Grace By Beth Ann Hoyme I look around cautiously, noticing the many pairs of eyes staring at me. I lock eyes with an old woman sitting in a wheelchair. Despite her illness, her smile is still warm and her eyes distinctly bright. Her hands lie loosely on the table, wrinkled and fragile. There’s a napkin resting neatly beside her hand. She picks it up gently, refolds it and places it back on the table. Five minutes have passed and the napkin has been refolded six times. I want to dart over to the table and insist that it need not be refolded again. Instead, I remember that she does not know any better, so I leave her be. She reaches her hand out and picks up the napkin once again. The people here call her Grace. However, don’t ask her what her name is because she won’t be able to tell you. Grace suffers from a disease known as Alzheimer’s. It affects her memory, health, and ability to do normal everyday activities. Emotions are quickly disappearing; she is unaware that she should feel sadness now. Her mind, soul, and body are quickly deteriorating. Ten minutes ago I introduced myself to her. Now, as I approach her for the second time, she speaks to me as if we’ve never met. Her words sound familiar. “Hi, Honey, how are you?” I nod and politely smile, answering with a friendly, “Fine.” Instead of reaching for the napkin again, she reaches out to grasp my hand. I accept her gesture. I feel a gentle squeeze, as if to say, “I’m glad you’re here.” The silence makes me nervous. Her hand feels amiable and worn with the abrasion from years of scouring dishes. A smile permanently rests on her aged face. Despite her oblivion, my presence seems soothing to her. She remains slumped in her wheelchair, her heavy body hunched over, feet resting on the wheelchair, far from the ground. I wonder how tall she would be if she were able to stand. Grace wears a pink sweatshirt with embroidered flowers, a sweatshirt that any normal grandmother would wear. The style of clothing that she wears is no longer her own. There are now people to choose her wardrobe. The silence has become extremely awkward. Suddenly she decides to speak. Her voice murmurs a high-pitched tone, “Honey, you are so sweet. You have such a pretty face, honey.” I respond with a blush. I met Grace twenty minutes ago and I know very little of her personality. When someone has Alzheimer’s, it is very difficult to tell what they’re like, or what they were like. I can only know her appearance or what others tell me about this lost soul. She is unable to remember whether her husband is still alive, how many children she has or if she is a grandmother. She has other people to tell her story. Her hand rises, releasing my hand. She refolds the napkin and sets it aside. She then proceeds to brush crumbs from the table. I walk back to the sofa, my eyes still concentrating on her. She stops brushing for a moment. After a few moments, the table clearly clean, her head begins to bob and her eyes close. Her body heaves up and down with the motion of each breath she takes. Even when she sleeps, she still smiles. I wonder what she smiles about. Grace peacefully sleeps, the napkin finally lies still, folded and left alone. I watch over her. I carefully pick up the napkin, as to prevent her from continuing the obsession to fold if she were to wake. Placing it on the counter, away from her reach, I breathe a sigh of relief. When she wakes, she will have completely forgotten that there once was a napkin in front of her. I understand that next time I see her she will not remember me. She will probably echo the words that she has already spoken. Her smile will still be bright, but her memory will be continually fading. And if there is a napkin in front of her, she will be sure to fold it.