Lois was fatigued and her throat hurt from the respirator. This caused her to stoop just slightly when she left the hospital. She also shuffled a bit rather than marched. The woman who had spent years saying “Stand up straight” and “Pick up your feet” was painfully aware that she could do neither. “A little bit of tranquilizer goes a long damn way,” she muttered on her way to Charlene’s car.

“What, Mother?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Let’s get out of here. I want to get home and call my lawyer. I’m going to sue the bastards.”

“Mother, I’m a lawyer. And just who are you going to sue?”

She stopped midstride and glared at her daughter. “I’m going to sue whoever put these marks on my biceps when they were trying to tie me down to a gurney, and I’m completely aware of your profession. I doubt you’ll be objective enough to help me.”

She resumed shuffling toward the car and Charlene muttered, “I’m thinking of a lawsuit myself. I’d like to go after whoever gave you the nasty pill.”

“When was the last time you found yourself losing your marbles in public, Charlene Louise? Just see if it doesn’t make you the slightest bit cranky.”

Charlene’s purse started ringing and she actually welcomed the interruption, especially considering that her middle name was not Louise. Pam was calling; she had been checking in almost hourly with regular updates on how she was rerouting Charlene’s most critical cases. “Have we heard anything from Maxie Preston?”

“Nothing yet,” Pam said.

“Hmm…well, do me a favor. Call her and tell her my client was shot at early last evening.”

“Dear God.”

“She’s okay, but understandably, we have her under wraps. And no, they didn’t pick up Jersynski. He had an alibi and no apparent weapon. This whole thing has me pretty baffled.”

“I’ll call her,” Pam said. “Then there are the Samuelsons,” she went on. “They don’t want to wait for the judge to assign another arbitrator. They want you and only you.”

“Ugh! Just when I thought I had a way out.”

“They’re at your complete disposal. If you find you have a few free hours, you have only to let them know.”

“I thought it would feel better to be so loved,” she groused. “Tell them I’m embroiled in a family emergency, and if they want me they’ll have to be very patient. And tell them if they’re not patient—Oh hell, you know what to tell them. Just be sure they know they’re still on very thin ice with me.”

“Will do.”

“Scare them.”

“My pleasure. Give my love to Peaches.”

“That might be harder than you think. It’s a little prickly around here.”

Pam laughed. “Where there’s a will,” she said.

“There’s usually a thorn or two….”

She was putting the phone back into her shoulder bag as they arrived at the car. She reached for the passenger-door handle and her mother slapped her hand. “I’m losing my mind, not my ability to open a goddamn door!”

“Mother, if you don’t stop swearing at me, I’m going to start shopping for a home.”

“Go ahead, do what you want. I don’t care. If it makes me feel goddamn better to swear, I’ll swear! I heard you say I was prickly. Let me prickle!”

“Well, you may be losing your marbles, but certainly not your hearing.” With a sigh of resignation, Charlene walked to her side of the car and got in. “I’m going to take you to my house, Mother, where we’ll have a bite to eat and—”

“Take me to my house!”

“Mother, your house is badly—”

“Take me to my house or I’ll take a cab while I can still remember the goddamn address!”

Charlene, gripping the steering wheel, glared at her mother. Her mother glared back, pursed lips and all, like a video portrait of her childhood. Charlene finally said, “You’re not going to make anything about this easy, are you?”

“Let’s just remember which one of us is impaired, shall we? Then I suppose we’ll remember which one of us has it easy.”

Charlene bit her tongue and drove—to her mother’s house.

This is what it can be like for some people in old age, she reminded herself. That was one of the things she’d been thinking all morning, while she tangled with Jake, gave instructions to Pam on how to manage the office in her absence, even as she drove to her mother’s house to assess the damage. She thought about how precarious life can be for someone like Lois…or for someone like herself at the age of seventy-eight. But the numbers didn’t matter; it wasn’t really important when it happened, whether at sixty or ninety or a hundred and ten, the reality was that at some point she was going to be old and probably impaired physically or mentally—or both. Not very many people were lucky enough to live full, conscious, robust lives and then one day nod off and not resurface. Oh, that’s what everyone hoped for, that they’d just buy the big one at about the same time life became more of a struggle than a joy, but before it got too painful or difficult. But it didn’t usually happen that way.

