Len shielded her eyes, discomfort stretching over her like shadows from the large oaks. She needed more sleep. That’s why she’d forgotten the word. Her eyes followed the tree trunks upward.
Vertical.
She could do something with that, something interesting, if she found the right subject.
A jet of sun spliced the leaves and fell across her nose, warming it. Why had she stopped shooting outside? Outside was wonderful. Outside, she felt like herself.
A tug gripped her insides, calling her to lie on the grass. She used to do that as a kid, letting the sun evaporate all her second-grade worries. And from the ground she could surely find an awesome shot, right? The perfect angle for vertical.
She squatted down, but couldn’t quite bring herself to sprawl out. Some mushroom clusters caught her eye—they grew in the more heavily shaded areas. And some kind of beetle tiptoed along a particularly high dandelion weed. Disgusting. She remembered the stray cats that wandered the neighborhood, encouraged by the widowed man who left out food for them.
Len’s neck tensed. The cats probably peed all over this grass. They probably had diseases, too. Maybe even parasites had dropped off them and lay in wait in the weeds. She imagined the diseases lurking, invisible to the human eye, biding time until an unsuspecting human sat on them.
Len crouched as far as she could without toppling over, then snapped a couple photos of the treetops. She checked the camera screen. The pictures were blurry.
Somewhere in the dense leaves above, a nuthatch twittered. Then a chickadee trilled its name. Len looked up, trying to discern their shapes in the branches. Nonni had taught her dozens of birdsongs, and chickadee was one of her favorites. “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,” she mouthed along with the bird.
Before she realized it, she was scanning the branches for a blue jay. They weren’t common guests in the yard, but they’d always been Nonni’s favorite and were the first bird she’d searched for with the binoculars Nonni had given her on her seventh birthday.
Len still had those binoculars, somewhere.
“For our nature walks,” her grandmother had said when she gifted them, and Len had grinned conspiratorially. Their walks were about much more than nature. They were Len’s free space, her safe space to let her ideas tumble out unfiltered. The place she reported her grade school dilemmas. Nonni had always helped her work things out.
It was Nonni who first told Len that photography could be more than a hobby; Nonni who got her into a real photography class—a summer session offered through Root and Wings, the private art school downtown. Len’s family never could have afforded it, but the instructor was in Nonni’s book club and said Len could come for free.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Nonni had winked at her. “Remember that, Len.”
Len pushed aside her overgrown bangs and the memory with them.
The chickadee called again, and this time she saw it, the black cap of its white head a stark contrast to the leaf that half-concealed its fragile body. She zoomed in and snapped several close-ups before it flew off. When she checked to see if she’d gotten anything decent, Len’s head went light. The last photo was slightly blurry from movement, but there was no mistaking the large bird that photobombed it: a blue jay.
Len scanned the trees for minutes, but it was no good. The bird was gone. She looked back at the photo.
Dad talked about signs sometimes. Being so in tune with what he and Mom called the Life Force that he felt the universe sent him messages sometimes—answers to questions about his path. Mom had had fewer signs than Dad, but she’d definitely received some, and Fauna used to talk endlessly about the sign that led her to the bakery where she’d met Diane.
She felt guilty about it, but privately Len had wondered if they all weren’t mixing up signs with coincidences.
She replaced the lens cap and switched off the camera, the guilty feeling blooming wider. Those thoughts were probably why she’d never had a sign before. They were probably also why her brain was messing up so much lately, because it was messing up, wasn’t it? She hadn’t always been afraid of mushrooms and the possibility of cat pee on the grass. Had she? The fear jabbed her, so visceral that it was hard to remember. She rubbed her head, wondering if she was slowly losing her mind.
Above her, the chickadee called again, and Len looked up. “I’m just tired,” she muttered, and she maybe kind of believed it. Anyway, she couldn’t think about herself anymore, because she’d had a sign, finally. And she was going to act on it.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Len pulled Nonni’s old Chevy C/K pickup into the parking lot of North Carolina Assisted Living in Hendersonville. She should not have driven it; Mom and Dad had let the insurance lapse last month, since Mom was the only one who really needed a car for work, and they needed the extra money. The C/K was strictly “for emergencies only.”
