“Dolly,” she croaks in that wavering voice of hers.

Do your homework. 

She’s got a hand upraised, trembling as if shaken by some invisible force. 

I don’t want to. 

I swallow, unsure of what to make of the attention, smiling awkwardly. 

Just answer the questions. 

“What nonsense you are speaking!” admonishes my grandmother. 

Questions? Um, ‘who do you know that has Alzheimer’s?’ No one. 

“She’s like a little dolly,” she rasps again. 

Not true. 

“Silly!” exclaims my grandmother, gathering up the dishes. 

(He’s angry…) 

She eyes them, tracking the porcelain with coal-black eyes that contain the last of her life.

Your great-grandmother. 

She looks back at me, and I offer another shaky smile, her sparse words echoing in my head: dolly… dolly… dolly. 

Your great-grandmother has Alzheimer’s.