Page 16 of Dream Lake

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 ofHoarders.”

“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 andthisis what we get?’ I’m not kidding, Zo: this place isn’t the same without you.”

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