Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(14)

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.