“It’s gone bad.”
Her mother’s face twisted with displeasure. The narrowed eyes and pinched mouth was an expression Susannah remembered well from her childhood. It was the same frown she got when she’d misbehaved.
“I think we should take that carton back to Safeway and demand a refund. They sold me spoiled milk.”
“Now, Mom…”
“It’s just like those big chain stores to take advantage of a widow. Well, I won’t stand for it.”
“Mom, it’s too early in the morning to get upset. Drink your coffee and we’ll talk about it later.” Susannah figured it was pointless to explain that Vivian had bought the milk six or seven weeks ago and then forgotten all about it.
As her mother poured coffee from the sterling silver coffeepot, her hand trembled. Susannah had to bite her lip to keep from stepping forward and taking over. When Vivian finished, she sat down at the kitchen table, seeming rather pleased with herself. Susannah could only suppose it was because she’d managed without spilling a drop.
“I had a nice visit with Carolyn Bronson,” Susannah commented, as she joined her mother at the table.
“Who, dear?”
“Carolyn Bronson. Remember, you saw her recently and she gave you her phone number? We met last night at the pub where the old A & W used to be.”
“Oh, yes, of course. How are her parents?”
Susannah found this sporadic forgetfulness frustrating—and sad. But if she reminded Vivian that both Mr. and Mrs. Bronson had died, she might upset her. In any event, she had more pressing subjects to discuss. She decided to be intentionally vague. “I’m not sure, Mom.”
“Mrs. Bronson is a funny one.” She leaned closer to Susannah and lowered her voice. “She’s always putting on airs because she’s French.”
“Carolyn was one of my best friends all through school,” Susannah said mildly.
“I tried to be friendly,” her mother continued, ignoring her remark. “Went out of my way, in fact, but apparently I wasn’t good enough for the likes of Brigitte Bronson.”
“Carolyn sent you her best.”
“She was a sweet girl.” Vivian sipped her coffee and again Susannah noticed how her mother’s hand trembled as she lifted the cup. “Unlike her mother…”
Susannah didn’t want to get involved in a mean-spirited conversation about Brigitte, but she knew what Vivian meant. Although nothing was ever said, Susannah had always had the impression that Carolyn’s mother didn’t approve of their friendship. As an adult, she was able to analyze those feelings, understanding that Mrs. Bronson was a woman whose unhappiness made her cold and resentful.
Susannah waited until her mother had finished her first cup of coffee before she brought up the subject of assisted living. “You must be rambling around this house all by yourself,” she began casually.
Her mother stared at her. “Not at all.”
“Are you lonely?”
A soft smile turned up the edges of Vivian’s mouth. “I was until your father came back to see me.”
“Mom—” Susannah bit off words of protest. She was afraid that her mother had lost her grip on reality and grown comfortable in her fantasy world.
Vivian studied her as though waiting for Susannah to comment on her father’s visits.
“Actually, Mom,” Susannah said, gathering her resolve. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
“What is it?” her mother asked.
“Mom,” Susannah said, praying for the right words. “I’m concerned about you being here all alone, especially now that Martha’s quit.”
“Don’t be,” she said, calmly dismissing Susannah’s apprehensions. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Would you consider moving to Seattle?” That would solve so many problems, but even as Susannah asked she knew it was futile.
“And leave Colville?” Her mother appeared to mull it over, then shook her head. “I can’t. Much as I’d love to be closer to you and the grandchildren, I won’t leave my home.”
Susannah knew that change of any kind terrified Vivian.
“Doug and your father are buried here,” her mother went on.
“Mom—”
“My friends are close by.”
Most of whom were dead or dying, but Susannah couldn’t bring herself to mention it. “I’d be able to visit far more often,” she offered as enticement, hoping against hope that her mother would see the advantages of moving.
Vivian sipped her coffee and allowed the cup to linger at her lips a moment longer than usual, as if she was considering the prospect again. Slowly she shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear, but this is my home. Seattle is way too big a city for me. I’d be lost there.”
Susannah reached across the table and took her mother’s fragile hand. “That’s something else we need to discuss. Mom, I’m afraid this house is too much for you.”
“What do you mean?” An edge sharpened her voice.
“I worry about you here all alone, trying to cope with maintenance and—”
“Nonsense.”
“Who’ll shovel the sidewalk when it snows?”
“I’ll hire a neighborhood boy.”
“What would you do if a water pipe broke?”
“The pipes aren’t going to break, Susannah. Now stop being difficult.”
Susannah didn’t feel she was the one who was being difficult. The more she thought about the problems faced by an elderly person living alone—especially an elderly person losing her memory—the more worried she became.
“I don’t know why you’d want to come all the way from Seattle to talk such nonsense to me,” Vivian said in a querulous voice.
Susannah remembered what Mrs. Henderson had said about her attempt to discuss assisted living back in March. That had probably influenced today’s response—if Vivian even remembered the earlier conversation. Regardless, Susannah had hoped that by pointing out a number of practical issues, she could get Vivian to realize on her own the advantages of moving into an assisted-living complex. Clearly that approach wasn’t going to work.
“Mom, I think we need to sell the house.”
“What?” Vivian banged her cup against the saucer, her eyes wide. “For the last time, Susannah, I am not leaving my home. I am stunned that you would even suggest such a thing.”
“Mother—”
Without another word, Vivian stood, deposited her cup and saucer in the sink and disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom, muttering as she left.
Susannah planted her elbows on the table, and cupped her ears with her hands. She closed her eyes, silently praying for wisdom. She hadn’t expected this to be easy, but so far she was getting absolutely nowhere.
After Vivian had dressed, she came back into the kitchen. Ignoring Susannah, she collected a straw basket and clippers. The garden was in full bloom; irises and roses were two of Susannah’s favorites and they were in abundant display along the white picket fence. The lilacs were pruned and shapely, and their heady scent drifted through the open window.
Given her mother’s limited endurance, Susannah had been surprised to discover that the garden looked quite good, although the fence was a disaster. The paint had faded and one entire section tilted precariously.