LITMIR.BIZ

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coffee perked in the old-fashioned pot behind her. Of course she hadn’t discovered the carton of milk she’d wanted but the door of the fridge held many small bottles and jars, some of them unopened. Just how many types of mustard could one woman accumulate? Susannah counted twelve different varieties—at least eight more than she’d seen during her visit in March.

      “I didn’t hear you get up,” Vivian said, coming into the kitchen. She tied the sash of her housecoat around her waist. Susannah noticed that her mother had taken to shuffling her feet, as if her slippers were too heavy for her. She took tiny steps and looked so much older than she had even a few months ago.

      “Good morning, Mom,” Susannah said cheerfully.

      Her mother brought down a cup and saucer from the cupboard and set them next to the coffeepot. “Did you sleep well?”

      “Very well.”

      Her mother nodded. “Do you need something?”

      Susannah glanced back inside the refrigerator and remembered her father shouting at her as a kid to close the refrigerator door. “I was looking for milk,” she said.

      “I have lots of milk.” Vivian seemed surprised that Susannah hadn’t found it. “I’m positive I got some just the other day.”

      Susannah moved a number of plastic containers onto the counter and sure enough, an unopened milk carton rested at the back of the top shelf. Bringing it out, she placed it on the table and reached for her cup. The smell alerted her the moment she opened the milk. When she saw that the expiry date was over a month ago, she dumped the thick, lumpy liquid down the drain, running water to lessen the foul odor.

      “What’s wrong with it?” Vivian asked.

      “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

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