Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(85)

At least the situation with Casey had improved in the past week. The real change had come after the day she’d sought out Alix. Despite my tentative inquiries, neither one of them had divulged the topic of their conversation.

Whatever Alix said had helped Casey. I just wish she’d told me where she was going. I’ve hardly ever seen Brad so worried, fearful that she’d decided to run away again. My husband had come to care as deeply about Casey as I did.

“What are you doing today?” Casey asked as I f inished packing lunches for her and Cody. She attended day camp with him unless she came to the shop with me.

“I’m getting groceries, and then I’m going to visit my mother,”

I said, adding a small bag of corn chips to Cody’s lunch. Those were his favorites, and he’d eat them every day if I let him.

“Can I come with you?” She’d dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, her usual attire, with f lip-f lops.

The request surprised me—and it pleased me, too. “I’d like that.”

“Cool.”

Casey tried to sneak a cookie and I slapped her hand. “Not before breakfast.”

She grabbed the cereal box instead. Before long Cody had joined her, and they sat side by side spooning up Rice Krispies and making exaggerated slurping sounds, which I chose to ignore.

I dropped Cody off, then Casey and I went to the grocery store.

She didn’t have a lot to say while I steered the cart through the aisles and carefully followed my list. I noticed, however, that several items showed up at the check-out stand that I didn’t remember putting in the cart. I allowed the cake mix and the cantaloupe to pass without comment, but removed the teen gossip magazine before it reached the cash register. Holding it up, I looked at Casey, who shrugged as if she had no idea how that could possibly have landed in the cart. I replaced it in the magazine slot, poking her in the ribs. She laughed and so did I.

We brought the groceries home and made short work of putting everything away. Then we drove to the assisted living complex. Casey had met my mother before but only brief ly and only with the whole family present. Because this was her f irst real visit, I felt I needed to prepare her.

“Mom’s mind is fading,” I explained. “She’s having some memory lapses.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked.

“She might forget your name.”

“That’s okay.”

“And she’s often confused.” I didn’t want to say too much—

didn’t want to frighten Casey or negatively inf luence her opinion.

“I get confused sometimes,” she said.

I grinned. “Me, too,” I admitted. It was probably best for Casey to form her own judgment.

I parked the car and exchanged hellos with the friendly staff as Casey and I passed through the wide foyer to the elevator, which would take us up to my mother’s small apartment. Tapping at her door, I let myself in. “Hi, Mom,” I said cheerfully. Margaret and I had positioned her sofa in the living room, with the afghan Margaret had crocheted in lovely fall colors spread over the back. Across from the sofa were her favorite chair and the coffee and end tables that had been in the family home. There was no room for anything else.

The kitchen had a miniature refrigerator and a microwave, a sink and a few dishes, but that was about all. I cleaned out her fridge every week, tossing the open cans of tuna f ish and the moldy cheese. Naturally I had to do that when Mom wasn’t looking. She hated to discard anything.

Her bedroom was compact, too. There was just enough room for her bed, a nightstand and her beloved sewing machine. Mom didn’t sew these days, but that machine had been a major part of her life for so many years, she’d never feel at home without it. Despite the restrictive quarters, Margaret and I had found a spot for it.

Mom glanced up from the television. When she saw it was me, she brightened. “Lydia. You brought Hailey with you.”

Hailey was my sister’s daughter. “No, Mom, this is Casey.” I slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “She’s spending the summer with Brad and me.” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Mom would remember Brad. Some weeks she did; other weeks she looked blankly at me when I mentioned his name. My mother tilted her head quizzically. “Have I met you before?” she asked Casey. “I’m so forgetful lately.”

Casey slid her f ingertips into the pockets of her jean shorts.

“Not really.”

I’d brought Mom to the house for dinner one Sunday afternoon shortly after Casey’s arrival. Casey had spent most of the day in her room as if she felt she was intruding on family time. I’d tried to coax her out to no avail. There’d been a couple of similar occasions, including one at Margaret’s, but as far as I knew, Casey hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with my mother.

“You do look familiar, though,” Mom said with a frown. Casey sat on the sofa next to her chair and studied the TV

screen. “What are you watching?”

I could’ve answered for her. My mother was enthralled by the cooking channel. Paula Deen was her favorite, and she watched her show faithfully, as well as four or f ive others. She used to write down the recipes, which she passed to Margaret and me, and she asked for cookbooks every Christmas. Mom didn’t cook anymore, but that didn’t alter her desire to create wonderful meals for her family. She’d given up writing out the recipes, and that concerned me. I was afraid she’d lost—what? Her sense of purpose? Her belief in a future? I suspected her ability to follow the instructions was already gone.