Yet another reason she needed to marry Dennis. She didn’t trust Jake to get home to dinner on time, much less be a conscientious partner in old age.

When they pulled up to Lois’s house, the garage door was open. “Who could be in there?” Charlene asked aloud.

“Probably that neighbor…what’s his name.”

Curiosity got the best of her and she went ahead into the house, leaving her mother to follow. She heard whistling and found him scooping up charred debris in the kitchen. He wore rubber boots and wielded a wide-based janitorial broom. A big trash can stood in the middle of the room and several filled and tied-off garbage bags stood around. “Hello!” he said cheerfully.

“Mr. Conklin?” Charlene questioned.

“Dear God!” Lois gasped, looking at damage that was breathtakingly bad.

“You just keep turning up everywhere,” Charlene said, pleasantly surprised to see him again so soon. “How’d you get in?”

“The door was left unlocked, Charlene,” he replied. “Lois, it looks a lot worse than it really is. There’s serious redecorating to be done, and you’ll need new appliances, but there isn’t any structural damage at all, and I think the wiring is mostly fine. I know a man who’s a cheap but good electrician just in case.”

“My God, what a disaster!” she said. She let her purse drop to the floor, pushed back the sleeves of her sweater and took a giant step into the blackened kitchen.

“Watch your tracks,” he said. “Even though the firemen tracked soot all over the house, I think the carpet is going to make it after a good shampoo.”

“It better make it. I just put it in a couple of years ago.”

It was a dozen years, Charlene thought. At least.

“There’s just me in this house. I hardly put my foot on the floor,” she added.

Which was true enough. Just Lois, semiretired thirteen years ago, completely retired the last eight. About a hundred and twenty pounds on a little five-foot-two-inch frame. Not real hard on the carpet, but hell on wheels in the library.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” she said.

“Mom, we’re going to get some help with this,” Charlene said.

“We?”

“Yes, we. This isn’t a simple clean-up. It’s going to take some reconstruction, and your insurance company will pay for most of it.”

“I’m used to doing most of my own repairs,” she said, but a little less snappishly than before.

“Charlene’s right, Lois. I said it wasn’t as bad as it looks, but it’s not as though we can mop up here and call it a day.”

“We?” they both asked him.

He smiled. They were like two peas in a pod. Tough, independent, bossy women who liked calling the shots.

“I thought maybe you’d like to be nearby while all the work is being done, so you can supervise, oversee, boss around the subcontractors, so I tidied up the guest room at my house. It would put you close to the work. I’m sure whoever you hire will need to consult with you on a daily, if not hourly, basis.” Then he smiled.

“Good idea, Albert,” Lois said, while Charlene smirked and crossed her arms over her chest. Sneaky devil, she thought. Appealing to her mother’s stubborn and controlling nature.

“Mother, I’d much rather you stay at my house. I’ll bring you over here however often you—”

“Nonsense, I wouldn’t be comfortable in your house. I’ve heard too many stories about the ruined relationships when old women move in with their daughters and there’s a power struggle for who’s in charge.”

Charlene smiled patiently. “Oh, Mother, but you’re not like that—”

“I know I’m not. You are!” Charlene’s mouth dropped open as her arms fell to her sides. “Now, Albert, let’s see this guest room of yours….”

“Certainly, Lois. Come along.”

He grasped her elbow and was careful to lead her out of the kitchen by way of all the plastic garbage bags he’d spread across the carpet to the door. And if Charlene wasn’t mistaken, he threw a slightly amused yet superior look over his shoulder.

 

Charlene stood in Jasper’s hall while her mother inspected the guest room and bath, as discriminating as any tourist visiting a five-star hotel. The accommodations were adequate, not unlike the room Charlene had grown up in. These little suburban homes were clones of each other. Most were pleasant three-bedroom houses with eat-in kitchens and two-car garages sitting on good-size lots with large California trees. They weren’t new, but sturdily built forty-year-old houses wearing many coats of paint, havens on quiet streets, with neighbors who had known each other for years.

It was probably best, she relented, to leave her mother in the neighborhood. As forgetful as she was becoming, moving her to Charlene’s house might only aggravate the situation.

