Dream Lake (6 page)

“I did, once. But I can’t remember it.”

“What’s with the flight jacket?”

“I don’t know,” the ghost said. “Are there squadron patches on it? A name tag?”

Alex shook his head. “Looks like an old A-2 with cargo pockets. You can’t see it?”

“I’m visible only to you.”

“Lucky me.” Alex viewed him dourly. “Listen … I can’t function with you following me everywhere. So you need to get invisible again.”

“I don’t want to be invisible. I want to be free.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Maybe if you help me figure out who I am … who I
was
… it might show me a way out. I might be able to break away from you then.”

“ ‘Maybe’ and ‘might’ aren’t good enough.”

“It’s all I’ve got.” The ghost began to pace in abbreviated strides. “Sometimes I remember things. Bits and pieces of my life.” He stopped at the kitchen window to stare out at the beckoning blue flat of Roche Harbor. “When I first … had awareness, I guess you’d say … I was in the house at Rain-shadow. I think in my former life I had a connection to that place. There’s still a lot of old junk there, especially in the attic. It may be worth poking around for clues.”

“Why haven’t you done it?”

“Because I’d need a physical form to do that,” the ghost said, every word drenched in sarcasm. “I can’t open a door or move a piece of furniture. I don’t have ‘powers.’ “ He accompanied the word with a mystical waggling of all his fingers. “All I can do is watch while other people screw up their lives.” He paused. “You’re going to have to clear all that crap out of the attic eventually, anyway.”

“Sam will. It’s his house.”

“I can’t talk to Sam. And he might miss something important. I need you to do it.”

“I’m not your cleaning lady.” Alex left the kitchen, and the ghost followed. “There’s enough stuff in that attic to fill a ten-yard Dumpster,” Alex continued. “It would take me days to go through it alone. Maybe weeks.”

“But you will?” the ghost asked eagerly.

“I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’m going to take a shower.” Alex stopped and shot him a glare. “And while I’m in there, stay the hell away from me.”

“Relax,” the ghost said acidly. “Not interested.”

By the beginning of third grade, Zoë’s father had told her that he was getting a new job in Arizona, and she would have to live with her grandmother until he sent for her. “I just have to get the house ready for you,” he had said. “What color do you want me to paint your room?”

“Blue,” Zoë had said eagerly. “Like a robin’s egg. Oh, and Daddy, can I get a kitten when I move to our new house?”

“Sure you can. As long as you take care of it.”

“Oh, I will! Thank you, Daddy.” For months Zoë had painted pictures of what her new room and her new kitten would look like, and had told all her friends she was going to live in Arizona.

Her father had never sent for her. He had come to visit a few times, and he had answered the phone when Zoë had called, but whenever she had dared to ask if the house was ready for her, if he had made a space in his life for her, he was evasive and irritable. She would have to be patient. There were things he had to take care of first.

At the beginning of her freshman year at high school, Zoë had called to tell her father about her classes and her new teachers. An unfamiliar voice had answered her father’s phone—a woman—who had sounded very kind and said that she would love to meet Zoë someday. They had talked for a few minutes. And that was how Zoë had learned that her father had asked a woman with a twelve year-old daughter to live with him. They were his new family. Zoë was nothing but an unwanted reminder of a failed marriage and a woman who had left him.

She had gone to her grandmother, of course, and had cried bitter tears while laying her head on Emma’s lap. “Why doesn’t he want me?” she had sobbed. “Am I too much trouble?”

“It has nothing to do with you. “Emma’s voice had been quiet and kind, her face drawn with regret as she bent over Zoë’s tousled blond head. “You are the best, smartest, most wonderful girl in the world. Any man would be proud to have you as his daughter.”

“Then wh-why isn’t he?”

“He’s broken, sweetheart, in a way that I’m afraid no one can fix. Your mother … well, the way she left him … it did something to him. He’s been different ever since. If you’d known him before then, you would hardly recognize him. He was always in good spirits. Everything went his way. But he fell in love with your mother so deeply … it was like falling down a well with no way to climb back up. And every time he looks at you, he can’t help thinking about her.”

Zoë had listened carefully, trying to understand the secrets tucked between the spare revelations. She needed to know why she had been abandoned, in turn, by both of her parents. There had been only one answer: the fault lay somewhere in herself.

Her grandmother’s gentle hand had smoothed her hair as she continued. “No one would blame you, Zoë, for being angry and bitter. But you need to focus on what’s good in your life, and think about all the people who love you. Don’t let this turn you all sour inside.”

“I won’t, Upsie,” Zoë whispered. It was the name she’d called her grandmother ever since she could remember. “But I feel … I feel as if I don’t belong anywhere.”

“You belong with me.”

Looking up into Emma’s face, softly etched with lines carved by all the humor, sadness, and reflection of seven well-lived decades, Zoë had reflected that her grandmother had always been the one constant in her life.

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.