along with them or clapped their hands and tapped their feet as they made their way through the list of Christmas carols on their sheets: Joy to the World, Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls. They went through about half a dozen favorites before ending with We Wish You a Merry Christmas. When they finished, the group applauded.

Ted handed out candy canes to each resident, and they spent a few minutes visiting before moving down the hallway as a group and peeking into each room one by one, knocking on the doors to those that were occupied. They sang one song to those residents—people who hadn't been able to get out of bed to come to the concert or maybe weren't feeling up to it. Only one person denied them entry. Finally they reached the end of the hallway—Pearl’s room. The door was shut like it usually was, and Jenny knocked quietly and cracked the door.

“Mom, it's me and Julia and James.”

She heard her mother say something that sounded like “Come in,” so she pushed the door open, and the group filtered in.

Pearl sat in her armchair clad in a matching purple set. Her white hair was perfectly permed, and she wore her usual string of pearls with matching earrings. Even when her only company was herself, Jenny’s mother always looked her best. One of Pearl’s hands covered her mouth, and she gasped.

“What is this?” she asked. 

Ted stepped forward and handed her a candy cane. The pom-pom on the end of his Santa hat fell over his forehead, and he grinned.

“I was thinking about what you said the other day, Mom—about how things aren't the same this Christmas—and I wanted to try something new. Start some new traditions. Make some new memories. So I brought some friends to sing some Christmas carols with you. Is that okay?”

Singing for the small audience back in the sitting room had been a little nerve-racking but fun—they were all excited to see her—but the look in her mother's eyes gave nothing away, and Jenny wondered if she had made a mistake.

After a moment, a small smile broke across Pearl’s face—enough to show one of her silver teeth. She nodded.

Relief washed over Jenny. “All right, guys. Let's get into position.” Her choir assembled into a semicircle around Pearl, and they sang through every song on their sheet—just for her. Jenny pulled up a chair next to her mom, and they sang together, swaying with the music and giggling when someone stumbled over the words or hit the wrong note.

It didn't make everything better. It didn't change the fact that things would never be the same. But it did bring a moment of happiness—a moment of joy. In that moment, Jenny realized that change, while hard, doesn't always have to be a bad thing.