The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (42 page)

Isabel sees Ava and Max, and smiles when Max waves to her. She finds Yvonne by the canapés. She’ll explain about Buddy and Eula later, but now she just wants to get it over with. Isabel’s never been one for mingling or drawn-out introductions, so she walks to the front of the room and tries to get everyone’s attention.

“Excuse me,” she says loudly, but nobody hears her. Yvonne tries to whistle but it gets drowned out in the cacophony. There are so many people in the tea salon, laughing and having their own conversations, that Isabel finally picks up the decorated wooden mallet and bangs it on the wood block. The room is instantly silenced as all heads turn to her.

“Um, hear hear, the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society is now in session.” Isabel clears her throat, nervous. “As you can see, I’m not Bettie.”

There’s a small round of laughter and Isabel sees Yvonne and Ava smile at her. “As you know, Bettie’s house burned down last week. This afternoon she was taken to the hospital after she had a fall. She broke her wrist and won’t be able to join us tonight.”

There’s a collective gasp and murmuring, heads looking around the room as if Bettie might suddenly appear.

Isabel continues. “I know there’s been a lot of talk about the fire, and the real reason it started. We’ll never know for sure, because Bettie doesn’t remember.

“She has vascular dementia. It’s the second most common form of dementia after Alzheimer’s. It’s caused by small strokes in the brain, sometimes called ‘silent strokes’ because patients don’t always realize they’ve had them. But over time the symptoms reveal themselves—changes
in memory recollection, or memory loss, confusion, a loss of cognitive functioning.

“What this means is that she’ll have moments where she may be confused or won’t recognize you or where she is. She may forget what day it is or suddenly get tired or frustrated in the middle of a conversation.

“Vascular dementia is different from Alzheimer’s because there’s no clear progression. Because of that, many of us were aware that something was going on with her, we just didn’t know what. Bettie is so good at helping us with our problems—whether we want it or not—that I think we missed an opportunity to help her with hers.”

Isabel looks around the room and takes a deep breath. A few women are dabbing their eyes and sniffing. Isabel feels like she might need a tissue herself. “Bettie lost everything in the fire, but I think the bigger loss she’s experiencing is her sense of self. Anything that could help trigger a memory or ground her in the moment, is gone.

“I recently went through some old photo albums in my house. Even though I would have never considered Bettie a close friend, I found her in more than one photograph—she was a part of my life even when I didn’t realize it. I’m sure many of you can say the same. So on the drive over I was thinking that we could all go through our own albums and see if there are any pictures of Bettie, and we can make a new album for her. If everyone can find one or two, we’ll have over a hundred pictures. It’ll be a good start. Thank you.” Isabel sits down and then, after a second, stands back up and awkwardly bangs the gavel, signaling the official end of the meeting.

There’s a long, pregnant pause. And then, a hand goes up in the air and Patsy Jones stands up.

“I know I have pictures from the year we had a quilting bee for the church,” she says, her voice nervous and wobbly. “I would be happy to put some of those pictures together and write something about it. I could take pictures of the finished quilts hanging in people’s homes, too.” Her friend pats her on the arm, encouraging her, and Patsy smiles before sitting down.

Floyd O’Neill, a volunteer fireman and father of three, stands up
next. “Hi, I’m Floyd. I’m not a lady or a scrapbooker, but I’m here because I helped put the fire out.” There’s a small chuckle but the mood is still somber at the mention of the fire. “I have some pictures from last Fourth of July in Avalon Park and she’s in them. Every time I look at them I remember how she kept telling me how to tend to the barbecue. It was driving me nuts, but now I can laugh about it. Maybe Bettie will, too.” He sits back down.

There’s head nodding and one lady calls out, “The Society is open to men, too!” Floyd gives a thumbs-up and there’s a small wave of laughter.

Cassandra Simon stands up. “Hermina and I have pictures of the Society for every year since its inception,” she says loudly. She calls to a woman sitting across the room. “Isn’t that right, Hermina?”

Hermina Hooper nods. “Bettie was
very
strict about documenting all of our activities. We could fill two scrapbooks easily!”

“Three,” Cassandra amends confidently. “At least.” There are murmurs of support from several longtime Society members.

Isabel sees Madeline pass Ava a notebook and pen.

Brett Hull raises his hand. “Bettie has always been helpful to our local Boy Scout Troop. She comes every year to help with scrapbooking our annual camping trip. I’m sure I could check with past troop leaders to see what pictures they have, too.”

Hope Weaver stands up. “I can try to put together some of the Society’s favorite recipes,” she says. “I mean, I’m not a good cook but I know there are some dishes Bettie really liked.”

“My tomato salad,” Sue Pendergast says proudly. “She could never figure out how to make it. That’s because I have a couple of secret ingredients, you see, equal parts red wine vinegar and also a half teaspoon of dry mustard …”

Madeline raises her hand. “I can help. We can make the recipes and take pictures, too.”

“Bettie and I both started in the handbell choir when we were in our twenties,” Louella Jones chimes in. “I don’t know if I still have those pictures, but I can look.”

“I remember that!” someone else exclaims. It’s Percy Rush, an
elderly gentleman shaking his cane in the air. “It sounded like angels dancing on a xylophone! You played during the Christmas parades, I remember!”

“There might be pictures in the
Avalon Gazette
,” says Edie Gallagher Johnson, Dr. Richard’s wife and a reporter for the
Avalon Gazette
. She’s nursing her daughter, Miranda, and some of the older Avalonians are embarrassed, making a point of looking anywhere but at Edie. “I can do a search through the archives for any pictures of Bettie. I’ll look for articles, too, and make copies.”

Ava is writing furiously and Yvonne is helping her get names and contact information for each promise of help.

