Life and Other Inconveniences(20)

If I could remember those details, certainly my confusion at the bar meant nothing. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

But then in March, I was coming home from visiting Hope and stopped at Franklin’s General Store—Donelle, who went to Stop & Shop, had failed to pick up any decent cheese. While I was choosing a creamy brie, the owner greeted me by name, and a few minutes later, a sweet young girl with a Franklin’s name badge came up and asked, “Excuse me, but are you really Genevieve London?”

“I am indeed,” I said.

“I just love your bags!” she said. “My parents gave me a wallet for my sixteenth birthday, and I’m going to ask for a purse for graduation.”

“You have wonderful taste,” I said.

“Would it be too much to ask for a picture?” she said, already fumbling in her pocket.

“Of course not, dear,” I said, knowing she’d Snapchat and Instagram the photo immediately. The younger demographic was quite taken with me these days. The girl clicked, thanked me again and scurried off to text her friends, no doubt.

I bought Donelle the insipid Lady Grey tea she loved, added some Carr’s whole wheat crackers and blackberry chutney to go with the brie, and paid. I asked the owner, sotto voce, to send me the name of his enthusiastic employee so I could send her a purse from the new spring line. She’d be thrilled with the bag, and it would create a wave of consumer envy among her peers.

Then the fog descended, just like that. Suddenly, I didn’t know why I was holding a piece of paper with a stranger’s name on it. If I had paid for my items. Apparently I had, because no one stopped me as I left the store. I recognized my car, because the license plate said LONDON. Starting it was no problem; it was where to go that remained a mystery.

Where had I been earlier today? To New York? No, that wasn’t right. Or was it? What did I usually do on weekdays? What time of year was it? Was it fall? No, but it was raw and the trees were bare. I’d been visiting someone, but I couldn’t remember who. My mother? It couldn’t have been!

When I saw someone looking at me, I smiled, waved and backed out carefully. Took a left and hoped it was the right way home.

It wasn’t. It took me ages to find my way back to Stoningham, and by then it was dark and I was nearly weeping with relief and terror. I didn’t tell Donelle. I simply made a quick martini (with absolutely no problem) and downed it, and after that, I felt much improved.

A few weeks later, I lost my balance as I walked down the upstairs hall from my bedroom to the front staircase, so much so that my shoulder hit the wall, and the Felrath Hines sketch nearly crashed to the floor, but I grabbed it instinctively and held it hard. My vision blurred, and dizziness washed over me. For a moment, I couldn’t push off the wall and stand up straight.

Not uncommon for an eighty-five-year-old woman, but uncommon for this one. After all, I had a yoga teacher come to Sheerwater four times a week, long before yoga had become so common. I could stand in tree pose for five minutes and not so much as waver. My posture was perfection. Mother had insisted on ballet for just that reason. “You can always tell breeding by a lady’s posture,” she’d said, and it was true.

Still rattled, I went to my office, which was in the turreted section of Sheerwater, and had absolutely no difficulty on the stairs. As ever, my office made me feel safe, with its deep blue walls, walnut bookshelves and custom-made desk, and the oil painting of the storm-tossed sea Garrison had given to me as a wedding gift. The cream-colored couch was modern and rounded to suit the turret’s shape, with throw pillows of my own design in shades and patterns of blue. The bright blue and red Persian Heriz rug was an antique, and quite valuable.

The office reminded me of who I was . . . or who I had been, at any rate.

Without further ado, I sat at my desk and went to the Mayo Clinic website. I typed in some symptoms—dizziness, blurred vision, weakness. After a pause, I added forgetfulness and a sense of being lost. I would erase my browser history later, in case Donelle was feeling nosy.

I waited, then perused the list of suggested diseases. Concussive syndrome fit, but I hadn’t had a concussion. Ménière’s disease, which sounded attractive because of the French name, but didn’t quite match. Meningitis . . . surely I’d be feeling worse.

Brain tumor.

I pondered that a moment, then clicked on it. In addition to loss of balance, dizziness and forgetfulness, there were a few more symptoms listed.

Unexplained nausea and vomiting. No, thank goodness.

Change in the pattern of headaches. I had that, didn’t I? I’d had a ferocious headache last week, rather worse than most. Then again, I’d had to have Charles drive me into New York for a meeting that day . . . such nonsense, more of a photo op at the company headquarters than anything else. Also, Beverly, my successor as CEO, had been terribly busy and let me know it, which I resented. I didn’t like feeling insignificant. I’d thought that was the cause of the headache, but perhaps it was a brain tumor.

Personality or behavioral changes. That one gave me pause. Lately, I had been feeling rather . . . strange. More nostalgic, not just for my lost boy and husband, but for other people, too. Pondering chances I may have . . . sidestepped.

I clicked back and referred again to the list of possible ailments. Dementia. Please. I did not have dementia. Parkinson’s . . . no.

Brain tumor it was, then.