It turns out not to be a stroke, only a medication issue combined with dehydration. Only, the doctor says, in the tone of people whose job requires choosing calmer words than reality deserves. He asks whether someone lives with her. You say no. He asks whether family checks in regularly. Mrs. Mercer answers before you can.
“My grandson does,” she says.
Both you and the doctor look at her.
You do not correct her.
On the ride back, she sits very still in the back seat, staring out at the city sliding by under a low sky. When you get her inside and settled, she says, “I should not have said that.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. Accuracy matters.” She folds her hands in her lap. “But loneliness lies too. Sometimes it talks before pride can stop it.”
You do not know what to say to that, so you go make tea.
