Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(86)

“Paula Deen’s baking cookies this morning,” Mom told Casey, who appeared interested in what was happening. That didn’t surprise me, considering the cookies and cakes she’d baked herself.

I headed into the bedroom to gather up Mom’s laundry, which I washed for her every week. The washer and dryer were down the hall and shared by the residents on the second f loor.

“Lydia was a terrible cook as a child,” I heard my mother say.

“I couldn’t trust her in the kitchen.”

“Really?” Casey met my gaze, giggling delightedly. I’d heard the story of how, at age eleven, I’d burned peanut butter cookies to a crisp countless times.

“I’ll get the clothes into the washer and be right back,” I said. Sometimes Mom had trouble remembering my name, but she recalled in vivid detail a long-ago incident from my youth. Maybe because it had been repeated so often over the years. Judging by Casey’s rapt attention, I doubted either of them heard me leave. After I’d loaded the washer I returned to f ind both Mom and Casey laughing, whether at something on the TV

or a shared joke I didn’t know.

Since Casey was keeping my mother entertained, I went back into the tiny bedroom to make her bed. Mom would be so embarrassed to realize she’d left it unmade. When I was a kid, my mother had been a real stickler about tucking in the sheets and smoothing out the blankets each and every morning. Having a properly made bed was right up there with brushing my teeth and saying my prayers, and it was a habit I’d never abandoned.

As I worked, I noticed that the laughter between Mom and Casey continued. It was so unusual to hear my mother laugh that I poked my head out the door to see what was so amusing. The TV was actually off, and Casey sat on the f loor at my mother’s feet, doubled over with glee. When she caught sight of me, she pointed in my direction. “You read Margaret’s diary?”

“Mom, are you telling tales on me?” I asked in mock outrage. Mom nodded. “Your sister was so upset, she marched into the backyard and burned her diary. Your father said we were fortunate no one called the f ire department.”

Casey found that equally hilarious and laughed even harder. Mom did, too. Happy tears rolled down her weathered cheeks until she reached for the handkerchief she kept inside her sweater pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

It was true. At seventeen, I’d snuck into my sister’s bedroom, searched for her diary and read page after page. As luck would have it, my sister had discovered me there, sitting on her bed, completely enthralled with what she’d written. To say she was furious would be an understatement. Margaret had ripped the book from my hands and stormed out of the house, demanding that my parents “do something.”

What Margaret didn’t understand—or for that matter, my parents, either—was that I was starved for a normal life. In my view Margaret was a normal teenager and I wasn’t because I had cancer. I craved my sister’s life and the only way I could get a glimpse of normal was by reading her journal.

“She’s forgiven me now,” I said, then added, “I think.”

Casey looked at me archly. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Thanks a lot, kid.”

“Do you keep a diary?” Mom asked Casey.

She shook her head.

“Good thing.” I said, hands on my hips. “I’d probably read yours, too.”

Casey grinned and turned back to my mother, wanting to hear more tales of my sinful past.

We stayed until it was time for Mom to go to the dining room for lunch. She sat at the same table every day with three other widows. They all seemed to get along well and I was grateful she had at least this social interaction, since she rarely participated in events or day trips planned by the staff.

Casey escorted her to the dining room while I f inished folding and putting away her clean laundry. Then I hurried downstairs, meeting the two of them as Casey helped Mom into her chair.

“Bring Hailey again,” Mom said, smiling up at me. Casey didn’t seem upset that my mother thought she was my niece. “I’ll do that.” I gently hugged her goodbye. This was probably the best visit I’d had with her since the move. She was almost her old self again, and I had Casey to thank for that. The girl had been enthralled with my mother, even when Mom repeated the same stories over and over.

“I’m so glad you came with me,” I said as we walked toward the visitor parking lot.

“Your mom’s funny.”

“I know.”

“I don’t have grandparents,” she said a little sadly. “I mean, I never had one I actually remember.”

I wasn’t sure how to comment.

We were driving back to the house when Casey suddenly turned to me. “What was it like to have cancer?” she asked. The question caught me unawares. My mother must have brought up the subject, although I couldn’t guess how much or how little she’d said—or remembered.

“It wasn’t a lot of fun, that’s for sure.” I thought it was preferable to keep the details to myself. I recalled how disturbed Mom and Margaret had been when I lost my hair during chemo. Good grief, that was the least of it! The drugs, the vomiting, the horrendous headaches that incapacitated me. Going bald was nothing.

Nearly a year of my life had been spent in the hospital. I’d be home for short periods of time, and then something else would happen that would force me to return. I didn’t like to think about those years.