Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(15)

None of that mattered, however. Emma had taken in Zoë when no one else, including her own father, had wanted her. There was no question in Zoë’s mind that she would take care of Emma now.

The clinic room was quiet except for the muted beeps of the heart monitor and the occasional distant murmur of a nurse’s voice farther along the corridor. Cautiously Zoë went to the window and opened the louvered blinds a fraction, letting in a spill of soft gray light.

Standing at the bedside, Zoë looked down at Emma’s waxen complexion, the petal-like fragility of her closed eyelids, the silvery-gold tangle of her hair. Zoë wanted to brush and pin it back for her.

Emma’s eyes flickered open. Her dry lips twitched with a smile as she focused on Zoë.

Zoë’s throat went tight as she leaned over to kiss her grandmother. “Hi, Upsie.” Emma usually smelled like L’Heure Bleue, the powdery, flowery perfume she had worn for decades. Now her scent was jarringly medicinal, antiseptic.

Sitting at the bedside, Zoë reached through the metal rails to hold Emma’s hand, the fingers a cool, loose bundle in hers. At the sight of her grandmother’s grimace, Zoë let go instantly, remembering too late that her left arm had been affected by the stroke. “I’m sorry. Your arm hurts?”

“Yes.” Emma crossed her right arm over her midriff, and Zoë reached to hold that hand instead, careful not to dislodge the IV needle. Emma’s blue eyes were weary but warm as she stared at Zoë. “Have you talked to te doctors?”

Zoë nodded.

Never one to shirk an issue, Emma informed her flatly, “They said I’m losing my marbles.”

Zoë gave her a skeptical glance. “I’m sure that’s not how they put it.”

“It’s what they meant.” Their hands tightened. “I’ve had a long life,” she said after a moment. “I don’t mind going. But this isn’t how I wanted it to happen.”

“How, then?”

Her grandmother pondered the question. “I would like to slip away in my sleep. In the middle of a dream.”

Zoë pressed her palm over the cool back of her grandmother’s hand, covering the pattern of veins that crisscrossed like delicate lace. “What kind of dream?”

“I suppose … I’d be dancing in the arms of a handsome man … and my favorite song would be playing.”

“Who is the man?” Zoë asked. “Grandpa Gus?” He’d been Emma’s first and only husband, who had died from lung cancer years before Zoë had been born.

A glimmer of Emma’s familiar humor appeared. “The man, and the song, are none of your business.”

After Zoë left the clinic, she went to the office of Colette Lin, Emma’s elder-care consultant. Colette was kind but matter-of-fact as she gave Zoë a pile of pamphlets, forms, and books to help her understand the scope of the situation Emma was facing.

“Vascular dementia isn’t nearly as predictable as Alzheimer’s,” Colette said. “It can come on suddenly or gradually, and it affects different parts of the body at random. And there’s always the possibility that a major stroke will happen without warning.” Colette paused before adding, “If Emma has mixed dementia, as the doctors suspect, you’re going to see some repetitive cycles of behavior … she’ll forget things that happened recently, but she’ll retain memories from long ago. Those are located deeper in the brain—they’re more protected.”

“What does she need right now?” Zoë asked. “What is the best situation for her?”

“She’ll need a stable and healthy living environment. Good quality food, exercise, rest, a consistent schedule for her medication. Unfortunately she won’t be able to go back to her apartment—they can’t provide the level of care she needs now.”

Zoë’s mind was buzzing unpleasantly. “I’ll have to do something with her furniture … all her things …”

Emma was a pack rat. A lifetime of memories would have to be put in boxes and stored somewhere. Antiques, dishes, a mountain of books, clothes from every decade since Truman had been in office.

“I can suggest a good moving company,” Colette said, “and a local storage facility.”

“Thank you.” Zoë reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears. Her mouth had gone dry, and she took a sip of water from a plastic cup. Too many decisions that had to be made too fast. Her life was about to change as drastically as Emma’s had. “How long do we have?” she asked. “Before my grandmother has to leave the hospital clinic.”

“I can make a guess … probably three weeks, maybe four. Her supplemental insurance will pay for a week in acute rehab, then she’ll be admitted to a skilled nursing facility. Usually Medicare covers that for only a brief time. If you want her to stay longer, you’ll have to assume the cost of custodial care—having someone help to bathe and dress and feed her—on your own. That’s when it starts to get expensive.”

“If my grandmother comes to live with me,” Zoë asked, “would the insurance cover having someone come to the house every day to help me take care of her?”

“If it’s only for custodial care, you’ll have to pay for it. Sooner or later”—Colette handed her yet another brochure—“your grandmother will need to be checked into a lockdown facility where they have constant supervision, and assistance with daily living needs. I can definitely recommend this one. It’s a very nice place, with a common room, piano music, even afternoon teas.”