“That’s my girl.” I sling an arm over her shoulder and squeeze, careful not to mess her artfully curled hair cascading down her back. We stand side by side, looking at ourselves in the mirror. Brooke’s radiant in an ice blue strapless satin dress with a skirt that flares around her calves, her make-up subtle, her hair glowing gold. She’s exquisite and more like Diana in that moment than any other. Her mother would be proud.
Predictably, Freya’s mood takes a turn for the worse when Eli turns up, breathtakingly gorgeous in a tux, with a stunning orchid corsage for Brooke. Freya manages to fake it around him, saying he looks great and to have a good time, but I see the signs of strain around her mouth.
When Eli and Brooke head for their limo, I hang back. I won’t be far behind in my car because chaperones have to be at the high school hall on time. But I want to speak to Freya. She takes one look at my face and holds up her hand.
“I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about this, okay?”
“It’ll be your turn next year, honey—”
“But it won’t be with Eli,” she says, tears in her eyes before she runs to her room and slams the door.
That had been several hours ago and I called Freya once to check on her. She hadn’t answered. I hadn’t expected her to. I know her jealousy will peter out over the course of the evening and hopefully by the time I get home, she’ll want to share a hot chocolate with me while I regale her with tales designed to make her laugh; like how the principal got caught kissing the new gym teacher, and how the football jocks mooned their coach.
However, my plans for a quiet time with Freya when the dance ends are scuttled when Brooke begs me to host the after-party at our house. Eli’s mother is having another of her migraines so he can’t have the party at his place as originally planned.
I want to refuse. If Freya couldn’t cope with seeing Eli and Brooke before the prom, how’s she going to react with all the most popular kids in her home?
Brooke asked Freya to join the party if she wanted and Freya had given an offhand shrug before heading to her room. That had been fifteen minutes ago and I’m too busy setting out the food the kids picked up from Eli’s on the way over to check on her.
I’m pouring ginger ale into the punch bowl to top it up when I hear the clack of heels behind me. I turn to find Freya in a tight black dress that looks suspiciously like Brooke’s, her hair slicked back and caught in a low bun, with dramatically made up eyes and fire engine red lips. She looks way older than seventeen and like she’s ready for trouble.
I know better than to ruin her effort by a chastisement, so I settle for, “You look grown up.”
“I want to be noticed.” She places her hands on her hips, bold and defiant.
I want to say that all the figure-hugging clothes and make-up won’t make Eli look at her the way he looks at Brooke. That lusting after her sister’s boyfriend will never end well.
But I choose my response carefully.
“I understand where you’re coming from, especially as we’ve talked about this before. But don’t you think this is Brooke’s night? It’s her prom, she deserves to have a good time.”
A glint of understanding lights her eyes and miraculously I think I’ve gotten through to her, before the glint turns flinty. “Every night is Brooke’s night. She invited me to join the party and I’m going to.”
She flounces toward the back door and I’m compelled to caution her one last time.
“You need to tread carefully, Freya. No good can come of alienating your sister.”
“Your sister,” she mimics, and I’m taken aback by the sheen of tears in her defiant glare. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”
She blinks rapidly and her bottom lip wobbles. Before I can comfort her, she murmurs, “You’re lucky. Your sister died.”
I’m shocked she’s speaking about her mother like that but she’s hurting, and saying stuff she doesn’t mean. I see it in the tears caught on her lashes, in the guilty shift of her eyes. She dabs at the tears with her pinkies, before straightening her shoulders. But her expression is sad rather than insolent, and she gives a little shake of her head before stomping out the door in those ridiculously high heels.
I want to go after her but have no right to lecture after what I did to my sister.
Forty-Nine
Brooke
I’m busy the next day, putting the finishing touches on Freya’s bridal shower. All the guests—mainly work colleagues and a few old school buddies—have RSVP’d, the flowers have been ordered and the caterer has confirmed delivery time for the food. All that’s left is to choose a few corny games to play and I’m sure Hope will have a ball helping me with that.
Once I’ve ticked my last task off the list I can finally start my research into dementia. I read several articles from health journals online last night but some of them are contradictory so I enlist the help of an expert. One of LA’s leading rehab facilities has a neurologist specializing in Alzheimer’s, but her specialty is early onset dementia. We spoke over the phone early this morning and she agreed to meet with me this afternoon. I hadn’t expected such a fast face to face and as I pull into the facility’s car park I hope I’m doing the right thing.
Having too much medical knowledge can be a bad thing and discovering how fast Aunt Alice will deteriorate isn’t something I want to know. But I’d like to be better informed and knowing Freya, if I start asking questions about prognosis and medication, she’ll get defensive and think I’m criticizing her. This way, I’ll be knowledgeable and she doesn’t have to feel so pressured being the primary carer.
