Afterward they had gone into the kitchen to cook.
Three times a week Emma had made extra meals to carry to some of the older neighbors on their street. Zoë, who loved to work in the kitchen, had always helped her.
Zoë had chopped bars of dark chocolate until the cutting board was piled with fragrant coarse powder. While the oven preheated, she melted the chocolate, along with two sticks of butter, in a glass bowl set on a saucepan of simmering water. After separating eight eggs, she whipped the deep gold yolks and a tablespoon of vanilla extract into the melted chocolate, and added brown sugar.
Tenderly she had folded shiny ribbons of chocolate emulsion into a cloud of beaten egg whites. The rich froth of batter was spooned into individual teacups, which were set into a water bath and placed in the oven. When the cakes were done, Zoë had let them chill before topping each with a heavy swirl of whipped cream.
Emma came to survey the rows of flourless chocolate cakes baked in teacups. A smile spread across her face. “Charming,” she said. “And they smell divine.”
“Try one,” Zoë said, handing her a spoon.
Emma had taken a bite, and her reaction was all Zoë could have hoped for. She made a little hum of pleasure, closing her eyes to better concentrate on the rich flavor. But when her grandmother opened her eyes, Zoë was astonished to see the glint of tears in them.” What is it, Upsie?”
Emma had smiled.” This tastes like love you’ve had to let go … but the sweetness is still there.”
Zoë walked slowly along the clinic corridors, her rubber-soled flats squeaking on the shiny green floor. Her mind was occupied with the information the doctor had just given her—facts about cerebrovascular disease, infarction caused by stroke, the possibility that Emma might have “mixed dementia,” a combination of both vascular dementia and Alzheimer’s. Too soon to tell.
Amid all the questions and problems, one thing was clear: Emma’s independence was gone. She would no longer be able to stay at the assisted living community. From now on she would need more care and supervision than they could provide. Daily physical therapy for her left arm and leg. Safety improvements to her living environment, such as shower rails and a toilet seat riser with side handles. And as her condition inevitably deteriorated, she would need even more help.
Zoë felt overwhelmed. There were no relatives she could turn to: her father had declined to involve himself in her life long ago. And although the Hoffman family was large, the ties between them were negligible. “Solitary as skunks,” Justine had once quipped about their unsociable relatives, and it was true, there was some kind of relentless introverted streak in the Hoffmans that had always made the prospect of family gatherings impossible.
None of that mattered, however. Emma had taken in Zoë when no one else, including her own father, had wanted her. There was no question in Zoë’s mind that she would take care of Emma now.
The clinic room was quiet except for the muted beeps of the heart monitor and the occasional distant murmur of a nurse’s voice farther along the corridor. Cautiously Zoë went to the window and opened the louvered blinds a fraction, letting in a spill of soft gray light.
Standing at the bedside, Zoë looked down at Emma’s waxen complexion, the petal-like fragility of her closed eyelids, the silvery-gold tangle of her hair. Zoë wanted to brush and pin it back for her.
Emma’s eyes flickered open. Her dry lips twitched with a smile as she focused on Zoë.
Zoë’s throat went tight as she leaned over to kiss her grandmother. “Hi, Upsie.” Emma usually smelled like L’Heure Bleue, the powdery, flowery perfume she had worn for decades. Now her scent was jarringly medicinal, antiseptic.
Sitting at the bedside, Zoë reached through the metal rails to hold Emma’s hand, the fingers a cool, loose bundle in hers. At the sight of her grandmother’s grimace, Zoë let go instantly, remembering too late that her left arm had been affected by the stroke. “I’m sorry. Your arm hurts?”
“Yes.” Emma crossed her right arm over her midriff, and Zoë reached to hold that hand instead, careful not to dislodge the IV needle. Emma’s blue eyes were weary but warm as she stared at Zoë. “Have you talked to te doctors?”
Zoë nodded.
Never one to shirk an issue, Emma informed her flatly, “They said I’m losing my marbles.”
Zoë gave her a skeptical glance. “I’m sure that’s not how they put it.”
“It’s what they meant.” Their hands tightened. “I’ve had a long life,” she said after a moment. “I don’t mind going. But this isn’t how I wanted it to happen.”
