Blossom Street Brides (Blossom Street #10)(69)

“I do?”

Lydia continued to carefully watch her mother. It worried her how quickly her mother’s mind drifted from the past to the present and to places unknown. At first it was a few noticeable slips, but in the last six months there’d been a dramatic turn. The doctors had taken her off the medication she’d been prescribed that was said to help with memory function. After a certain period of time the prescription lost its effectiveness. That had been a turning point, and the decline had been rapid ever since then.

“Your father used to recite poetry to me when we dated,” Mary Lou Hoffman said, looking at Casey.

“He did?”

Lydia noticed how willing Casey was to pretend nothing was amiss. Clearly her mother had Casey confused with her or Margaret.

A wistful look came over the older woman. “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of his favorites.”

“We read one of his poems in my English class,” Casey said. “It was all right, I guess, but I like Shel Silverstein better.”

Even more confused now, her mother looked to Lydia. “Who is that, dear? Should I know him?”

“Shel Silverstein is another poet,” Casey explained, without going into detail.

“His poetry has humor,” Lydia added. “He’s a favorite of Cody’s, too.” She hoped not to bewilder her mother any more than she already was.

“Your father is a romantic,” her mother continued. “He’d never admit to it, of course, but he enjoyed memorizing poetry. He recites it to me in bed. I always loved that. Why, just the other day he read me the most beautiful poem … He said it came out of the Bible. I didn’t know the Bible had poetry in it, did you?”

“The Psalms do,” Casey said softly. “I learned that in Sunday school class.”

Lydia’s mother looked down on the Scrabble board. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”

“You’re doing fine, Mom,” Lydia assured her. It was difficult to see her mother’s mind wander. Her father had been dead nearly ten years now, and for her mother to speak of him as if he were still alive forced Lydia to accept the fact that her mother was losing mental ground faster than she realized.

“Look, Grandma, you’re ahead,” Casey said, totaling the game points.

“I am?” The older woman smiled softly and then looked away. “I do miss your father so,” she whispered.

“But you talk to him all the time,” Casey reminded her.

“I do. He visits often these days. He told me not long ago that I’ll be joining him soon.”

“Where is Dad?” Lydia asked, forgetting the game and taking her mother’s hands in her own.

“I don’t know, dear, he won’t tell me. He was with me earlier before you arrived, and he said it wouldn’t be long now.”

Lydia bit into her lower lip and was afraid her mother might be right. It wasn’t only her mental capabilities that had fallen of late, but the older woman’s health seemed to be declining at an even faster pace.

“What are you talking about?” Casey demanded. “You can’t travel, Grandma.”

“Travel?” she repeated. “No, I don’t suppose I can. I don’t have any idea what’s happened to my suitcase.”

Casey laughed.

Someone knocked on the door, and Casey was on her feet and rushing toward the door before Lydia had a chance to scoot back her chair.

“Oh, hi,” Casey said, and stepped aside to let in one of the nurse’s aides.

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a pink sweater over her uniform of white shirt and pants came into the small apartment. Her name badge identified her as Sylvia. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting.”

“Of course not,” Lydia assured her.

“I heard you were visiting your mother,” she said, directing the comment to Lydia, “and I wondered if it would be all right to give you the scarves.”

“The scarves?”

“Yes. I ride the bus into work, and there was a yarn basket at the bus stop. I’ve been knitting on the scarf almost every afternoon. It’s finished now, and a second one as well. I don’t get over to Blossom Street that often, and seeing that you’re here, I thought I could give them to you now … if that’s all right?”

“No problem,” Lydia said. “I’d be happy to take them with me.”

“Great.” Sylvia thanked her with a quick smile. “I’ll put them down by the reception desk, and you can collect them on your way out.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” Lydia had lost count of the number of scarves she’d collected from knitters all over the downtown neighborhoods. Baskets had turned up in the most unusual places, and when the projects were finished they were delivered to A Good Yarn.

“We’re playing Scrabble,” Casey explained to Sylvia.

“I’m ahead,” her mother added.

“That’s good, Mrs. Hoffman.”

“She didn’t cheat, either.”

“Casey!” Lydia chastised.

Her mother’s eyes drifted closed before she caught herself and forced them back open. It was clear the visit and the Scrabble game had worn her out. Sylvia left, and Lydia turned and said to Casey, “I think it’s time we go.”