Len eased into a shaded parking spot. This was an emergency of sorts, though, wasn’t it? A sign. She thought Dad would think so, though she hadn’t walked to the park to check. Besides, it still needed to be driven occasionally. Wouldn’t cars die if they sat too long? She thought she’d heard that somewhere.
She grabbed her camera bag from the passenger seat and hopped out. The gardens surrounding North Carolina Assisted Living were magazine beautiful. They should be, Len thought, given what they had to pay, but then she felt guilty immediately. She didn’t begrudge Nonni—only the fact that anyone should have to end up in a place like this, however lovely the landscape or skilled the nurses. Life wasn’t just unfair. Sometimes it was downright malicious.
“She’s in the atrium,” the woman at the front desk said when Len signed in. “Do you know where that is?”
Len nodded. “Is Jamie with her?”
The woman checked a chart. “That’s right.”
“Thanks.” Len followed the floral carpet to the east wing of the building. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d visited Nonni without Mom. In the beginning, she’d come often, bringing flowers and photographs she’d taken, trying to recreate things how they used to be despite the new living arrangements. Nonni had recognized her then and could participate in a lot of the conversation. But her memory declined quickly and once—the last time Len had come by herself—Nonni had even been afraid of her. The head nurse, Jamie, said it wasn’t personal, that it happened with dementia patients sometimes. But Len hadn’t been able to shake the image: Nonni, who’d held her hand and kept her secrets, curling away from her in fear.
She’d only visited with Mom after that.
Len pushed the memory to her mind’s back burner before her unease boiled over. The hall uncurled to reveal a spacious, window-filled room overlooking the gardens. Fresh gardenias in slim white vases scented the air. A few elderly patients peppered the room. One of them played cards with a younger man, probably his son.
Nonni sat near a pair of double doors, spools of cherry red and lilac blue yarn in her lap. Her fingers worked with expert speed. Jamie sat near her, reading from Nonni’s favorite Mary Oliver book. A pang of longing shot through Len. How many times had Nonni read to her from that same book—had used its poems to quiet Len’s fears?
When you’re creative, Nonni told her once, pulling the book from the shelf, your heart is more open. Your body’s more sensitive and alive. We feel everything deeper, Lennie, even the bad things.
She’d give anything for Nonni to read to her again. Her fingers ached to touch the pages once more, the paper worn to velvety smoothness by Nonni’s raisined fingertips. Instead, Len’s hands clenched in her gloves and she remembered a favorite phrase of Mom’s: Impossible dreams waste time and the soul.
Nonni grinned, and Len followed her gaze outside.
Of course. The bird feeder.
Another sign? Len took a quick breath and plastered on a smile, steeling herself. “Nonni!” She nodded a hello to Jamie, and then walked close enough to her grandmother to let her know she was talking to her, b
ut—she hoped—not too close to startle her. “Hey, Nonni,” she said again. “How are you?”
Nonni’s eyes flitted upward, her face open and childlike. “Hello there. What’s your name?”
Len wasn’t sure why her chest clenched; she’d known what was coming. She sat on a tufted plaid chair next to Nonni. “I’m Len,” she said, squeezing the edge of the cushion. She stopped herself from saying “remember,” like Jamie had taught her. Instead she added, “Your granddaughter.”
“That’s a nice name, Len. Unusual, but I like it.” Nonni blinked. “Are you a new nurse?”
Jamie gave Len an encouraging smile, then laid the book aside and went to check on another resident.
“No, I’m not a nurse. I’m here to visit you.” Len scooted her chair closer. “How are you, Nonni?”
Her grandmother stopped knitting. “Who’s Nonni?”
Len closed her eyes. Opened them. She regained her smile. “I have something to show you. A photograph of a bird. Would you like to see it?”
Recognition lit Nonni’s face. “I love birds.”
“Yes, I know. Look here.” Len held out her camera, a close-up of the blue jay on the screen. “The tail’s a little blurry, but can you tell what it is?”
Nonni’s fingers reached for the image. “A blue jay.”