“How, then?”
Her grandmother pondered the question. “I would like to slip away in my sleep. In the middle of a dream.”
Zoë pressed her palm over the cool back of her grandmother’s hand, covering the pattern of veins that crisscrossed like delicate lace. “What kind of dream?”
“I suppose … I’d be dancing in the arms of a handsome man … and my favorite song would be playing.”
“Who is the man?” Zoë asked. “Grandpa Gus?” He’d been Emma’s first and only husband, who had died from lung cancer years before Zoë had been born.
A glimmer of Emma’s familiar humor appeared. “The man, and the song, are none of your business.”
After Zoë left the clinic, she went to the office of Colette Lin, Emma’s elder-care consultant. Colette was kind but matter-of-fact as she gave Zoë a pile of pamphlets, forms, and books to help her understand the scope of the situation Emma was facing.
“Vascular dementia isn’t nearly as predictable as Alzheimer’s,” Colette said. “It can come on suddenly or gradually, and it affects different parts of the body at random. And there’s always the possibility that a major stroke will happen without warning.” Colette paused before adding, “If Emma has mixed dementia, as the doctors suspect, you’re going to see some repetitive cycles of behavior … she’ll forget things that happened recently, but she’ll retain memories from long ago. Those are located deeper in the brain—they’re more protected.”
“What does she need right now?” Zoë asked. “What is the best situation for her?”
“She’ll need a stable and healthy living environment. Good quality food, exercise, rest, a consistent schedule for her medication. Unfortunately she won’t be able to go back to her apartment—they can’t provide the level of care she needs now.”
Zoë’s mind was buzzing unpleasantly. “I’ll have to do something with her furniture … all her things …”
Emma was a pack rat. A lifetime of memories would have to be put in boxes and stored somewhere. Antiques, dishes, a mountain of books, clothes from every decade since Truman had been in office.
“I can suggest a good moving company,” Colette said, “and a local storage facility.”
“Thank you.” Zoë reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears. Her mouth had gone dry, and she took a sip of water from a plastic cup. Too many decisions that had to be made too fast. Her life was about to change as drastically as Emma’s had. “How long do we have?” she asked. “Before my grandmother has to leave the hospital clinic.”
“I can make a guess … probably three weeks, maybe four. Her supplemental insurance will pay for a week in acute rehab, then she’ll be admitted to a skilled nursing facility. Usually Medicare covers that for only a brief time. If you want her to stay longer, you’ll have to assume the cost of custodial care—having someone help to bathe and dress and feed her—on your own. That’s when it starts to get expensive.”
“If my grandmother comes to live with me,” Zoë asked, “would the insurance cover having someone come to the house every day to help me take care of her?”
“If it’s only for custodial care, you’ll have to pay for it. Sooner or later”—Colette handed her yet another brochure—“your grandmother will need to be checked into a lockdown facility where they have constant supervision, and assistance with daily living needs. I can definitely recommend this one. It’s a very nice place, with a common room, piano music, even afternoon teas.”
“Lockdown,” Zoë repeated faintly, staring at the brochure, the photographs all tinted with warm amber and rose hues. “I don’t think I could put Emma there. I’m sure she would want me close by, and since I live in Friday Harbor, I’d only be able to visit every—”
“Zoë …” Colette interrupted, her dark, tip-tilted eyes soft with sympathy. “By then she probably won’t remember you.”
Six
Zoë returned to the island after three days of feverish activity. She had sorted through Emma’s clothes and personal items, and had hired a professional packing company to help wrap breakable items and put everything into boxes. Stacks of old photographs and memory books had been placed in specially marked containers—Zoë wasn’t certain whether her grandmother would want to look through them or not.
As soon as she reached the inn, Justine gave her an assessing glance and said, “Go take a nap. You look totally beat.”
“I am.” Gratefully Zoë had gone to the cottage and slept for most of the afternoon. She awoke as low-slanting sunlight pierced the cream-painted plantation shutters of her bedroom and crossed her pink-flowered bedspread in brilliant stripes. A dressmaker’s cloth mannequin stood in the corner, glittering with Zoë’s collection of antique brooches.
