Back on Blossom Street (18 page)

“You’re smart,” Jeanine said. “I don’t think many women ever talk to the ex-wife before getting involved with a guy.”

Colette didn’t enlighten her, but she wasn’t nearly as smart as Jeanine thought. Without Christian Dempsey,
she probably would’ve let her relationship with Steve drift on, a relationship that could only have brought her heartbreak.

Lydia Goetz

M
argaret and I talked it over yet again, and decided not to tell our mother about the carjacking. Her physical and emotional health was fragile and growing more so all the time. It would’ve been too much for her.

The problem neither of us foresaw was her intuitive awareness of her children. Neither of us said a word, but somehow Mom sensed that something was wrong. She asked repeatedly if everything was all right. Again and again I assured her it was.

“Lydia,” she said the minute I stepped into her room. “Where’s Margaret?”

This wasn’t exactly the greeting I’d hoped to receive, and not only because it reminded me that Margaret had always been closer to her than I was. “She’s at the shop,”
I explained, coming into Mom’s room. “Business was a bit slow this afternoon, so I thought I’d take some time and come for a visit.” I didn’t mention that Margaret had purposely stayed behind.

Mom sat in her favorite chair in front of the television, which had become her main source of entertainment. She used to rarely turn it on. These days the set was constantly tuned to one program or another. I sometimes wondered if Mom actually turned it off when she slept.

Mom pursed her lips. “I haven’t seen Margaret in days.”

“Wasn’t she here on Sunday?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Margaret and Matt had come by early in the afternoon, the first time they’d left Julia alone since she was released from the hospital. Margaret had fretted the entire time and they’d gone home after only the briefest of visits.

Mom picked up the remote and lowered the volume on her television. She was watching one of those courtroom programs with ordinary people appearing before a judge. “When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked anxiously.

I sighed. At that moment I wanted to tell her everything. I couldn’t, though. If she learned about the carjacking it should be from my sister, not me.

“What did you have for lunch?” I asked instead.

Mom’s eyes returned to the television. “I don’t think I went in for lunch this afternoon.”

One of the advantages provided by the assisted-living complex was that they served three balanced meals a day. Margaret and I had carefully evaluated a number of places before selecting this one. For us, the meals had been a selling feature, and so were the many social events.

Mom had her own apartment and even a tiny kitchen
with a microwave and refrigerator. Best of all, she was surrounded by her own things. Margaret and I had gone through the house before it was sold, choosing pieces we knew she particularly loved. Mom was pleased that we were able to get so much of her furniture into her new home; it was a comfort to have familiar things after so many unnerving changes.

I was immediately alarmed to learn she’d skipped lunch. “Mom, you’re diabetic. You need to eat!”

“Yes, honey, I know. I had some tuna on a cracker.” She sent me a weary look that pleaded for understanding. “I don’t seem to have much of an appetite.”

It was more than skipping a meal that concerned me. She also needed the social contact. I hated the thought of Mom sitting alone in her room for days on end. When she’d first moved into the complex, Margaret and I were ecstatic at how quickly she’d made friends with her tablemates. But Helen Hamilton had moved to Indiana a month ago to be closer to her children. And Joyce Corwin had died of a stroke. Both losses had been blows to my mother. She’d been far more reclusive ever since.

“Margaret’s fine, Mom,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Everyone is.” I wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t believe it to be true. Julia had given us all a scare, but the counselors had been wonderful, helping my niece deal with the tumble of emotions that sometimes overwhelmed crime victims. Julia met regularly with a group of other people who’d undergone similar ordeals. They’d helped her cope with her anger, and perhaps more profound, the sense of vulnerability.

Personally, I felt the sessions might help Margaret, too. I happen to like my head, however, and I knew my sister would’ve bitten it off had I suggested she meet with a support group herself.

Mom reached for my hand. “Tell me about the yarn store. You say business is down?”

“Not down. In fact, we’re doing better than ever. This afternoon was a bit slow, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like me to tell you about my classes?” I asked. Mom used to enjoy hearing about them. I’ve run classes for beginning knitters; I also taught sock-knitting on circular needles and held a workshop on Thursday mornings for anyone who had a knitting problem. The charity knitting class on Friday afternoons continued, too.