“Well, what do you think?” Lois asked Charlene.

“I think it’s very generous of Mr. Conklin.”

“Mr. Who? Oh, you mean him? Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Lois, even though the fire was in the kitchen, your clothes are going to reek of smoke. I would have started some laundry for you, but I didn’t want to meddle.”

“Bull feathers, you meddle at will,” she said.

“Well…” He laughed. “True enough. I held myself back. Why don’t you go next door, gather a laundry basket of clothes to wash over here, and I’ll put on some coffee. How does that sound?”

“Very practical. I’ll get right to it.”

As she toddled off, Charlene was struck again by how much she had aged in the last few days. “Do you think it’s a good idea to send her on a mission like that? Alone?”

“If she doesn’t come right back, I’ll go over. But let’s get that coffee going, Charlene, and talk. Let me give you some peace of mind, if I can.”

“I won’t turn down that offer,” she said, following him into the kitchen. “I could use more of the latter than the former.”

“It’s not that complicated, Charlene. In fact, I’m surprised by how simple this is.”

It turned out that, even though Jasper had lived next door with his handicapped wife for twenty-five years, Charlene had been too busy building her career and raising her daughter to notice the details of the Conklins’ lives. In fact, Jasper not only worked full-time but did almost everything for his wife. She wasn’t able to wash herself after the accident, and feeding herself was an enormous challenge that ended in a feeding tube.

“In all the time I spent resenting the labors of my marriage, it never occurred to me until she was gone that I had a real talent for caring for her. I had felt useful and needed. Much of the work I actually enjoyed. While it was hard, it was also helpful. When she was gone, my life became so desolate and empty.” He laughed in embarrassment. “I spent so many years thinking my life was desolate and empty because of her and her many needs, when in fact it was just the opposite. Now, of course, I am the guilty party.”

“Guilty?” Charlene asked.

“I hid us from the neighborhood, from my coworkers. I should have brought her out and the world in. The visiting nurses tried for years to encourage us to be more social, but I refused. My poor wife. She must have been so lonely.”

“Poor Jasper,” Charlene said. “You were lonely.”

His eyes showed his gratitude for that understanding. “Ah! So, here I am, alone and retired. And if there’s one thing I have a sure talent for, it’s taking care of someone with medical problems. You think your mother’s quite a challenge right now, with this new wrinkle in her health. Well, let me assure you, this is barely anything at all. And she seems quite comfortable with me.”

“You’re proposing to take this on? As some way of repenting for being resentful of your wife’s ill health?”

“Don’t be silly, there’s no possible way to make amends for that now. Don’t you understand? It turns out this is what I do.”

The front door squeaked open and Lois came into the kitchen with a laundry basket in which she had a little more than laundry. In addition to clothes that smelled of soot and ash, she had a houseplant, a calendar, a bottle of perfume, a shoe, a winter coat and a collection of plastic hangers. Also, she seemed to be wearing at least four sweaters, one over the other. Charlene squinted in confusion. Pink, red, blue, white.

“You have quite a collection there,” Jasper said, as if this were completely normal. “A plant for your room, some essentials, some laundry. Let’s see if we can throw these sweaters in the wash or if they have to be sent to the dry cleaners.”

He took her by the elbow and escorted her down the hall toward her room and the washer and dryer. Momentarily he was back.

“I don’t want to mislead you, Charlene. I’m not licensed as a caretaker, but I’m thinking of looking into that. I’m not a rich man by any means—I have only the post office pension, and my social security hasn’t even kicked in. So, I’ll be happy to look after Lois for a while, to see how it goes, but I’m afraid she’ll have to pay me rent. Something to cover the food and utilities. Maybe a couple hundred a month. And bear in mind, if this experiment goes in the direction I hope, I might consider taking in a couple of elders. It just depends.”

“It just depends,” she repeated.

He sighed and sought the answer from the ceiling, then looked back at her. “I’m sorry for your misfortune, but when I discovered I could be of some use to your mother, I began to feel needed again. And I won’t lie. Happy.

