mare’s velvety nostrils against her skin.
Every sensation seemed more precious now that she knew she’d someday forget the simple pleasures.
“I’ve been seeing a doctor.”
Ken straightened, his arm dropping to his side. She could see the wheels turning, could almost smell his anxiety. “Is it—”
She shook her head. “Not cancer.”
A visible quiver of relief ran through him. “Thank the Lord Jesus.”
“Yes. I’m grateful for that, too, but the news is not very good.” She swallowed, nervous again, her stomach pitching like sea waves. She’d meant to say something funny and make him laugh first, but nothing came to mind. “Remember those times I’ve had difficulty talking? And that night at clogging when I got upset because I’d lost my purse but it was right where I’d left it?”
“I remember.” His curious concern was edged with wariness. “What’s going on, Fran?”
“I have early-onset Alzheimer’s, the forgetting disease.”
Shock registered on his face. Shock and fear.
A tractor rumbled and rattled in a distant field, stirring up a cloud of dust. A horsefly buzzed the mare. She stomped her foot and the fly buzzed off. Frannie wanted to do the same. Stomp her foot and shoo away the truth.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Not a thing except be my friend.” She’d settle for friendship now, though they’d been more for a long time.
Ken nodded, looking as if the mare had kicked him in the gut. She knew the feeling.
“Get that sad look off your face, Ken Markovich.” She swatted his arm, playfully, and forced cheer into her words. “I’ve always been a little crazy, so what’s the big deal, right?”
He managed a sickly smile. “Right.”
A pulse quivered in her throat, making her breathless. He was upset, as she’d known he would be, but she also felt him pulling back, retreating from her, as though she’d announced a case of leprosy. The notion ached inside her.
She straightened her hat, a wide-brimmed bonnet in turquoise with peacock feathers arching from the back. “I’ll need your prayers, you know.”
“Sure, sure. You got ’em.” He shifted uncomfortably. “This is a hard thing, Frannie. I’m sorry. You’re too good for this.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what to say.”
Nor did she.
The two of them had never been at a loss for words, but now they stood with the painful news throbbing between, both lost in thought, and neither able to say what the other needed to hear. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Ken, but she had no words of reassurance and neither did he.
Frannie waved away an imaginary gnat, sick at heart. Sick in mind. “Well, I guess I should go. Lexi has a ball game tonight.”
Ken scratched at his mustache. “Can’t miss that.”
“You coming?”
“This time of year is really busy, the hay and all.” His eyes slid away from hers. “You know how it is.”
A beat passed while Fran studied his beloved burnished face. He was afraid. So was she. Maybe he just needed time to think, to process the news.
Lord, losing my mind is hard. Don’t let me lose my friends, too.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I know how it is.”
Heart heavy, Fran walked away.
* * *
Hands deep in suds, squeezing Woolite in and out of her favorite sweaters, Carrie heard a car pull up. Wednesday was her day off from the library, and she’d determined to get all her winter things cleaned and organized into clear storage boxes today. Using her shoulder to scratch the inevitable nose itch, she stuck her head between the snow-white Cape Cod swags.
Frannie popped out of The Tanker and slammed the door, the metallic echo coming right through the walls. Dressed in snug blue capris that turned her hips to anvils and a bluer baseball cap, her short legs pumped across Dan’s manicured lawn like squatty pistons.
As happened every time she saw her mother since that awful day at the neurologist’s office, Carrie’s stomach nose-dived. The more she tried not to consider what was to come, the worse her imaginings.
Mother tried to put on a happy face and pretend all was well, an obvious act that angered Carrie. Not that she was angry with her mother, but she was most definitely angry.
She squinted into the sunlight. What was Mother carrying? Papers?
The question was answered before she could rinse her hands and reach for a paper towel. Frannie breezed in and slapped a thick stack of eight and a half-by-fourteen documents onto the granite bar. Legal documents.
“All done,” she announced, jaw unusually set in a face normally as mobile as a child’s.
Carrie crossed the kitchen and rounded the bar to peer over her mother’s shoulder. “What is all this?”
“My house is officially in order,” she said, as matter-of-fact as if announcing she’d bought a bunch of broccoli for dinner. “Power of attorney goes to you, of course. Robby lives too far away. Everything is done so you won’t have to make the decisions—right down to my funeral. I want a trumpet to play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In,’ lots of laughs and hallelujahs, a real joy-of-the-Lord send-off. None of that whining, snot-slinging business.”
“Mother, what are you talking about?” She would love to have blamed the onset of dementia for her mother’s chatter, but Fran Adler had been this way as long as Carrie could remember.
“While I still have my senses about me, I want to make the decisions. So I did. The papers are here. Put them up somewhere until you need them. You’ll know when. The copies are in my safe-deposit box, which is now in your name as well as mine, along with my house, car, and the little dab of money stuck away in savings.”
“Oh.” The cold chill of reality seeped deep into Carrie’s bones as she flipped through the stack of papers. Mother had left no stone unturned, including a do-not-resuscitate order. Carrie jerked her hand away from that one. “You didn’t need to do this yet, Mother. For goodness’ sake! You’re still in command of your faculties.”
“For the most part, yes, but I’m slipping.”
“You are not. Stop talking about it.” Carrie whirled away from the bar and started opening and shutting cabinet doors with more force than necessary. Throat tight and thick, she fought down the fury that hovered on the edge of her emotions all the time lately. This whole Alzheimer’s thing was wrong. Unfair.
Life stunk. No matter how hard a person worked and tried, there was always something lurking around the corner to knock the wind out of you.
Reaching