Mom stared blankly at me. “Perhaps some other day,” she murmured. “I didn’t know you taught.” She smiled rather proudly at me.

I decided to try something else. “You remember Alix Townsend, don’t you?”

Mom frowned.

I couldn’t believe she could possibly have forgotten Alix. “She was in my original class.” Mom had met her dozens of times over the past three years.

“Oh, yes, yes, the one with the baby.”

I didn’t correct her. “Alix is taking my prayer shawl class. She hopes that knitting will get her through the wedding jitters.”

Mom’s face lit up. “Alix is getting married. That’s wonderful news.”

I swallowed hard and realized Mom didn’t remember Alix at all. I didn’t know when she’d slid so far downhill mentally, and it worried me. I should’ve noticed this long before now. I wondered if she’d become adept at disguising what she understood and what she didn’t.

“It’s going to be a lovely wedding,” I went on in a bright voice. “Brad and I are invited.”

Mom frowned again.

“You remember Brad, don’t you?”

Mom nodded, but I knew she didn’t. A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. In my recent concerns over Margaret and my own busy life, I hadn’t been sufficiently aware of Mom’s decline.

“You know who I’m looking for?” Mom asked, twisting around as she spoke.

I turned, too, assuming she’d misplaced something and needed me to find it.

“Spunky,” Mom said. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

Spunky had been our family dog when I was a child, a self-assured little terrier who’d adored my mother. He’d been dead for years. The last thing I wanted to do was tell my mother that the dog she’d loved had died—even if it happened decades ago.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I said.

“I’m afraid he’s lost and can’t find his way home,” she worried.

We’d had a fenced yard and Spunky had never escaped or run away from it. But I needed to tell Mom something that would reassure her and give her peace. “Just wait. He never goes far,” I said.

“He’s a good dog.” Mom smiled. “Do you see his mouse anywhere?”

“Spunky had a mouse?” I didn’t remember any such toy.

“It’s a little stuffed animal,” she reminded me, staring down at the floor.

Then it came to me. I
did
remember the mouse, which wasn’t a mouse at all, but a small stuffed poodle that Spunky carried from room to room and had with him almost constantly. The fact that my mother remembered that and not my husband astonished me.

“I can’t imagine where he’s gone.”

Spunky died at about the time of my first cancer diag
nosis when I was sixteen. Margaret had wanted to get another dog right away. Dad said no, and it wasn’t because he didn’t want another family pet. Just then, taking care of me was all he could handle. My sister knew that and added one more resentment to the pile she was accumulating. One more resentment against me.

“Can I get you anything before I leave?” I asked Mom. Instantly I could tell she didn’t want me to go.

“You just got here,” she said accusingly.

Actually, I’d been with her for over an hour. “I need to get back to the shop and then home to Brad and Cody,” I told her as gently as I could. From the blank look in her eyes, I knew she didn’t recognize either.

“Will you come tomorrow?”

I nodded. I’d make the time and if I couldn’t, I’d ask Margaret to visit. Before I left, I hugged her and made sure she was comfortable. I handed her the remote and Mom flipped up the volume on yet another judge show, one with a woman on the bench.

As I stepped into the hallway, Rosalie Mullin, the staff nurse who gave Mom her insulin injections, passed me. I stopped her. “How have Mom’s blood sugars been?” I asked, remembering that she said she’d skipped lunch. A cracker with a bit of tuna could hardly be considered a meal.

“Her sugars have been good.” She paused, then said, “The diabetes is under control.” Her eyes held mine.

Rosalie’s hesitation told me she had other concerns. “There’s another problem, isn’t there?”

She nodded. “Perhaps we should talk in my office. I can be there in five minutes.”

I took the elevator to the bottom floor, where I waited outside Rosalie’s office. She seemed to be away far longer than a few minutes, but that might have been due to my nervousness. Each minute felt like at least ten.

Without a word, Rosalie ushered me into her office. She sat behind her desk and motioned to the chair on the other side. With a lump in my throat, I perched stiffly on the edge of the cushion.