“Let’s be clear about this, Charlene. I’m not doing you a kindness. It may seem so, but it’s not. Care workers are in business, and while I haven’t worked this end of the business before, don’t think I don’t know it well enough. I had to use every agency in town, hire every kind of helper from nurses to aides, been through it all right up till the hospice people came. I do know what I propose.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” she relented. He had lived next door for thirty years; it was almost certain he wasn’t dangerous or larcenous. Besides, what did Lois have to steal but a few old books?

A crash from the back of the house brought Charlene bolting to her feet, while Jasper calmly rose, moved to the pantry for a dustpan and broom and said, “There will be a few adjustments to make, but everything is going to work out just fine. You’ll see.”

“Allllllbbbbberrrrrrt,” Lois called from her bedroom.

“I imagine that was the flowerpot. She wanted it on the bed of all places.”

“Are you going to tell her your name?” Charlene asked.

“What’s the point? The only important thing is that I answer. Coming, Lois,” he called. “Go home. Change into some comfortable clothes. Call your daughter and Lois’s insurance company. Maybe even consider a little nap—I know you didn’t get much rest last night. I’ll make us a nice casserole for dinner. I have nearly mastered the art of casserole.”

“On the one hand, I feel like I’m only just getting to know you after having you next door for so many years. On the other, you seem like an old friend. Honestly, Jasper, I don’t know how I’d manage without you. You’re a godsend.”

“Well, Charlene, it’s going to be nice to have some company for a change.”

 

Stephanie cried for almost two hours. She was just winding it up when her mother called and explained about Peaches moving in with Mr. Conklin. “Stephie, are you all right? Your voice sounds…thick.”

Ordinarily Stephanie would have explained that she was crying her heart out because that asshole, Grant, had walked out on her. Then would come the laundry list of everything he’d done wrong. But instead, inexplicably keeping her problems to herself, she said, “Maybe I’m coming down with a cold or something. Or maybe I’m just exhausted.”

“Did you get some sleep?” Charlene asked.

Here was another chance to unload on her mother. “Not very much, no. Did you?”

“I’m afraid not. You didn’t go to work today either?” Charlene asked.

“No. I wasn’t up to it. I’ll take something for a headache and lie down for a nap.”

“Well, do. We can’t let ourselves fall apart now when Peaches needs us most. And if you’re completely sure you’re not coming down with something, you can come over to Mr. Conklin’s for dinner. But only if you’re completely sure. I don’t want Peaches getting sick on top of everything else.”

“I understand, Mom,” she said, her voice grave. “But she is all right?”

“She’s a pistol, but all right. I think she had one of her little spells this afternoon. She was wearing four sweaters and one shoe. But she snapped right back to her old self. She’s in a lousy mood, but then I guess I would be, too.”

“Are you going to get her in to the doctor soon?”

“I made an appointment before leaving the hospital. Day after tomorrow I’m taking her for a consultation and probably some neurological testing. Dennis gave me the name of someone he thinks is good.”

“Can I go? Hear what he has to say?”

“Of course. Can they spare you at school?”

“They’ll have to spare me…if Peaches needs me. Tell her I love her, and if I don’t think I have a cold or flu, I’ll see you guys.”

“Good. If I don’t see you later, I’ll call.”

After that, Stephanie stopped crying and stood under a steaming hot shower for a long time, till the water started to run cold. When she dried off and stepped out of the shower, she decided she wasn’t going to cry anymore. She wasn’t going to be a big stupid baby. Everybody but Peaches called her spoiled and immature. Well, not everybody, but three of the most important people in her life.

She stepped out of the steamy bathroom into the master bedroom and critically eyeballed the wreckage. Oh, she knew it was disastrously messy. She wasn’t an idiot. It’s just that she had no talent for housekeeping, and no aptitude for keeping it so. Then there was the interest factor—zero.

But she began to clean, filling bag after bag with refuse from the bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and living room. In between gathering up clutter, she turned on the dishwasher and began doing laundry. She had done three loads of clothes before she realized that all of Grant’s clothes were gone…and that none of the mess on the floors belonged to him. Even with his schedule he was able to keep his laundry in check. She cried a little more. What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she figured out even the most rudimentary of household chores?

In two hours time she had put a substantial dent in the squalor. At first it was all about Grant, about proving she could change and get him back. While she worked, she fantasized about how impressed he’d be, then how sorry and remorseful he’d be that he’d walked out on her and hurt her so. And they would turn over a new leaf…and he would make a few compromises, too.

