While My Sister Sleeps (10 page)

To be fair, Molly knew Kathryn had agonized over the decision. They had all agreed that moving Marjorie in with Charlie and her was impractical, what with so many stairs. Besides,
Marjorie needed constant watching, and Kathryn was rarely home. A dedicated facility seemed their best hope for maximizing safety and care. They had looked at many before choosing this one. Housed in a large Victorian with multiple wings adapted for the purpose, this nursing home exuded warmth the others lacked. Part of its appeal was its closeness to the Snows’ home.

Kathryn had taken her father to visit often, and after George died, went by herself. Then Marjorie met Thomas, and Kathryn flipped out. No matter that George was dead, she took her mother's having a boyfriend as a personal affront and stopped visiting. Kathryn reasoned that her mother didn't know whether she came or not, and Molly had no proof either way. She herself had always adored her grandmother. Even in her diminished state, Marjorie gave Molly comfort.

This evening was no exception. Her room was filled with reminders of the past—framed family photos, a tote Marjorie had sewn that was now brimming with yarn, a woven basket in which Molly had put small pots of pothos, foliage begonia, and ivy. In the midst of these soothing mementos, Marjorie looked totally sweet and, in a cruel twist, more like a woman ten years her junior. Her hair was gray but remained thick, styled in a bob much like Kathryn's. Always a pastel person, she wore a pink robe, and she was reading a book—such a familiar activity for a long-time reader that Molly could pretend she was mentally there.

“Nana,” she whispered, hunkering down by the chair.

Marjorie looked up from her book and studied her quizzically. And here was another cruel twist: Though they had been warned she would lose facial expressions, she hadn't yet. She appeared to be totally aware, which made some of her behavior seem even worse.

“It's Molly,” she said before Marjorie could call her something else. Yes, she understood what Kathryn felt when that happened. Marjorie didn't do it deliberately, but it was still sad to hear. “What're you reading?”

Marjorie looked at her book and brightened. “It's
Little Women,
” she said. “My granddaughters loved this book. Do you have any children?”

Molly felt a lump of emotion at not being recognized as one of those granddaughters. Swallowing it, she shook her head.

“Well, you will, a pretty girl like you.” Closing the book, Marjorie smoothed the cover. It was not
Little Women
at all, but a book of knitting witticisms Molly had brought the week before, hoping that the pictures would ring a bell. Once, her grandmother had been an amazing knitter. Occasionally, she could still do the stitches. Other times she blankly studied the needles.

Now she turned to Molly. “Do I know you?”

She should. There were pictures on the nightstand and the dresser, others framed and grouped on the wall. Some had been taken on holidays, some on vacations. All were meant to jog the memory.

“I'm Molly, and I miss you, Nana.”

Marjorie smiled. “My granddaughters used to call me Nana—you know, like the big furry goat that takes care of the children in
Peter Pan.
There were actually three goats, and they wanted to go over the bridge to the meadow.” She lowered her voice. “But a troll owned that bridge.”

“Robin is sick, Nana.”
Brain dead.
Allowing herself to think the word here with her grandmother, Molly felt sick herself.

“Robin?” There was a frown. “I know a Robin. Her mother named her that because of the expression.”

“What expression?”

“You know,” Marjorie said with a hint of pique. “The
expression—
about the early bird getting the grease.”

Molly didn't correct her. “How does that relate to Robin?”

“A Robin is a bird. They come early.”

They go early, too
, Molly thought and was suddenly grateful that her grandmother had lost touch with reality. She wouldn't have to think the phrase
brain dead
, wouldn't have to feel the pain of knowing what was happening to Robin. She didn't even feel pain at her own condition, though it hadn't always been that way. At the beginning, Nana had known what was happening. Her behavior had become erratic, but she was aware enough when she was first diagnosed to be upset. In some regards, the speed of her illness's progression was a blessing. She had attended her husband's funeral without fully understanding who had died.

Seventy-eight wasn't old for a woman in excellent physical condition. Had it not been for her mind, she could live to be a hundred. She might yet do that. It would be cruel if Nana were to live so many clueless years, Molly decided—though nowhere near as cruel as what was happening to Robin at thirty-two.

Molly wondered if Robin had known what was happening to her out there on the road. The thought that her sister might have felt a pain in her chest, sensed what it was, and realized that she was all alone gave Molly a chill. Worse, though, was the shutdown that might have followed—lights snapped off, everything black.
Brain dead.
It was too much.

Needing her grandmother's kind heart, she said, “I'm such a bad person. I blew my sister off, and now she's dying.”

Marjorie tipped her head. “You remind me of someone.”

“My fault, Nana, and it wasn't only Monday. There have been
times when I deliberately missed her races. Sometimes I actually hoped she would
lose.
So is this my wish coming true?”

Marjorie seemed pensive. Finally, curiously, she asked, “Have we met?”

“And with Nick,” Molly went on, “I
like
annoying her by staying friends with him. If I was a loyal sister, I'd let it go. So I'm not loyal, and Mom'll never forgive me, even though I bust my butt at the nursery. I mean, I love my work. But I like knowing that it's something Mom likes, too.”

Marjorie tipped her head. She was listening.