Already I could feel the beginnings of a headache. Probably because of the brain tumors, I’m prone to migraine headaches. They’re crippling, and they can last for days. It’d been months since I had one and I chose to believe that this was a simple tension headache and forced myself to ignore the nausea and dizziness.

“I’d been planning to call you and your sister,” Rosalie said. She reached for a file from the stack on her desk and opened it. “I’ve asked the assistants to keep tabs on your mother.”

“Why?”

“She’s been missing a lot of meals, growing less social and showing signs of paranoia. She was reacting badly to the Aricept, so the doctor took her off. He warned me she might lose ground quickly and she has. Unfortunately, one of the symptoms of this sort of decline is lack of appetite.”

My first inclination was to defend Mom, to make excuses for her. “I’m sure that has something to do with losing both Helen and Joyce in such a short time. I don’t think I’d want to eat, either.”

Rosalie agreed with me. “To a point, that’s true. However, I’ve started to notice other signs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid your mother’s showing early symptoms of Alzheimer’s.”

That had been my worry, as well, although I couldn’t verbalize it, even to myself.

“As far as meals go, what about bringing them to her?” I said.

“We can do that, of course,” Rosalie assured me.
“There’s an additional charge after a certain number of delivered meals. But what I’m trying to say isn’t about your mother’s eating or her diabetes.” Her eyes were sympathetic. “I’m thinking the time is fast approaching when her needs will exceed what we have to offer her.”

My mouth was dry. The light from the lamp on her desk was bothering my eyes. “You’re not suggesting a nursing home, are you?” The thought of placing my mother in one was more than I could bear.

“Not a nursing home,” Rosalie told me. “A memory care facility.”

“Memory care?” I repeated. I’d never heard of such a thing.

“They’re wonderful for people like your mother. There’s a greater level of individual care, and the environment is more controlled. I’d recommend that you and your sister visit a few, talk to the staff, get a feel for each place. I can give you information on three of them.” She opened a drawer, removed a file and handed me a sheet with names and addresses. “I’m familiar with all of these, and I can guarantee that Mrs. Hoffman would be well looked after.”

“Thank you,” I said shakily as I stood. My eyes had started to water and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the light or my emotions. Probably both.

By then I knew I needed to get home as quickly as possible. I don’t usually talk on my cell phone while I’m driving, but this was an emergency. At least it felt like one. My first call was to my husband, who was just getting off work.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said as he answered. “Where are you?”

“Driving. I probably shouldn’t be,” I said, hardly able to function now as my head throbbed painfully. “I’m on my way home. I have a migraine.”

“Your medication’s at the house?”

“Yes.” At one time I carried it with me, but after all these months I’d become careless. “I’ll be all right once I’m home,” I said. “I should have asked the nurse for a painkiller, but it didn’t enter my mind.”

“How far are you?”

“Five minutes from the house.” That was true on a good day, but it was rush hour and the traffic would slow me down.

“What can I do?”

“Call Margaret for me,” I said. “Ask her to close the store. She’ll know what to do.”

“Okay. Anything else?” I heard the concern in his voice.

I swallowed a sob and when I spoke my voice was hoarse with emotion. “It’s Mom, Brad. She’s not doing well.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.” I clicked off the phone and exited the freeway. By the time I’d pulled into the garage and made my way into the house, the pain in my head was blinding me. I stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom, where we kept the medications. Turning on the light wasn’t an option. I found the bottle in the cabinet more by luck than intent, nearly ripped off the cap and swallowed the pill without water.

Keeping my eyes closed I braced my hand against the wall and dragged myself into our bedroom. The first thing I did was close the shades. Once the room was dark, I undressed and climbed into bed. Soon the medication would kick in and the pain would subside. Tears crept from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks.

“Mom,” I sobbed. “Oh, Mom.” She wasn’t there to comfort me and would never be again. Nor, it seemed, could I comfort her.

The tragedy of this disease was that it took away so
much of who my mother was. She’d become completely dependent on Margaret and me to make decisions for her. As her mental capacities diminished, we’d be assuming all responsibility for her care. Most painful, perhaps, was her growing inability to remember her own life. My sister and I would have to be the keepers of her memories, for her and for ourselves.