She stopped cleaning just long enough to call the school district and leave the message that she’d be out the rest of the week, due to a family emergency. Then it was right back to work, hauling the trash out, emptying and reloading the dishwasher, folding and putting away clothes. She ran the vacuum, dusted the furniture, polished the glass and scrubbed the little kitchen floor. The sticky, grimy, brown-tinged kitchen floor. And slowly, remarkably, she became sympathetic toward Grant. She became sorry and remorseful. In fact, as she broke her fifth nail digging the crusty buildup out of the corner, she muttered, “I think I’d have left me, too.”

And she wasn’t done yet. The stove and refrigerator weren’t cleaned, the laundry wasn’t finished, there was ironing to last through three movie rentals and the bathroom was tidied but she needed special chemicals to handle the scum on the tiles and tub. But the improvement was obvious enough to make her actually feel proud. She was starting to feel that this was not about bringing Grant home, but about proving that she was an adult, capable of adult responsibilities.

She looked at her watch and saw that it was nine o’clock. She had missed dinner with Peaches at Mr. Conklin’s house, but that was okay. There was time enough to check out that situation tomorrow. But it wasn’t too late to clean the refrigerator and go to the grocery store.

Hours later she was carrying two armfuls of grocery bags up the stairs, bags filled with bread, soup, fresh fruits and vegetables, and a couple of rented movies. Also included was a notebook, she intended to start keeping a journal. Halfway up the stairs to the second-floor apartment she paused, feeling that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. Danger. She felt watched. Stalked.

She slowly turned and scanned the parking lot but saw no one. Ahead of her, just a few steps away, were the apartment doors—hers and the next-door neighbor’s. There was no hallway to contend with, no dark entry. And most importantly, no one there. But she stayed on her guard as she balanced the sacks of groceries and opened the door. Once inside, she locked it and put a dining-room chair against it, just for insurance. That done, the nervous prickles went away. She wasn’t going to let him scare her.

The message light on the phone was blinking—two new messages. She pressed play.

Charlene: “Well, honey, I guess you didn’t feel well. I hope this means the ringer on the phone is turned way down and you’re sleeping. Give me a call tomorrow and let me know how you’re feeling.”

Freddy: “Hey, Buttercup. Just wondered what you were doing, if you were bored or hungry for pizza or lonely, because I’m available for anything. Made a lot of money on the exchange today and just looking for someone to share my good luck with, you know? So, call me and I can be there in no time. The number is—”

She hit the delete button and called her mother. He hadn’t said anything scary and she wasn’t going to let him get to her. Instead, she was going to try out Grant’s suggestion, that she think about what kind of life she wanted. And what it would really take to make her happy.

 

Stephanie ate a small salad and microwave burrito at nearly midnight and fought the urge to call Grant at work. He’d be getting off at 1:00 a.m. There was a huge temptation to tell him she’d cleaned the apartment from stem to stern and was turning over a new leaf—no more slovenly habits, no more whining and complaining, no more trying to change him. She was going to change.

Instead she got out her journal and made her first entry. Today Grant left me.

Outside her apartment, in the after-midnight shadows, a figure crept along the windowless side of the apartment building. He wore dark clothing and stepped lightly. The front of the sixteen-unit building was lit by parking-lot and building lights, so he sprang out onto the sidewalk. With hands in his pockets, he walked quickly and purposefully down the concrete toward Stephanie’s unit. He took the stairs two at a time. He pressed himself up against the door as if to listen, and stayed that way for a long time. Then he carefully and quietly began to descend the stairs while pulling his cell phone out of his jacket.

Before his foot could touch that last step he was grabbed by the arm, whirled around and slammed against the building, in the dark, under the staircase. The noise was loud enough to have disturbed the occupants of the ground-floor apartment opposite Stephanie’s had they been at home. The cell phone flew from Freddy’s hands and he looked up into the enraged eyes of Grant Chamberlain.

Just in size alone, Freddy was doomed. He had been exercising his fingers on the computer keyboard while Grant had been training for the police academy fitness test.

“About to make a call, Freddy?” Grant asked, keeping his voice low so Stephanie wouldn’t hear.

