Page 15 of Dream Lake

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 the 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.”

***

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