Today I decide to pay my girlfriend Grace’s mom Dolores a visit. Soon she will need to move into an assisted-living facility equipped with what they call memory floors. They should call them forgetful floors because the last thing one finds there is a memory.

On the L train to Brooklyn, my mind wanders through the screeching and hissing to my father's final year. I let my sisters handle the whole aging nightmare of my old man after my mom died. My dad went downhill with no guardrails and no brakes and would not have used them even if he could. In the two years since he died, the pang of guilt still invades the wall I constructed to shield myself. We never had a close relationship. Contentious is the word which comes to mind. I always felt like a failure in his eyes.

Two minutes in his apartment, he would start in on me. His words stoked me like a hot poker. How come you don't bring my grandsons to visit? Are you ashamed of me? Why did you leave Jeannie for that other woman? Man, he would not utter Grace's name, and I never believed his condition was to blame. He did not care.

I can be wrong, because in three months' time he did not recognize me, and a few months later he was gone. I was his firstborn and the first one he forgot. Sometimes when I lie awake at night unable to sleep because these issues dwell in a space in the middle of my head, I think it was easy for him to let go of me first.

I wish I could have been more like Grace in the way she handles her relationship with her mother. Grace's path down the broken memories of her past is fraught with the obstacles and pain I experienced with my father—not manifested in the same way but just as difficult.

Grace and Dolores are in a beautiful place now with not much time left.

I take the subway steps two at a time, and when I round the corner, Dolores is sweeping the cracked sidewalk in between the pile of black garbage bags shimmering in the morning sun in front of her tan-brick building. People must think Dolores cleans the sidewalk because she's lost her mind—and she has in degrees—but she’s always done so, only now it’s crossed over to an obsession.

For the past fifty-five years Dolores has lived in this four-story building in a part of Brooklyn that morphed from middle class to residents scraping by slightly above the poverty level to gentrification. First, Grace’s family resided on the fourth floor and Dolores moved to the first floor after her daughters left—although she now claims they never lived upstairs.

This morning when Grace spoke on the phone with her mom, Dolores claimed someone tried to break into her apartment through a window in the bedroom, and she threatened to call the police. Only problem is, there is no window in the bedroom.

I have not seen Dolores in about six weeks, and it hurts to see Grace conflicted; the wounds deep in her blue eyes. Thus, the reason for my trip.

Grace embraces her mother's disease almost like a denial of its existence. No, that is not accurate. She chooses to engage Dolores's lucid periods and shows patience during the lapses of reality. Whereas, when my father slipped into darkness, I slid into impatience, annoyed at his malady.

So, here I am, trying to ease the pain—the question is whose?

The first time I met Dolores was three years ago. Grace introduced us, "Mom, this is Jimmy." Dolores smiled and said, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, James." Right away I thought she was never getting close to me—but no, it was the first ding in the bumper of her brain, referring to everybody by their given name.

Doctors tell Grace to be patient. As long as Dolores's actions are not malicious or harmful to herself or anybody else, Grace leaves her alone. So, I am James—if she starts calling me Jimmy like the rest of the universe, I do not think I will like it.

"Hi, Dolores."

The broom stops in mid-sweep, and she stares through me, wrapped in a world of silence amid the honking of horns, the whoosh of a bus's brakes, and people strolling by. She sweeps up some papers into her dustpan and studies me again. Wisps of gray hair slip from underneath her blue Brooklyn Dodgers cap and fall over her ears. Her green, pilled sweater droops over her thin frame, her face gaunt and pale, the skin taut over her cheekbones.

Concern tightens her face. "Where is Grace? Did something happen to her?"

"She's fine, Dolores. Went to lunch with some friends."

Her face relaxes. "Hmm, and you decided to come to Brooklyn by yourself? First time for everything, I guess. Come on up and I'll make you a sandwich—getting nippy out."

I wipe the back of my neck, the temperature in the low eighties and climbing.

A pregnant Dolores and her husband Tony moved here with their two-year old daughter Liz. After Grace's birth, life was indeed beautiful, the whole la dolce vita thing going on—until Grace's dad took a header in front of the Number 2 train in Penn Station.

Cops said he jumped—Dolores said not possible—witnesses said otherwise. No note, no debt or other personal problems, no indication of mental illness.

So, here was Dolores, widowed with a three- and a five-year old, and a lot of internal shit nobody should deal with. Losing a father at a young age was such a tragedy for the girls. Although Dolores painted a portrait of a loving father who suffered a terrible accident, Grace sometimes feels abandoned. But Grace is stronger, more spirited, and more caring because of her experiences.

Dolores, she persevered, attended night school, became a physical therapist, and raised two beautiful girls; one became the woman I love. Now her mind is hiding like an old Polaroid which fades one pigment at a time.

Her apartment smells like her garbage passed its expiration date and I make a mental note to take it out when I leave. Dolores refuses to open any windows. When she visits, the first thing Grace does is open them, but I may overstep my boundaries, so I suffer with the stench.