“I…gee…I was just in the neighborhood and thought maybe Stephanie was, you know, waiting up for you. Or maybe wanted some company till you got home.”

Good, Grant thought. He doesn’t know I moved out.

“You get off early?”

“No, Freddy, I’ve been waiting for you. You’ve been giving my girl some trouble and she wants you to stop calling her, to stop leaving little notes at the door. You with me, pal?”

With that last, Grant gave him a nice hard slam against the stucco wall.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, man!”

“Yes, you do, you little shit. You’re a weirdo who slinks around after dark to sneak up on women who’ve told you to stay away.”

“Bull—”

Grant gave him another meaningful shove. “I’m only going to tell you this once, Freddy. Don’t mess around with my girl. You hear me? Because you will pay so big if you ever pester her again.”

“Look, man, I—”

“There are a few things you don’t know about Stephanie, Freddy.”

“Let me go, Chamberlain. We both know you out-size me. We both know you can fight and I can’t.”

“That’s a real good place to start, Freddy. I don’t necessarily like to fight, but I won’t hesitate. In fact, I don’t necessarily like to kill, but hey.” He shrugged.

“Aw, come on, man,” Freddy whined. “I could call the police, you know.”

“Yeah, if you could just get your hands on that phone, you could, couldn’t you. Why don’t I help you a little. Police,” he called. “Oh, pol-eeeece.”

“Jesus, you’re—” Freddy stopped as he heard a car door open. A man stepped out. He wore a long, dark trench coat and he sauntered toward them. There was just no other word for it. He sauntered, full of confidence and meanness. Grant continued to press Freddy against the wall until the man came close, then turned him toward the man.

The man flipped open an ID wallet with one hand and a big, dangerous-looking flashlight with the other. He shone the light on the ID badge that, along with his picture and preposterously large badge, said, Jonathan “Jake” Dugan. Freddy stared at it open-mouthed.

“Jake Dugan, pleased to meet you.”

“Jake Dugan as in Stephanie Dugan,” Grant clarified, lest there be any doubt.

“You don’t want to be hanging around here anymore, now, do you, son?” Jake asked. And he smiled. It was an evil and terrifying smile that Jake had perfected over the years, one he used to frighten young wannabe felons and teenage brats. He opened his coat to put away his wallet and expose his very big gun.

“Hey, I don’t want any trouble. I was just—”

“Save it,” Jake said. “She’s my little girl and I’m a little protective. You understand? So, just get the hell out of here and don’t come around this neighborhood again. As in ever. If you meet someone who lives in this complex here, meet someone else. Do we understand each other?”

Grant gave him a shove in the direction of his cell phone. When he bent over to pick it up, Grant put a boot in his backside and sent him on a sprawl. Freddy rolled and sat up, glaring at the two of them with barely concealed rage, but he wasn’t about to do anything physical. To keep some dignity he picked up his phone and stood slowly. He turned and walked, but did not hurry away. He walked across the parking lot and down past several buildings before getting into his car, which was parked a very obvious distance from Stephanie’s building. The gate opened in response to the car’s weight and out he went.

“You still think that was the right thing to do?” Jake asked Grant.

“I guess so. What would you have done?”

He shrugged. “Something like that, I guess.” He tilted his head toward the stairs. “You going up there?”

“I can’t, Jake. It doesn’t work for us anymore.”

“That a fact?”

“But I’ll be damned if I’ll let some slimy little weasel like Freddy give her any trouble.”

“You probably nipped it in the bud, but I’d keep an eye on him.”

“I told her I thought she should go to your house. Stay with you a while.”

“Yeah, well, there’s something going on up there,” Jake said, rubbing the back of his neck. “She hasn’t even told me you left. And ordinarily she’d be on the phone wailing and complaining and cursing the day you were born.”

“You think I should check on her?”

The light from Stephanie’s living room clicked off and the apartment darkened. It was 1:00 a.m. Grant looked up the stairs longingly.

“There isn’t anything wrong with her. I talked to her around six or so. Asked her how her grandma was and she said she was thinking of going over for dinner with her mom. She was okay. Not cheerful, exactly. Distracted maybe. But okay. Come on. It’s late.”

Jake walked toward his car, but Grant stood where he was, looking up the stairs.