The facility looks more like a space-age hotel, all sleek stainless steel lines from the outside. Security is tight as it would have to be for patients inclined to wander and I wait at the air-locked front door after buzzing to be let in. When I hear a high-pitched beep I push the door open and enter a pristine foyer, with artfully arranged flowers in tall vases next to leather chairs around glass-topped coffee tables. I give the receptionist my name and who I’m here to see, then step aside. There’s the faintest hint of ginger blossom in the air, adding to the hotel-like feel of the place. It’s understated elegance makes me wonder if Aunt Alice would be better off in a place like this, surrounded by people in a similar situation, with more than one person who knows how to help her.
From what I’ve observed the last few weeks, Lizzie spends the most time with Alice, making small talk even if she gets few answers. Freya works all day and has to care for Hope, so she rarely spends more than thirty minutes with Aunt Alice at the end of the day, and Riker barely pops in for the reason he’s already told me. Here, she’d be well cared for and who knows, with the right medical attention she may not deteriorate as fast?
It’s something I can broach with Freya once I’m more equipped to understand Aunt Alice’s condition, though it’s a task I’m not looking forward to. Lizzie already told me how insistent Freya is about this. Freya’s stubbornness is legendary; I’d witnessed it too many times growing up to want to incur her wrath. Back then I’d done everything I could to avoid her ‘moods’ rather than stir her up. If I offered help with her schoolwork, she’d turn up her music instead. If I let her have the last slice of pizza, she’d leave it uneaten on her plate. If I wanted to leave a party early, she’d hide so I couldn’t find her. Stubborn to a fault.
“Miss Stuart?” A young woman who looks barely out of college approaches me. She’s wearing a navy skirt suit, low heels, her black hair pulled back in a severe bun. I’d guess she’s an assistant of some sort if not for the stethoscope around her neck and the lanyard dangling alongside it with the name Dr. Aileen Hesham. My dementia expert.
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” I hold out my hand and she shakes it, her grip firm.
“I don’t have much time but we can talk in my office.”
I follow her as she swipes her name-card through several electronic panels located next to sealed doors and as we pass through they close quickly with a
soft whoosh.
“Here we are.” We stop outside a glass-enclosed office that’s surprisingly small for a place this upmarket. “I have ten minutes before my next meeting so let’s get to it.”
I like her no-nonsense approach. She sits behind a huge glass desk that takes up most of the room and I sit opposite.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Dr. Hesham. I’ll get straight to the point. My aunt is fifty and suffering from early onset dementia. It came on quite quickly and she seems to be deteriorating rapidly.”
The doctor’s expression barely flickers. “What exactly are you asking me?”
“Is this normal? Can we slow down the progression?”
She steeples her fingers and rests her elbows on her desk in such a clichéd doctor pose I almost laugh.
“Every patient is different, Miss Stuart, and without having a consultation with your aunt I can’t give you definitive answers.”
Deflated, I slump into the chair. “My aunt seems to be on a lot of medication.”
This surprises the doctor into a barely discernible upward slant of an eyebrow. “Dementia is often treated with cholinesterase inhibitors. They block the actions of an enzyme that destroys an important neurotransmitter for memory. What else is your aunt taking?”
“I don’t know.” I sound like an idiot admitting it. I should’ve come better prepared, done some more research so I can ask insightful questions rather than hoping for some miracle answers.
“Dementia can cause agitation in some patients. They become aggressive, hallucinate, and may have ideas of persecution. They also battle with sleeplessness, depression and anxiety. Does your aunt exhibit any of these?”
I nod. “She’s drowsy all the time.”
“You said she’s taking a lot of medication? It may be for anxiety and depression, perhaps a sleeping aid too?”
I don’t want to interrogate Hope but from what she said it sounded like Aunt Alice was taking a lot more than that. Only Freya can give me answers and at least I now know where to start with my questions.
“What other forms of therapy is your aunt undertaking?”
“I’ve only been back home a few weeks but from what I see she’s doing nothing.”
The doctor’s fingers flatten against the desk, surprise evident in both eyebrows rising. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s living at home with extended family who all look after her.”
The doctor’s brows knit in disapproval. “She doesn’t attend a rehab facility for cognitive stimulation therapy?”
I must look blank because the doctor continues. “CST is a structured program for people with mild to moderate dementia. It’s usually conducted in a group and they’re mentally engaged with activities like singing, playing word games, talking about current events, cooking from a recipe, that kind of thing. She should also be doing reality orientation training, going over the basics like names, dates and times.”
I’m appalled and feel like the worst niece in the world. Why didn’t I research dementia sooner? I’d put my faith in Freya, the expert, but it looks like she’s too busy with her own life to do all these other therapies Aunt Alice needs. Apart from spending time on her laptop or watching TV, Lizzie told me Aunt Alice does nothing.
Dr. Hesham is staring at me with condemnation, like she’s just read my thoughts, so I feel compelled to say, “My sister has been caring for my aunt at home. She’s a nurse at a nursing home but I think she’s too busy to do all that therapy you just mentioned.”
I’m close to tears and the doctor must hear something in my tone because her expression softens. “We do the best we can for our loved ones. So if your sister wants to care for your aunt at home, there are other options like reminiscence therapy that I’ve found works wonders with my patients.”
“What is it?”