“So is it all about Mom?” Molly asked. “Am I her daughter and nothing else? My friends can't believe I went right back into the family business. They think I should go somewhere else, and there are times when I want to. I've interviewed at other places, Nana. I had an offer from a
huge
nursery outside of Boston—just last
week—
but I said no. I love Snow Hill. Mom is so smart.” Marjorie had started to frown, so Molly added, “Don't tell her about the job offer. She'll kill me if she knows. I was disloyal to even consider it. So here I am, worrying about her again. Is it all about Mom? Who am
I?
”

“Well… well…I'm not sure,” Marjorie said.

Molly knew it was ridiculous to be discussing identity with a woman who had lost her own, but the words wouldn't stop. “I'm one person one minute and another person another. I love my sister, I hate my sister. I love my mother, I hate my mother. I love Snow Hill, I hate Snow Hill. Who
am
I?”

Marjorie looked upset. “Have we met?”

“Nana, it's me, Molly,” she pleaded, “and I don't know how to help Mom. I need you to tell me what to do.”

Marjorie's frown deepened. “Don't you know?”

“I always say the wrong thing.”

“But you
have
to speak,” Marjorie cried in distress, and added, “I should know you.”

“You do,” Molly whispered and laid her cheek on her grandmother's knee. It was a minute before Marjorie's hand touched Molly's head and another before it began stroking her hair, but the familiarity of it was comforting.
Brain dead
briefly lost its edge. For that short time, Molly was back in a place where life's woes could be solved by a caress.

Then the stroking stopped, and Molly looked up. Her grandmother's eyes were on the door, her face lit with pleasure.

Thomas was there, his nose red, his white hair disheveled, his robe crookedly tied.

“Why hello,” Marjorie said, sounding mystified but pleased. “Do I know you?”

He didn't reply. From what Molly had been told, he rarely spoke. It was anyone's guess whether Thomas had deliberately left his room to come here, or whether the draw was subconscious. But the distress Molly had heard in her grandmother moments before was gone. For that reason alone, Molly thought Kathryn should be grateful for Thomas.

Marjorie had paid her dues in life. She had been devoted and hardworking, and she certainly hadn't asked for this disease. Yet Alzheimer's had taken her identity, had wiped clean a slate of nearly eighty years. If she could still have moments of pleasure, how was that bad? She was trapped in an unfamiliar world, but it was one in which husbands didn't die, daughters didn't stop visiting, and granddaughters didn't end up on life support. A tiny part of Molly envied her that.

OLLY AGONIZED OVER WHETHER TO TELL NICK
about the EEG. As she drove back from seeing her grandmother, she vacillated, repeatedly opening and closing her phone before finally admitting the truth. Yes, she trusted him … but not entirely.
Brain dead
was ominous, and Nick was the press.

He was also something of a local celebrity—man on the scene, most eligible bachelor, possessor of the most amazing blue eyes—and he valued her friendship. Robin claimed he was using Molly, but for what? Molly and Nick had been friends before he and Robin ever dated. Molly had
introduced
them.

But she did respect her mother's need for privacy. So she kept her phone off.

Focusing on Robin, she returned to Dickenson-May She had barely reached the front door, though, when the half-light
of the hospital sign showed a man on a bench. It was the Good Samaritan. The tie was gone, the shirttails loose. His elbows were on his knees, but when he spotted her, he sat straighter, eyes questioning.

She smiled sadly. “Not good.”

He sagged. “I'm sorry.”

Recalling her mother's scathing words all too clearly, Molly wondered if Kathryn knew he was here. “Have you been upstairs?”

“Only long enough to see that you weren't around. Your mom doesn't need me upsetting her. I had to talk with someone else anyway.”

“Here at the hospital?”

“Yes. A friend of a friend. I need information on anorexia. One of my students has a problem.”

Finding anorexia preferable to brain death, Molly joined him on the bench. “What age do you teach?”

“Eighth grade. That's thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds.” When she winced, he drawled, “Yeah. It's a difficult age. They're the oldest in middle school, so they're cocky. There's a lot of bullying, and not only of younger kids. They bully each other. The girls are fully developed and precocious. They're social. They dress provocatively. Half of the boys have hit puberty, half haven't. The ones who haven't are vulnerable.”

“Who is anorexic?”

“One of my girls. She's a dancer who's really talented and the sweetest kid you'd ever want to meet. She isn't into the social scene because she spends every free minute at ballet school. If she's hit puberty, you'd never know it. She's a rail.”

“Her parents must see it.”

He looked doubtful. “You'd think. But they're overachievers
themselves. Mom's a lawyer, Dad's an educator. I doubt they want to see this.”

“Have you talked with them?”

“No. There's a catch. Her father is the school superintendent—my boss. He takes pride in his kids. They always get great grades and win all the local awards. He won't like my pointing out a flaw.”

“Anorexia isn't a flaw,” Molly argued. “It's an illness.”

“In his daughter, it would be a flaw and one that would reflect on his wife and him, which makes it a sensitive issue to raise.”

“But you're concerned.” She could see it in his eyes.

“Yes, but am I sticking my nose where it doesn't belong? They have to know something's wrong. Other people must have mentioned it. I'm just her history teacher.”

“Maybe you care more than the others.”

“Maybe I'm just more rash. A couple of years ago—different city, different school—I reported a cheating incident. It was pretty blatant. I really had no choice. But the student was the son of friends of my parents. There's still a rift between our families. My parents haven't forgiven me for it.”