Bereft by Beth Sherman

The dementia support group for caregivers meets in the rec room of Our Lady Queen of Martyrs Church, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and spilled juice boxes. No matter how sunny it is outside the space is always dark, due to inadequate lighting and tiny windows. There’s a clock whose hands don’t move. A stain-splotched rug. Metal chairs arranged in a circle. Lauren sits down gingerly as if she might break. This is her fourth visit. She always thinks it will be her last, but then something – perhaps the knowledge that these people know what she’s going through – draws her back. There are nine of them today, all ages, genders and sizes, all members of a club they’d rather not join.  

A man named Alan, with wild bushy eyebrows and a kind smile, speaks first. In other circumstances, Lauren might be attracted to him.  

My wife keeps saying I’m not really her husband, he tells the group. She insists I’m an imposter.

The social worker in charge asks Alan how that makes him feel. Um, awful, Alan replies, staring at the rug.  

What a stupid question, Lauren thinks. He’s angry, abandoned, bewildered, hurt. How else should he feel?

Lauren has recently started thinking of herself in the third person. As in, Lauren needs to buy more tomatoes. Lauren can’t sleep. Lauren keeps making mistakes at work. Lauren is one Xanax away from a meltdown. 

Two more people share pieces of their lives: a woman whose father shoved her so hard he fractured her wrist, another whose husband claimed she was having an affair with the check-out guy at Walmart. When it’s Lauren’s turn, she holds her palms out in front of her as if she’s a crossing guard signaling cars should stop and the social worker goes on to the next person. 

Lauren is bereft. Each day there’s a little less of her mother, like a living death.  

After everyone else shares, the social worker hands out a resource list containing names of organizations and doctors, links to articles.  

Lauren wishes she could tell her mother about Alan, the way he holds onto his elbows when he speaks, his distracted expression. She imagines asking the old Sylvia whether she should sleep with him. Darling, would that really make you happy? she hears her mother say.

During the 10-minute donut and coffee break, she switches seats so she’s next to him. 

What do you do when your wife claims you’re not the real Alan? Lauren asks.

He strokes his chin thoughtfully and Lauren has an image of them in a no-tell motel, skin against skin, trying to blot out reality.

I tell her Alan will be back any minute. I’m filling in for him, doing the best I can. 

He shrugs. I feel guilty, but it seems to work. She’s less agitated. 

Lauren nods. My mother hissed at me the other day. Like a snake.   

Oh, God, Alan says. 

He takes hold of her hand, which doesn’t feel like it’s attached to the rest of her. They sit in companionable silence. Lauren watches the clock on the wall. Its hands that won't move. Relieved that in this place, time has stopped. But resigned to the reality that when she leaves the meeting, she'll go straight to the memory care center like she does each afternoon, where her mother will scold her for never coming to visit.

Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.