Life and Other Inconveniences(110)

“I’m sorry if you have cancer,” she said to me.

“She doesn’t,” Riley said. “Remember, Gigi? She just got her hair cut really short. Tess put the beaters in her hair and turned on the mixer.”

Genevieve nodded, but it was clear she wasn’t following.

Donelle gestured for me to come closer. “You need to call her doctor, Emma,” she said. “I got his personal cell number. Here.” She thrust her phone in my hand. “I’m not allowed to talk to you about it. Sworn to silence and all that.”

Dr. Pinco’s line was already ringing. “Hello?” he said.

I walked into the breakfast room so Genevieve wouldn’t overhear me. “Hi, Dr. Pinco. It’s Emma London, Genevieve’s granddaughter. I’m so sorry to call this late.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I gave her this number for a reason. How is she?”

“Well,” I said, “she’s confused. We found her out on the lawn just now, and she didn’t know where she was. She was really scared. I don’t think she remembered how to get in the house.”

He made a sympathetic hum. “That’s par for the course, I’m afraid.”

“She doesn’t know who my daughter is, even though we’ve been here all summer.”

“That’s pretty normal for patients with vascular dementia.”

“She—what? Vascular dementia? What are you talking about? I thought she had cancer. A brain tumor.”

Dr. Pinco was quiet for a moment. “Do you have medical power of attorney?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t discuss this with you. She hasn’t given me permission.”

“That’s not very helpful,” I said. “I don’t think she knows who I am right now.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was kind. “It’s my best guess that Genevieve will be more lucid in a little while. I suggest you talk to her then, and see if you can get her permission to talk to me about her situation. You’re next of kin, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Well . . . my father is, technically, but he’s not around.”

“Call me tomorrow,” he said.

I hung up.

Genevieve didn’t have cancer. Or a brain tumor.

She had been lying since she first called me.



* * *




*

In the morning, I got up early, went down to the kitchen and told Helga to take the day off.

“You’re not my boss,” she said.

“Get out of this house, Helga, or I will throw away everything in this kitchen past its expiration date, and you’ll have nothing to cook with.”

“Expiration dates are for the weak.”

“Have a lovely day. Don’t come back before six.”

When she was gone, I made oatmeal, added some blueberries and cream, made a cappuccino and put it all on a tray, then carried it upstairs to Gigi’s room. Riley was still asleep.

My grandmother had calmed down after her tea last night, but I don’t think she’d been altogether clear even when she went to bed. When I’d tucked her in, I called Calista, who gave me the rundown on vascular dementia. Based on what I told her, Calista guessed that Genevieve had had a series of small strokes—TIAs, she called them, which stood for transient ischemic attacks. The TIAs cleared up on their own, but they were often linked with dementia.

“Will it kill her?” I asked.

“It’s hard to say. It could lead to a bigger event—a real stroke, so she needs to be getting treatment. But we don’t have a grip on dementia yet. There are drugs that will slow it down, but it’s a tough one. It depends on what kind of dementia—Alzheimer’s, Lewy body, frontotemporal—but in a nutshell, dementia means brain function is deteriorating. It can be slow, or it can be really drastic.”

“She’s sharp as a tack most of the time.”

Calista sighed. “Yeah. But almost without fail, we see a decline in cognitive function. And once it digs in, it tends to pick up speed.”

It explained quite a few moments this summer, when I’d thought Genevieve was just lost in her thoughts. Donelle covered for her, but looking back, yep.

Always too proud for her own good.

I knocked on her door and pushed it open. I hadn’t been in her room all summer—I’d had no reason to come in here—but, as ever, I was struck by the elegance of Genevieve. The walls were pale gray, the comforter pure white, and over the bed hung a gorgeous modern painting—splashes of riotous color. Maybe a Jackson Pollock.

Genevieve was sitting on her couch, looking out at the Sound, a book opened on her lap. A regular Katharine Hepburn she was, the blue of her couch, the smoky gray of her silk robe. Minuet sat snuggled next to her, bright eyes shining.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hello, Emma. Here to gloat?” So she was back. Minuet wagged in greeting, at least.

“I brought you breakfast.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, I wanted to.” I sat down in the easy chair across from her. “And I want to talk about last night.”

“Yes, I’m very sorry. I must’ve had a nightmare. Please don’t make that face. I know how you love to exaggerate, but I simply had a very vivid dream.”