Island Girl Read Online Free Page B

are new treatments all the time. New drugs, therapies—”
    “Nothing permanent, nothing guaranteed to stop the progression. All roads eventually lead to a nursing home, and I’ve styled enough hair in those places to know that I don’t want it and I won’t have it. End of discussion.”
    “Ruby, I can’t let you kill yourself.”
    “Fortunately, you don’t have a say in this.”
    “You’re being selfish.”
    “I’m being practical.”
    “And what about Grace? Have you thought about her at all?”
    I laughed, I couldn’t help it. “All I ever do is think about Grace, you know that.”
    “Have you told her you’re sick? Does she know about your plan?”
    “I have no intention of telling her about my plan.” I raised the glass, finished the juice, and pushed the empty toward him for a refill. “I’ll tell her about Big Al once I have everything in place. Which is why I’m here. I need you to help me prepare.”
    Thankfully, he didn’t argue. Just carried my glass to the bar and opened the bottle. “You’ll need a new will. Power of attorney—”
    “Eventually, yes. But first I need Liz to come home. You have to help me find her.”
    He started to protest and I held up a hand. “Don’t tell me you don’t know where she is because it wouldn’t make sense, not even to my mind.”
    He refilled my glass. “I can’t betray—”
    “A confidence? Come on, Mark. Stop thinking like a lawyer and think like a parent instead.” I walked over to the bar, waited until he stopped pouring. “It’s time for Liz grow up and come home, take her proper place in the family again. I don’t expect you to tell me where she is. Just set up a meeting and I’ll take it from there. Can you do that for me?”
    He sighed and set the bottle down, slid my glass toward me. “Fine.”
    I let my breath out slowly. “I appreciate it, Mark.”
    He didn’t answer. Simply walked back to the desk and sat down.
    I turned the bottle around, examined the label. Hadn’t I read somewhere that pomegranate juice is good for the brain? I chugged the stuff like water then went back to the desk. Opened my notebook and took a pen from his holder. Wrote Meet Liz on the second line. MEET LIZ . I wrote again and underlined it. But where? When?
    “Tomorrow at Fran’s on College Street. Six o’clock.” I scribbled that too and glanced over at Mark. Saw fear, frustration, everything I felt myself clearly written on that sweet, ravaged face.
    “Ruby,” he said softly, “you can’t do this alone.”
    I wasn’t ready for the sudden tightness in my throat, the threat of useless tears, the heightened emotions of Alzheimer’s. I picked up my purse. Walked briskly to the door. “Like I said, don’t worry about me. Just make sure Liz is at Fran’s on Wednesday.” I paused with my hand on the knob, but couldn’t risk looking back. “And Mark. Tell her not to be late.”

LIZ
     
    So I was standing outside Fran’s, talking to Mark on my cell phone, when the question came to me. Do you have to forgive someone just because they’re sick?
    “Your mother’s not just sick,” he said. “She has Alzheimer’s.”
    A streetcar arrived at the stop behind me, the driver ringing the bell to summon the last of the rush hour crowd aboard. Ding, ding. Next stop, one block west. Ding, ding . Come one, come all. Ding, ding . Plenty of room in the back. Ding, ding, ding .
    “Irritating prick,” I muttered, and pressed the phone closer to my ear. “No, not you,” I assured Mark. “But I’m curious. How exactly does Ruby having Alzheimer’s change anything?”
    The streetcar moved off and I stepped closer to the glass, watching my mother through the restaurant window. I’m pretty sure Fran’s has been around forever—a landmark for apple pie—and I swear I could smell apples and cinnamon out there on the street while Ruby tossed her jacket into the booth and smiled at the hostess before sliding into her seat.
    I hadn’t seen my mother