The condition of the apartment itself is at odds with its funky bouquet. A small, yellow, original Formica countertop, the fridge and the stove are spotless. Three white dishtowels hang in perfect symmetry on the oven door handle; no dishwasher, but the plate rack and sink are empty.

The kitchen leads into a small living room, and on the couch she's arranged two pillows at the same angle against each arm. Two end tables and a coffee table complete the scene. The rooms are immaculate, as if a realtor has staged the house.

This is her sickness on display.

Grace explored the idea of an aide for her, but Dolores forbids any strangers to enter her apartment. Dolores’s next door neighbor Jeanine watches out for her but the burden is becoming too much. Our place is a one-bedroom, so not suitable, and with my shame meter reaching all-time highs, I am glad that is not an option. Liz, Grace's sister, has some medical problems which prevent her from being a full-time caregiver.

I accept the offer of a ham and cheese sandwich. The ham is on one slice of bread, the cheese on the other and no mayo or mustard. She hands me a knife and fork. Grace's voice in my head, you pick your battles. Lucky Grace, if I can use such a word, because with my old man we sustained a never-ending battle--but that may be my fault.

While Grace and Liz grew up, Dolores worked during the day and went to school at night. The bulk of their mother-daughter bond took root when the sisters became adults.

Grace leaves the past in the past. Her father's accident, her mother's faults, her failed marriage, all behind her. Do these things haunt her at nights? Sometimes, but she is an optimist, something she is adept at, one of the many things I am attracted to.

"So, James," Dolores says, "what are your designs for my daughter?"

I stop chewing and the food sticks in my mouth. Grace told her there are no plans as far as getting married. The kettle whistles as I search for a response. Grace and I are both divorced and have been through a myriad of post-breakup relationships. Now in our fifties, what we have works, so why muck things up.

Dolores pours water into her cup, twirls a tea bag around twice, slides it off the spoon into a plastic baggie, and places the bag in the refrigerator. The air is stifling, so I open a window and wait for Dolores to reprimand me, but she continues to stir her cup of tea.

"Grace was never able to get pregnant. Robert wanted kids, but I don't think he would have made a good father."

Bob, Grace's first husband, was the one with the faulty equipment. When Grace wanted to try artificial insemination, or consider adoption, they fought until everything exploded and soured the whole kid thing—and eventually the marriage. Damn shame because Grace would make a wonderful mother. Such an incredible woman dealt loss after loss, but she always rises to the top.

Grace always says to focus on the positive things, and the weak moments in a parent's life should not be the legacy of parent and child. With my two boys I endured my share of ups and downs, especially during and after the divorce, and they do not hold anything against me—or do they? Is this something I need to discuss with them?

"What about you, James, do you want children?"

Her question startles me, and I am about to tell her my two grown sons adore her daughter, but she knows that already. The fresh breeze eases through the apartment and offers some relief to the stale odor. Dolores continues whipping the spoon through her tea. Too hot to drink? But the steam has dissipated. I stand and pour a glass of water.

"Anthony will be home soon. He would love to meet you."

The glass slips in my hand at the mention of her late husband's name.

"He takes the subway from Penn Station, will be here in time for dinner. I think he'll like you, James."

She veers off into her other world, and I need to steer the conversation back to the here and now. With those green eyes she locks me, narrowing her pupils into slits, like a cat, like she doesn't trust me, like she notices me for the first time, and her eyes drift to the open window. She gets up and closes it.

"I told Grace not to leave the windows open. Does she leave them open at your house, Robert?"

Grace always corrects her when she calls someone by the wrong name but if I do that, I am afraid of what her reaction may be.

"Yeah, she likes the air."

She furrows her brow. "Hmm, I guess they don't burglarize apartments in your part of the city."

"No, we only keep them open when we're home. Break-ins happen all over."

Her mouth opens and I can slap myself. "Nothing for you to worry about, Dolores, you're safe here."

She nods her head, studying me. "So, what brings you to Brooklyn on a Sunday? Visiting someone?"

"Yes, you."

Her eyes shift like a shade yanked down over a window and her mind is on an elevator getting off at a different floor.

"Anthony should be here by now. Never liked him riding the damn subway. Too many weirdos and undesirables on the trains." She eyes me again. This time I am a stranger. My skin prickles, and the sweat runs down the back of my neck.

"Why are you here?" The words escape in a hiss.

"I don't mean to distress you, Dolores."

Not sure where she is now, I want to run but I cannot leave her like this. My father's face floats across my vision and I remember how I bolted at the first dent in my comfort level. What will Grace say about my coming here?

Dolores points at me. "Did you come here to tell me bad news about Grace?"

Her eyes widen with terror, and she shrinks into her chair, throwing her hands over her face. A sobbing, wheezing sound seeps through her fingers.

I step around the table and reach out to her. "Dolores, Grace is fine. She is out with friends. I came over to check up on you."

"Do I look like I need checking up on?"