“We do it here in groups as part of organized therapy but it can be done one-on-one. You might play music from your aunt’s past, show her old photos or treasured items, get her talking about what her school days were like, her work life, her hometown, that kind of thing. It’s basically getting her to remember the past, probably fragments at first, but with practice it’s an excellent stimulatory tool.”
At last, something I can actively do without feeling so damn helpless.
The doctor glances at her watch and rises. “That’s about all the time I have. Please don’t hesitate to contact me again, Miss Stuart.” She hesitates, before continuing. “I think it would be beneficial for your aunt to have an assessment, either with me or another of my colleagues here. We have the reputation of being the best in this field for a reason.”
She doesn’t sound smug or condescending. She’s confident in her abilities and from our short meeting I am too. I agree; I need to discover who diagnosed Aunt Alice in the first place, and she needs to be assessed by someone new, preferably here. I’ll broach it with Freya and in the meantime I can get started on the reminiscence therapy. Who knows, it might unleash the password Lizzie and I need to access her diary and discover more things to help her?
“Thanks for your time.”
We do the whole door unlocking procedure again down the long corridors before I’m back at reception. Before she turns to leave, she says, “A word of advice, Miss Stuart?”
I nod, the solemnity in her tone scaring me a little.
“Your aunt needs mental stimulation and it’s difficult to get that, locked away. Just because she may not be able to verbalize her needs it doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them.”
Feeling suitably chastised and near to tears again, I mumble my thanks before striding toward the door, more determined than ever to help Aunt Alice any way I can.
Fifty
Freya
Brooke misses dinner. She had an errand to run and from Hope’s weird behavior, alternating between excitement and pretending nothing’s going on, I guess they’ve planned some kind of surprise for me. I’ve seen Hope this way before, when she wanted to surprise me with a cake for my birthday. She’d been busting to tell me but would shy away at the last moment, practically wriggling with excitement, and she’s that way now. I’m relieved, because I still don’t trust Brooke one hundred percent and her vanishing on some mysterious errand would otherwise rouse my suspicion.
It’s nine forty-five when I hear Brooke’s car pull into the drive. She’s back. This time of evening is my favorite time of day, when Hope’s asleep, Riker’s working and Lizzie’s either reading in Aunt Alice’s room or doing whatever she does online. I usually sit on the back porch listening to the distant crash of waves against the cliffs, sipping a chamomile tea. It’s the closest I get to peace these days, switching off the memories and the worry and the guilt.
“Hey, Sis, where’ve you been?”
“LA,” she says, dragging one of the outdoor chairs to place it opposite me before flopping into it. “I need to talk to you about Aunt Alice.”
My guard instantly goes up. It’s my usual defensiveness rising to the fore because I feel like Lizzie, and now Brooke, have been second-guessing my care of Alice lately.
“What do you want to talk about?”
Brooke shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. “I understand you know what’s best for Aunt Alice, and I’m so grateful for all you do in caring for her. But why is she locked away all the time?”
“She’s ‘locked away’ for her own safety. All our patients at work are too.”
“But the nursing home must have common rooms for activities and gardens to wander around.” Her fingers fiddle with the ends of her sleeves and tension makes her jaw jut. “Aunt Alice has none of that. Ever since I’ve been home she’s cooped up.”
“There’s always an adjustment period to the medications and they’ve made her really drowsy. It’s best she stays indoors until she’s more alert.”
Her eyes narrow, and I feel her cool gaze as if she’s assessing me. “But surely she can spend short periods of time outside?”
&
nbsp; I grit my teeth and try to remain calm. It’s all very well for Brooke to care so much now, but where has she been for the last eleven years? “Where’s all this coming from? Who did you see in LA?”
“Dr. Aileen Hesham, one of the top doctor’s specializing in early onset dementia, and she opened my eyes.” A deep frown creases her brow as she folds her arms. “Aunt Alice could be doing so much more.”
“Why did you feel the need to sneak behind my back?” My anger is simmering, flowing through my veins like lava. “I could’ve answered any questions you may have.”
She raises her chin, defiant. She’s not backing down. “In that case, why isn’t she doing cognitive stimulation therapy? And what medications is she on? Does she have hallucinations, sleep issues, anxiety?”
The heat in my veins reaches my face and I’m burning up from the inside out. I need to vent, an outlet for this awful fury rising like a tidal wave that can swamp and devastate. I’ve been angry with my sister in the past, many times, but have only experienced this fury once before.
I push my teacup away before I’m tempted to smash my fist on it. My muscles are tensed and I’m gasping air to cool down.
She notices my distress and one eyebrow slowly rises. “I don’t want to question your decisions, Freya, but why can’t you answer me—”
I leap to my feet. “You can’t waltz back in here after eleven years and presume to know what’s best for our aunt. She’s my responsibility,” I thump my chest, “and I won’t have you butting your nose in when you know nothing about it.”
I know this isn’t the end of it. Brooke has that look, the one I’ve seen in the past, where she won’t let me get away with anything.
“I have no idea why you’re being so defensive about this. Dr. Hesham thinks Aunt Alice should have an assessment at her clinic. She has the best facilities—”
My Sister's Husband Page 18