A man stands up. His face is wrinkled from the sun, and he’s wearing a vest over a long-sleeved plaid shirt. He holds a felt hat in his hands. “Excuse me. I’m Henry Tinklenberg and I want to say that I’m awfully sorry to hear about Miss Shelton,” he says. “She was one of the first people my wife and I met when we moved to Avalon. And then when Abigail passed, Bettie was the first person to show up on my doorstep. Abigail had been working on a scrapbook, you see, for my grandchildren, but it wasn’t finished. I didn’t know the first thing about any of that. Bettie came and sat with me, helped me finish it. It took us almost a year—I wasn’t as fast as you ladies with all this. But she kept coming over and helping me until we were done. I’m very grateful for her friendship, and I’m available to help in any way I can. Thank you.” He sits back down.

“Me too.” Ella Kline stands up. “My mother died from Alzheimer’s. She loved to scrapbook, though, and Bettie would help her with small projects. It was funny, but when Mom was scrapbooking, she seemed almost like her regular self. Even toward the end, when she didn’t recognize me, she still liked looking at the pictures in her scrapbook. I’m happy to help with anything, too.” Ella sits down and wipes her eyes.

Madeline’s Tea Salon is now thick with memories and emotions, everyone reminiscing about how Bettie has made a difference in their lives. Boxes of tissues have to be passed around, but there’s laughter, too. More hands go up, and the stories start to come.

Chapter Nineteen
 

Connie slows the car to a stop and cuts the engine. There’s a large sign over the entryway.

There’s a large red barn set on the back of the property, surrounded by fields of corn. Connie can see a white farmhouse, too, another large building, and a grain bin. A couple of wind turbines are spinning behind the farmhouse. There are a few cars parked in the dirt lot, but otherwise it seems pretty empty.

Connie unscrews the cap to her bottle of orange juice and takes a sip. She’s hungry, but she all she has is a granola bar. Rayna’s farm is south of Avalon, and if Connie keeps driving she’ll head straight into the open prairies of Illinois. She should have packed more food
before leaving Avalon, but she didn’t know where she was going, and she certainly didn’t expect to end up here.

It’s a big place, probably sixty acres, maybe more. Connie knows she won’t be able to drive in without being seen, and she’s too far away to see any of the animals, much less Serena.

She closes her eyes. Connie’s not foolhardy, but this is perhaps the most foolish thing she’s ever done in her life. And yet she can’t bring herself to drive away.

There’s a rap on her window. Connie opens her eyes and sees an elderly man beaming at her, his skin tanned and wrinkled from the sun, a worn baseball hat in hand. She sees a tractor parked across the road. “You lost?” he asks.

Connie rolls down her window and tries to smooth her hair—she knows she must look like a mess. “I’m taking a break,” she says. “Just passing through.”

“We still got lots of pumpkins,” he tells her. “You can pick your own. And we had a bumper crop of beets and parsnips so those are on special today.”

Connie tries to smile. “That sounds great,” she says politely.

“Terrific!” the man says. “Follow me in!”

“What? Oh no, I mean it’s great that you—” but the man is already heading back across the street to his tractor. He gives Connie a wave with his hat before fitting it back on his head and climbing into the seat. “This way!” he hollers. The tractor kicks on with a rumble.

Connie doesn’t know what to do. The sensible thing would be to start the car and drive away. But as she sees the man give her another friendly wave she thinks,
What have I got to lose?
She would do anything to see Serena again, if only for a moment. This might be her only chance.

The man on the tractor pulls into the parking lot, then cuts the engine and jumps down. He’s a spry guy who has to be in his seventies at least, and Connie can’t help but think of Madeline. She’s glad that Hannah is with her and helping out at the tea salon, because the thought of Madeline alone is more than Connie can bear. She feels better knowing that Hannah and Madeline will have each other, but
she hadn’t counted on missing Madeline so much. She even misses Hannah, who’s shown her more kindness than Connie’s ever offered in return.

She looks toward the barn where there’s a hand-painted sign,
VISIT OUR BARNYARD!
Serena must be in there.

“We sell some nice jams, too,” the man is saying. “Want me to walk you in?” He nods to the large building adjacent to the barn.

“Um, I was thinking about visiting the barnyard first,” Connie says. A family with small children emerges and Connie knows it must seem like a strange request. “Your sign says you have goats?”

“Sure do,” the man says. “I’m headed that way myself. So where are you from?”

Connie feels a seize of panic. “Oh, all over,” she says. “Like I said, I’m just passing through.”

The man nods. “Here we are.” They step inside the barn.

Connie blinks. There’s the strong musty smell of animals and hay, of the wooden barn itself. Pens are lined up against the wall and in the center of the barn, where a handful of children are playing with rabbits or holding baby chicks. There’s a horse and cow, three sheep, and a couple of goats, neither of which are Serena. Something about this feels familiar, as if she’s walked into this barn before.

Connie feels faint, and for a second she wonders if maybe she did steal Serena, and didn’t even know it. Could it be? It’s a wild, errant thought but how else would Connie know this place?

She looks around. There’s a wooden ladder leading up to a loft, a rope dangling from the ceiling. Straight ahead is the exit to the barn, a large window above the door with a stained-glass image that’s casting refracted color light onto the hay.

“Is that an eight-point star?” she asks, her voice hollow in disbelief.

“How did you know?” The man is delighted. “Yep, that’s our family crest. We have several quilts in our family with that same star. And flanking the star on both sides are …”

“Violets,” she finishes for him weakly. Illinois’ state flower. How she knows this, she has no idea.

“Most people think they’re mini purple stars,” he says, surprised.
“And I can see that—they don’t look like violets to me, either.” He looks at Connie. “Have you been here before?”

“Yes, I mean no, I mean, I don’t know.” Connie feels herself beginning to sweat. “Are there more goats, sir?”