Byron lay nearby, watching her with golden-green eyes. As Zoë smiled and reached out to pet him, he began to purr loudly.
“Justine did comb you,” Zoë murmured, running her fingers through his silky white fur. “I bet she gave you a cat massage, too, didn’t she?”
Footsteps approached the doorway. “Only to shut him up,” came Justine’s voice. “He kept yowling for you.” She ducked her head inside the doorway. “How are you doing? Can I come in?”
“Yes, I feel much better.”
“You still have raccoon eyes.” Justine sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her with patent concern.
“Even with the professional packers helping,” Zoë said, “it took two full days just to go through Emma’s apartment. Closets full of stuff. I lost count of how many sets of dishes she has. And so much old junk—a turntable record player, a leather-case radio, a porcelain toaster from the thirties—I felt like I was in an episode of Hoarders.”
“I sense an eBay seller’s account in your future.”
Zoë groaned and sat up, scrubbing her fingers through her wild blond curls. “I have a lot to talk to you about,” she said.
“Want to walk over to the big kitchen and make a decent pot of coffee?”
“Could we have wine instead?”
“Now you’re talking.”
As they ambled to the main house, with Byron following closely, Zoë told her cousin everything she had discussed with the elder-care consultant. They entered the kitchen, large and cheerful, the walls covered in retro wallpaper adorned with clusters of cherries. While Justine opened a bottle of wine, Zoë glanced at a glass-domed cake plate filled with pastries. In her absence, Justine had relied on a local bakery to provide breakfast for the guests.
“They were okay,” Justine said in answer to Zoë’s unspoken question, “but nothing close to your stuff. The first-time guests didn’t know any better, so they were happy, but you should’ve heard the regulars bitching. ‘Where’s Zoë?’ and ‘I was looking forward to this breakfast so much and this is what we get?’ I’m not kidding, Zo: this place isn’t the same without you.”
Zoë smiled. “Oh, stop.”
“It’s true.” Justine handed her a glass of wine, and they sat at the kitchen table. Byron leaped into Zoë’s lap and settled in a purring heap of white fur.
“What happens next?” Justine asked quietly. “Although I think I already know.”
“Emma needs me,” Zoë said simply. “She’s going to come live with me.”
Justine frowned in concern. “You can’t take care of her all by yourself.”
“No, I’ll find a home-care aide who’ll help with the basics and watch over Emma while I go to work.”
“How long will that last? I mean, before Emma …” Justine paused uncomfortably.
“Before she becomes too impaired to live with me anymore?” Zoë finished for her. “I don’t know. It could be fast or slow. But when it happens, I’ll take her to a place in Everett—it’s called a memory-care community. I went there yesterday and talked to the head gerontologist, who was incredibly nice. And I felt a little less guilty afterward, because I realized that when my grandmother can’t walk or wash herself anymore, they’ll be able to keep her more comfortable, and way more safe, than I could.”
“Do you want to move her into the cottage out back? The two of you can stay there, and I’ll take one of the rooms in the main house.”
Zoë was touched by her generosity. “That’s so sweet of you. But that place is too small for what we’ll need. Emma has a lake cottage on the island. It’s about twelve hundred square feet, and it’s got two bedrooms and a kitchen. I think we’re going to try living there.”
“Emma has a lake cottage? How come I didn’t know about it?”
“Well, it came from her side of the family—the Stewarts—and I think she used to spend a lot of time there when she was still pretty young. But she hasn’t gone there in thirty years, and it’s been closed up. Every now and then a property management company checks on it and does some maintenance.” Zoë hesitated. “I think the cottage holds a lot of memories for Emma. I asked why she hadn’t sold it by now, but she didn’t want to explain. Or maybe she was just tired.”
“You think she really wants to stay there now?”
“Yes, she was the one who suggested it.”
“Where exactly is this place?”
“Dream Lake Road.”
“I’ll bet it’s pretty rustic.”
“Yes,” Zoë said ruefully. “I’ve driven by it a time or two, but I haven’t been inside yet. I’m sure I’ll have to put money into it. Handrails in the bathroom, a handheld showerhead, and a ramp at the front steps in case Emma needs a wheelchair. Things like that. I’ve got a list of home improvement suggestions from the elder-care consultant.”