I almost say yes but halt the words between my brain and my mouth. "No, no, of course not," I lie.

She shoos me back to my seat and like the flick of a switch she is calm. She picks up one of the dishtowels, unfolding and refolding it, and sits back down.

"So, do you think you and Grace will give me and Anthony a grandbaby any time soon?"

Still holding the towel, her jaded eyes bore into me. She stands, letting the towel unfurl and drop to the table, squirts liquid soap in her hands, scrubs them, and reaches for the towel.

"Dolores, you should wash your hands with some water first."

Again, she gives me a quizzical gaze. "I must dry them."

I lope around the table, guide her to the sink, and turn on the faucet. She thrusts her right hand in and twists toward the towel again. "Here, let me help you," I say.

First, hesitation, but she acquiesces. Under the warm water, I rub her hands, rinse them, and hand her the dish towel. She does the folding routine again, so I enclose her hands and pat them dry. Tears well up in her eyes and she wipes them. I release her and the phone rings. She stares at the phone. Petrified, her lips quivering, she drops the towel to the floor.

"Don’t worry, Dolores."

"You answer. I can't bear to."

The caller ID reads Grace. "It's Grace, Dolores." I pick up. "Hey, Grace."

"Jimmy? Oh, jeez, I meant to call my mother, I hit your number by mistake."

"No, you called the right number. I'm here."

"What? What are you doing in Brooklyn?"

"Came by because of what happened this morning," I whisper.

"Oh. I called Jeanine right after I left this morning."

"Oh, right."

"No worries. That is so sweet of you. Well, you might as well lock the bedroom window."

"Very funny."

"How is she?"

Dolores is rearranging things in one of the cabinets below the sink.

"I was James, Robert, and I am not sure who else all in the space of a half an hour."

"Well, not surprising. She hasn’t seen you in a while, which for her is like forever. Tell her I'm coming later."

"Grace, before something happens—"

"I know. It’s time. I'll talk to my sister."

After we hang up, I turn to Dolores. "That was Grace. She said she'll be by later."

Dolores does not understand or acknowledge me as she takes one cup and one saucer, switches them with another cup and saucer and switches them back again. An arrow of sorrow shoots across my chest. Man, she should not live like this after everything she's been through. I can’t even fathom what people with nobody to care for them must experience.

She plops into the kitchen chair, her face in her hands and a moan escapes from deep in her throat.

I reach for the right words but my mind grasps at emptiness. "Dolores—"

"I didn't love him, not like us. Just—the girls—you were never home, and I was lonely. It was nothing. Not like with us, Tony. I was going to take you back. Don't you understand? Why did you leave us? How could you leave your daughters?"

Deep sobs emanate from her chest, and I choke up. I bend over, wrapping my arm around her, and she collapses into my shoulder, her wet, hot tears saturating my shirt.

"You were the only one for me. Why, why, why did you do such a thing? You didn’t fight for me. You didn't punish me; you punished your girls."

She stands and punches against my chest and I do not stop her. "You coward—you bastard."

I do not want to hear this; is this true? What about Grace? Does she know? What should I tell her or not tell her?

After a few minutes, she calms and wipes her nose with her sleeve. "Would you like to go for a walk on this beautiful day?" she says. Nodding my head, I squeak out a yes.

She grabs her faded green sweater off a hook by the door, fumbles with her keys, locking and unlocking her front door three times before I endeavor to intervene. With her elbow she pushes my hand away, holds up a finger to shush me, and clicks the bolt into place.

On the sidewalk, she slips her arm through mine, and exchanges smiles with people strolling by.

"The neighborhood changed so much in the last few years, I hardly recognize anything," she says.

My mind still reels with the episode in the apartment. I force myself to speak. "Changed for the better?"

"Oh, I don't think so. A lot more families around here back in the day. Now all these young people scurrying about—what do they call themselves? Hipsters?"

"Millennials."

She waves her hand like she can sweep the world away. "Whatever. Time used to be on my side, but now life ran right past and I can't catch up. Oh, well, soon enough."

"What," I ask.

She cranes her neck, her eyes like shattered fragments of green crystal. "Did you say something, James?"

Do I have the right to drop this nuclear bomb on Grace's head when it may not be true? Grace believes her father fell because it is easier to move past than if he jumped. Not a question of whether she can handle this, but this is something Delores should tell her. Would I want Grace to tell me if my father told her he cheated on my mom? I don't know the answer. Maybe I don't want to. Isn't the truth always the best route to take, even if damage is inflicted?

"Dolores, I don't want to upset you, but what happened inside—"

"You love Grace, don't you, James?"

"With all my heart, Dolores."

"Don't ever hurt her."

I nod, holding her eyes and all the mysteries behind them. "I promise. I won't." Grace is right, let things go. I never did in the past. You learn and move on.

She pats my arm. "I'm glad that's taken care of."

The shade over her eyes is at work again, and she gazes at me. "Did you lock the bedroom window?"