Tiny flakes of hope rose inside Len, warm and buttery as the rolls she used to help Nonni bake. “Do you remember we used to look for them together?” she asked. “I didn’t even know there was one in our yard until I saw it in the photo. It made me think of you and, I don’t know, I thought it might mean something?” She paused, embarrassed slightly. She and Nonni had always been the more skeptical ones in the family, although after everything that happened, they’d clearly been wrong.
Len tried again. “It seemed like a sign that I should visit today—that maybe you’d remember.” She swallowed. “That you could help.”
Nonni took Len’s gloved hand in her own, patting it. “You remind me of someone.”
Len’s eyes widened. Nonni’s memory did return sometimes, or at least pieces and flickers of it. Maybe today was one of those times. Wasn’t that why the blue jay had sent her?
“Yes,” Len encouraged. “I’m your granddaughter, Lennie. We used to be together, like, all the time.”
“Lennie,” Nonni repeated, nodding, and Len’s hope sparked hot and white. Nonni blinked. “Do you work here?”
Len sat back, disappointment crashing through her. What had she expected? Did she really think a blue jay sent her here? A dull ache crept up her temples. But what were the odds? Plus, she and Nonni hadn’t bought into the signs idea, and now they were suffering. Was that a coincidence, too, or a punishment? Some kind of cosmic karma?
Len pressed her hands together, bringing them in front of her face. She needed to get a grip. She needed to breathe. Her eyes closed, Dad’s voice echoing through her. She needed a positivity mantra.
“Why are you sad?” asked Nonni.
Len’s eyes blinked open, but her mind went as blurry as the blue jay’s tail. No, not just her mind. She felt blurry, her whole self. She sat straighter, trying to remember a useful mantra, when her eyes snagged on a dark splotch on the carpet. Too large for ink. The wrong consistency for paint. Her pulse quickened. Probably a drink stain, that’s all. But this was a care facility, so what if it was blood? Or urine? Or, dear God, remnants of feces? So many of the residents needed bathroom help. Had she stepped in it? What if they hadn’t cleaned it correctly?
Her heartbeat dropped to her wrists, its pulsing wild enough to scare her. This wasn’t right. She wasn’t right.
Nonni patted Len’s gloves again, yanking her from the dizzying thoughts. “Is it cold out there?” Nonni asked. “It looks nice.”
Len stared at her amber-flecked brown eyes, the same eyes Len recognized from the mirror. Some part of her was still in there, wasn’t it? The Nonni she’d grown up with, to whom she’d told all her secrets? Maybe she could still help, somehow. “Nonni,” Len said. “You told me once, um, before we knew you were sick, you told me that sometimes you felt like you were going crazy.” She licked her lips, not quite sure how to ask what she needed. “Did you worry about”—she swallowed—“things you never worried about before? Things that now really scare you?”
Nonni’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “Mmhmm.” She squeezed Len’s hand.
“Nonni?” Len leaned in, so close that she breathed in the lavender essential oil Nonni had worn as long as she could remember. The scent of it cracked her voice. “I think I might be going crazy.”
Nonni tilted her head sharply, her eyes boring into Len as they’d done when she was problem solving, and for a moment Len thought that this must all be a mistake. Nonni wasn’t sick. She remembered Len perfectly and she’d say so and they’d leave here together and Len would take her home where Nonni could fix everything.
“My daughter!” Nonni said, so decisively that Len pulled away, startled. Nonni pointed at her. “That’s who it is.” She chuckled, pleased with herself. “You remind me of my daughter.”
Len wasn’t sure what to say. “Yes, well, I’m her daughter.”
“She’s about your age.”
“No—” Len began.
“I wish she visited me,” Nonni said. “My own daughter never visits me.”
Len’s vision darkened. “Oh, Nonni.” Thank God Mom wasn’t here. “She does visit you. Every day, nearly. She loves you so much.”
Nonni looked back to the bird feeder, sadness pulling down her mouth.
“Please don’t ever say that to Mom,” Len begged. “Okay?” Reasoning with a late-stage dementia patient was nonsensical, Len knew, but she couldn’t not say it. Had Mom already heard it? She never gave Len exact details from her visits, other than that Nonni was declining fast, but Len hadn’t realized it was like this. What else was Mom not telling her?