“You still think it was the right thing? To leave?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I had to.”

“Well, come on then. Leave.”

Grant sighed, kicked at a pebble and went to the car.

Jake looked at him a long time before turning the key. Grant wore a look of misery and desire. It drew his features down long and sullen. “Candy-ass,” Jake muttered, and started the car.

 

While Lois was undergoing some cognitive and memory testing, Charlene and Stephanie were sitting in the doctor’s office where they were learning about a world they had never, until now, had to think about.

“The symptoms Lois is experiencing could be traced to any number of causes, including Alzheimer’s disease. ‘Silent’ strokes, patterns of tiny dead cells inside the brain that can cause memory loss, mood swings, confusion, even trouble walking occur in as many as one out of three elderly individuals, people over seventy. Their effects are cumulative over the years and put people at risk for full-blown strokes. Alzheimer’s, as you probably already know, is escalating dementia, and, as I explained last night, progresses more slowly the later the onset. Hardening of the arteries causes dementia, as do a number of other conditions and diseases. The preliminary testing we did before Lois left the hospital points us in the direction of silent strokes or Alzheimer’s or both.”

“And does that explain the mood swings? The swearing and general grouchiness?” asked Charlene.

The doctor, who was quite young, smiled. “Both the condition and the frustration of experiencing these maddening symptoms explains the mood swings and anger. I’m going to prescribe both a blood thinner to prevent further strokes and an antidepressant that doesn’t have a strong side effect of lethargy and sleepiness. Plus, there’s a new drug that has proven beneficial in slowing the onset of Alzheimer’s.”

“But if you’re not sure she has—”

“It’s a process of elimination. She is, at the very least, a strong candidate. I’d call it pre-Alzheimer’s.

“I strongly encourage you to attend a support group for the families and caregivers of Alzheimer’s patients where you’ll learn not only a great deal about the disease, but how to manage Lois’s care. There are some things you should look into right away. Her medications, for example. It’s very common for patients with dementia to forget they’ve taken their drugs and overdose. I recommend a locked medicine drawer or cabinet and someone to give her the pills as prescribed. Companion care would be a serious need, I would think. She doesn’t need to be fed and bathed, but she has already had a mishap. Mental stimulation and physical activity both play very big roles in slowing the progression, in giving our patients more quality time. Senior day care and support groups for the patient can be a good way not only to manage time so you can both work and spend quality time with Lois, but also serves as a good diversion for her.” He took a breath. “Above all, don’t panic. I think Lois still has years at home, with her family.”

“Before a nursing home, you mean?” Stephanie asked. “Peaches would die in a nursing home!”

“We advocate keeping our patients at home with home care for as long as possible. In the best cases, with good nursing help, they never go to nursing homes. But even in the most dedicated families, there is usually a point at which the patient requires more care than the family can manage…and that’s what nursing homes are for. Before you let the very idea upset you, let me assure you that we have some very nice facilities…and they’re getting better all the time.”

Peaches had always taken care of them. Neither Charlene nor Stephanie had ever imagined the day that they would be called upon to take care of her.

 

Stephanie had not been to school all week, and she still hadn’t told anyone that Grant had left their apartment. After three days of scullery work, she was now too ashamed to tell anyone that she had used her days off to try to put her life in order.

Her self-project didn’t end with housework, though admittedly she could now see the drastic need. She also went to a bookstore and did a little self-help shopping. She avoided all the “how to get a man” books and gravitated instead toward the “improving the mind and spirit” category. She needed to feel in control of her destiny, instead of like a passenger on a runaway train. It was time to explore gratitude and positive thinking. She could no longer take everyone’s love and devotion for granted without giving anything back.

Her journal entries were growing long and filled with self-examination.

Once she caught up on the chores, she decided to make helping someone a priority. That was a lesson her grandmother had taught her early in life—if you volunteer, you’ll feel better. Peaches had put in years of reading to the elderly and infirm and blind. She had taught adults to read even when she had a full-time job and a family to take care of. Well, now Stephanie needed to help someone—and Peaches needed her help. She would dedicate herself to her grandmother and stop focusing so much time and energy on herself.

Stephanie was reinventing herself, and she wasn’t going to tell a soul. Because it wasn’t about getting attention…but about giving it.