And if that happened? How would he put himself back together again? How?
Tomorrow he was going to force himself to look at some of the websites for care homes. Tomorrow he was going to force himself to call some of the numbers Jane had supplied him with.
Tonight he was going to sleep under the stars, and somehow wish that he were overreacting. That when he went in the house tomorrow he would see his mother was better, and that it was not necessary to make a decision at all.
But in the morning, after he’d showered and shaved and dressed, he went into a kitchen that smelled sour, and his mother had that look on her face.
She looked up from her bowl of porridge—surely at Shady Oak they would manage something more appetizing—and glared at him.
David braced himself. She held up a sweater she’d been holding on her lap, stroking it as though it were a cat.
“Where did this come from, young man?”
“I’m sure it’s yours, Mom.”
“It’s not!” she said triumphantly. “It belongs to Kayla McIntosh.”
He tried not to look too surprised that she remembered Kayla’s name. It had been a long time since she had remembered his. Even if it was Kayla’s maiden name, it made him wonder if he was being too hasty. Maybe no decisions had to be made today.
“You go give it back to her. Right now! I won’t have your ill-gotten gains in this house, young man.”
He took the sweater. Of course he didn’t have to go give it to Kayla—it probably wasn’t even hers. But he caught a faint scent overriding the terrible scents that had become the reality of his mother’s home.
The sweater smelled of freshness and lemons, and he realized Kayla must have given it to his mother the other night when she had found her in the roses.
Was it the scent of Kayla that made him not pay enough attention? Or was it just that a man couldn’t be on red alert around his own mother all the time?
The porridge bowl whistled by his ear and crashed against the wall behind him. All the dishes were plastic now, but the porridge dripped down the wall.
“Mrs. Blaze!” the attendant said, aghast. The look she shot David was loaded with unwanted sympathy.
He cleared his throat against the lump that had risen in it, that felt as if it was going to choke him.
He said to the caregiver, his voice level, “When I was a little boy, my mother took the garden hose and flooded the backyard in the winter so I could skate. She made lemonade for my stand, and helped me with the sign, and didn’t say a word that I sold five bucks worth of lemonade for two dollars. She never missed a single swim meet when I was on the swim team, and they must have numbered in the hundreds.
“She stayed up all night and held me the night my father died, worried about my grief when her own must have been unbearable. She lent me the money to buy my first car, even though she had been putting away a little bit of money every week trying to get a new stove.
“My mother was the most amazing person you could ever meet. She was funny and kind and smart. At the same time, she was dignified and courageous.
“I need you to know that,” he said quietly. “I need you to think about what she once was. I need that to be as important to you as what she is now.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide said.
“I remember the skating rink,” his mother whispered. “My mittens got wet and my hands were so cold I couldn’t feel them. The bottom of my pants froze, like trying to walk in stovepipes. But I wouldn’t stop. Wanted to surprise him. The ice froze funny, all lumpy. But he was out there, every night, skating. My boy. My boy.”
David had to squeeze the bridge of his nose, hard.
“I’ll return the sweater right now,” he said, as if nothing had happened. He went out the door, gulping in air like a man who had escaped a smoke-filled building. He heard the locks click in place behind him.
He drew in a long breath, contemplating his options, again. He tucked the sweater under his arm and went out his gate. He paused in that familiar stretch of lawn between the two houses.
As much as he logically knew the illness was making terrifying inroads on her mind, it hurt that his mother saw him as a thief and untrustworthy, that she could remember Kayla’s name, but not his. It hurt that she had become a person who would throw her breakfast at anyone, let alone at her son.
But she remembered the skating rink, and so did he, and the pain he felt almost made him sorry he had brought it up.
He thought, This is why, now, I will not get married and have children. I cannot do this to another person. I cannot pass this on to another person.
Was he thinking these kind of thoughts because Kayla, at some level, was making him long for things he was aware he could not have?
Drawing in a deep breath, David went through Kayla’s back gate. He would hang the sweater on her back door, then walk to the lake and swim. He was developing a routine of sorts, and he loved the cold water in the morning, when the beach was still deserted.
He went up the stairs to Kayla’s back deck and eyed the patio furniture—four old Adirondack chairs, grouped together. Once, he seemed to remember, they had been light blue, but now the wood was gray and weathered. The chairs looked like they would offer slivers rather than comfort. The deck was in about the same condition as the chairs. It had not been stained in so long that the exposed wood had rotted and was probably past repair.
He went to hang the sweater on the back door handle. He noticed only the screen door was closed, the storm door open behind it, leaving a clear view into the cheeriness of the kitchen.
Was that safe? Even in Blossom Valley?
He had just decided it was none of his business when Kayla came to the door. She didn’t have a scrap of makeup on and had her honey-colored hair scraped back in a ponytail. She was wearing a bib apron tied over a too-large T-shirt and faded denim shorts.
The contrast to his world of super sophistication—women who wore designer duds even when they were dressed casually, and who were never seen in public without makeup on and hair done—was both jarring and refreshing.
Kayla looked real. She also looked as if she had been up for hours, and the smell of toast—so normal it hurt his heart—wafted out the door.
For a moment she looked disconcerted to see him—not nearly as pleased to be caught in such a natural state as he had been to catch her in it—but then her expression brightened.
“Have you heard something about Bastigal?” she asked eagerly.
“No, I’m sorry. I just brought you back your sweater.”
“Oh.” She looked crushed. “Thanks.”
She opened the door, and it screeched outrageously on rusting hinges. He noticed she didn’t even have the hook latched on it.
“Do you have a phone yet?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“You should get one,” he said, “and you should lock your door. At least do up the latch on the screen.”
She looked annoyed at his concern, rather than grateful. “This is Blossom Valley,” she said. “You and I ‘prowling’ was probably the biggest news on the criminal front in years.”
“Bad stuff happens everywhere,” he said sternly.
“If it’s safe enough for you to sleep out under the stars, it’s safe enough for me to leave my screen door unlatched.”
He glared at her.
“The latch is broken,” she