When she looked back, Nonni was smiling again, eyes as wide as the deer’s that sometimes passed through their yard. They were vivid eyes. Eyes still so full of life and stories. Len forced a small smile back.
“Hello,” Nonni said. “What’s your name?”
* * *
“Try not to take it personally,” Jamie told her, walking Len to the edge of the atrium. “The disease, it’s terrible.”
“It’s just happening so fast.”
“Yes.”
Len rubbed her arms, trying to shake a chill billowing from her insides, and took a look around the room. Another attendant was talking to the young man playing cards, helping him with something. “Wait,” Len said. “Is that guy a resident?”
Jamie glanced back, confused. “They’re all residents.”
“But that one,” Len said. “That man. He’s so young, isn’t he?”
Jamie let out a long sigh. “Relatively.” She bit her lip. “Unfortunately, not the youngest I’ve ever seen, not by far.”
The words jolted Len. “How old was the youngest?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me,” Len said. “Please.”
Jamie glanced back at Nonni, who had returned to her knitting. “When I worked in DC,” Jamie said quietly, “I had a patient who was ten years old.” She swallowed. “Hardest time of my professional life.”
Len almost dropped her camera. “A child with dementia?”
“It’s incredibly rare, of course. So rare. But it does happen. Oh, are you all right?”
But Len was already booking it down the hall.
CHAPTER TEN
SAGE
“YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT TO COME?” ELLA ASKED SAGE after practice. “Since when do you turn down a chocolate cherry shake from Cookout?”
Sage gripped the bleachers, where she’d been camped out all practice, and managed a half-smile, her knuckles white from the effort. “Since I’m benched.”
Ella gave her a sympathetic grin. “I’m sure you’ll be cleared soon.”
Sage couldn’t make her mouth work.
She’d told Kayla—and by extension, the team—that she was waiting on test results, which was technically true, since Dr. Friedman had agreed to send her echo to a hypertrophic cardiomyopathy specialist in Charlotte for a second opinion. She’d neglected, however, to let them know the most important part—that that specialist might confirm Dr. Friedman’s diagnosis, and what that confirmation would mean—that Sage would never play another point of volleyball again.
Honestly, Sage wasn’t sure her mouth could form the words.
Ella’s look turned questioning, like she was waiting for Sage to respond. Sage thought she might throw up.
Kayla moved beside her. “Y’all go on ahead,” she told Ella. “We’ll meet up with you at the game.”
For a second, Sage thought Kayla had guessed her secret. But then Kayla smiled at her, and Sage was sure she had no idea. “You should go with them,” Sage said, hating to keep her friend from their team dinner ritual before football games. Cookout was Kayla’s favorite when it came to fast food. “It’s fine.”
“Nah, I’m not feeling Cookout today.” Kayla slung her gym bag across her chest. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to the bridge.”
Relief gushed over Sage. “Yeah. Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway, winding higher and higher through the mountains. Kayla sat at the wheel of the Subaru, since Sage hadn’t felt like driving. Sage stuck a steaming curly fry in her mouth, the first real piece of food she’d eaten since yesterday afternoon. She still wasn’t hungry so she hadn’t protested when Kayla suggested Arby’s, but she could never resist the fries. “There!” she said suddenly, tiny fry bits flying from her mouth. She pointed to the unmarked trail just before the curve.
Kayla slammed on the brakes and jerked the car into the tiny, just-wide-enough pull off. Sage grabbed onto the roof handle as gravel flew up and clunked the underside of the car.
“Sorry,” Kayla said as the car lurched to a stop. “I don’t know why I always think it’s one turn up.”
Sage grabbed the Arby’s bag and led the way to the overgrown trail, which looked more like a deer path than an actual hiking trail. Kayla fell in step with her, pushing aside weeds and snapping fallen twigs with almost every step. They couldn’t see the ravine yet, and wouldn’t if they stayed on the path, but they never stayed on the path. Instead, they made their way to the root side of a massive fallen oak tree that formed a natural bridge to the other side of the ravine, almost twenty feet away.
The Edge of Anything Page 6
