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was rarely impressed, but this might do the trick.
    Several sleepy residents dozed in their wheelchairs as I whisked past. The heavy scent of lavender potpourri and cleaning antiseptic met me as I walked toward my mother’s room. Her voice drifted into the flower-decked hallway.
    “Nurse,” my mother cried out weakly. “Nurse!”
    As I rounded the door into her room, she looked up at me from her wheelchair, a cozy afghan draped around her lap and thin legs. Her back was turned against a set of huge shelves, filled with thick books she had written.
    It never failed to impress me. Biographies, all in perfect alphabetical order. My eyes scanned the names:   Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth. Over her lifetime, my mother had garnered the most stunning, exclusive circle of friends. She was never Hollywood-famous, of course, but once upon a time, she had connections, power, and movie-star good looks. An intimidating combination.
    Now, my mother appeared a mere ghost of herself. Hair perfectly styled, but silver-gray instead of blonde. Jewelry on, but somehow not as glittery. Her sunken cheeks bore smudges of pink blush, the only color on her face.
    “Oh thank goodness!” My mother managed to exhale in a small gust of breath. One feeble hand lifted and dropped. “I’ve been calling and calling for someone to help. There’s a program I wanted to see.” She squinted in the dim light.
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m right here. What do you need?” I asked, and unconsciously reached out to pat her arm. Her skin, dry and thin as parchment paper, crinkled at my touch.
    My mother recoiled as if I had scorched her with hot coals. She glared at my fingers until I shoved them behind my back, out of sight.
    I swallowed my excitement. There was no use telling her about the award. Today, it was clear she didn’t know who I was.
    A rap at the door broke the silence.
    “She sure don’t like to be touched. And that is the Gawd’s honest truth,” came a high-pitched voice from the doorway. One of the nurse’s aides, Sharice, hands on her round hips, strode toward us with determination. “Miz Ruth Anne, don’t be givin’ your daughter no trouble. You gonna act like that when she come to see you every week?”
    My mother stared straight ahead, lips pursed, her bony hands folded primly on the afghan. “That’s not my daughter. My daughter does not wear red toenail polish. Ever. I absolutely forbid it.”
    I closed my eyes and counted backward from ten. I fought the urge to scratch at the hives popping out on my chest.
    Sharice argued with my mother. “Sure do look like your daughter. And that polish ain’t hurtin’ you none, sugar. But she sure is your kin.” She rolled her dark eyes at the ceiling. “I just don’t know what we all gonna to do wit’ you. Some days you know everybody, some days you don’t. And the days you don’t…you is so stubborn.”
    “I think she’s missing the remote,” I offered.
    “The remote, of course,” Mother repeated. Her eyes darted around the room. “Someone took it again and moved it. I’ll bet it’s that Miss Melba down the hall. She’s always nosing around.” She sniffed and jutted her chin at the ceiling.
    Sharice sighed. I knew it was the same complaint, different day. “It ain’t no Melba. She done got her own remote…and it ain’t for no…” Sharice paused and looked at the television. “…fancy flat-screen. She got a Toshiba or something.”
    Sharice lumbered over and bent to get a better look at the afghan. “Now, Miz Ruth Anne, now I gots to look in that blanket of yours—”
    My mother screwed up her face and pushed her body against the back of the wheelchair, her hands protectively holding the folds of material. I braced for another barb as Sharice leaned closer. Out of habit, glanced at the clock on the wall. 5:59 p.m.
    Perfect.
    “Listen Mother, it’s almost time for the news. Let’s go find out what the WSGA weekend crew has been up to.”