I. LaBlanc: ...[insist]ed I wear a dress to the dedication ceremony last summer. I was tempted to scowl in the photos, but I knew my defiance would hurt mom more than it would tick off GrandMary. I cut through the parking lot behind the student union toward the north end of campus. The bluff showcases a gorgeous panoramic view of the St. Mary's river, the International Bridge into Canada and the city of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. Nestled in the bend of the river east of town is my favorite place in the universe, Sugar Island.

The rising sun hides behind a low dark cloud at the horizon beyond the island. I halt in place, awestruck. Shafts of light fan out from the cloud as if Sugar Island is the source of the sun's rays. A cool breeze ruffles my t-shirt giving me goosebumps in mid August. "Ziisabaaka Minising." I whisper in Anishinaabemowin the name for the Island, which my father taught me when I was little. It sounds like a prayer. My father's family, the Firekeeper side, is as much a part of Sugar Island as its spring-fed streams and sugar maple trees. When the cloud moves on and the sun reclaims her rays a gust of wind propels me forward back to my run into the task ahead.

Forty-five minutes later, I end my run at EverCare, a long-term care facility, a few blocks from home. Today's run felt backward, peaking in the first mile and becoming progressively more difficult. I tried chasing the zone, but it was a mirage just beyond my reach. "Morning Daunis," Mrs. Bonasera, the head nurse says from behind the front desk, "Mary had a good night. Your mom's already here." Still catching my breath, I give my usual good morning wave. The hallway seems to lengthen with each step. I steel myself for the possible responses to my announcement.

In my imagined scenarios, a single furrowed brow conveys disappointment, annoyance, and the retracting of previous accolades. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to announce my decision. Mrs. B didn't need to say anything. The heavy scent of roses in the hallway announces mom's presence. When I enter the private room, she's gently massaging rose scented lotion on my grandmother's thin arms. A fresh bouquet of yellow roses adds to the floral saturation level.

GrandMary has been at EverCare for six weeks now and the month before that in the hospital. She had a stroke at my high school graduation party. Visiting every morning is part of the New Normal, which is what I call what happens when your universe is shaken so badly you can never regain the same access as before, but you try anyway. My grandmother's eyes connect with mine. Her left brow raises in recognition. Her right side is still unable to convey anything. "Bon matin, GrandMary." I kiss both cheeks before stepping back for her inspection. In the Before, her scrutiny of my fashion choices bugged the crap out of me, but now her one-sided scowl at my oversized t-shirt feels like a perfect slap shot to the top shelf. "See?" I playfully lift my hem to reveal yellow spandex shorts. "Not half-naked." Halfway through her barely perceptible eye roll, GrandMary's gaze turns vacant.

It's like a light bulb behind her eyes that someone switches on and off arbitrarily. "Give her a moment," mom says, continuing to smooth lotion onto GrandMary's arms. I nod and take in GrandMary's room. The large picture window with a view of a nearby playground. The dry-erase board with the heading "hello, my name is Mary Fontaine" and a line for someone to fill in after "my nurse." The line after "my goals" is blank. The vase of roses surrounded by framed photographs, GrandMary and Grandpa Lorenzo on their wedding day. A duo frame with mom and uncle David as praying angels in white First Communion outfits. My senior picture fills a silver frame engraved with class of 2004. The last picture taken of the four of us Fontaines--me, mom, Uncle David, and GrandMary--at my final hockey game brings a walnut-sized lump to my throat.

I went to sleep many nights, listening to mom and her brother laughing, playing cards and talking in the language they had invented as children. A hybrid of French, Italian, abbreviated English, and made up nonsensical words. But that was before Uncle David died in April and GrandMary, grief-stricken, had an intracerebral hemorrhagic stroke two months later. My mother doesn't laugh in the New Normal. She looks up. Her jade green eyes are tired and bloodshot. Instead of sleeping last night, mom cleaned the house in a frenzy while talking to Uncle as if he was sitting on the sofa, watching her dust and mop. She does this often. I wake up during those darkest hours when my mother confesses her loneliness and regrets to him.