Close To Home (Westen Series) (12 page)

Closing her eyes and taking a mental step into the whirlpool of uncertainty, Emma nodded her agreement.

“Good.”

“Emma, dear. Is your young man staying for breakfast?” Mama asked as she approached the pair.

Emma shot to her feet, self-conscious that her mother found her talking so intimately with Clint and frustrated that she’d made an assumption that there was more to their relationship. “Mama, Doctor Preston isn’t…”

“I can’t stay for breakfast, Miss Isabelle,” Clint interrupted Emma as he stood and took her mother’s hand in his. “Harriett has a full morning of patients scheduled for me over at the clinic and would tan my hide if I kept anyone waiting. Perhaps you and Emma could drop by the clinic this afternoon for a little visit?”

“Why, we’d be delighted to.” Mama actually blushed, then turned and floated back to the kitchen.

Emma rolled her eyes heavenward. “Honestly, I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth next. Sometimes I feel like I have a teenager living with me.” Shaking her head, she went to the front door and held it open for him. “You don’t need to take time out of your busy day to visit with Mama."

He paused on the other side of the screen door, all semblance of humor gone from his features. “I’d really like to see both of you at the clinic today, Emma.”

“That sounds rather ominous.” She gave a nervous laugh. When he didn’t respond in a like manner, a shiver of dread crept over her skin. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s not anything life-threatening, but we’ll talk about it this afternoon.” He gave her a nod then walked down the porch stairs.

As she watched him saunter across the street to the clinic, she shivered again, praying he wasn’t going to give her more bad news.

* * *

“I saw you out working in your rose garden the other day, Miss Isabelle. What exactly do you do to get such beautiful flowers?” Clint asked Mama as if it were just casual conversation.

The knot in Emma’s stomach tightened in response. She knew it wasn’t just another question, just like all the other innocuous questions he’d asked her weren’t idle conversation. She may not be a doctor, but she knew exactly what he was doing. For the past hour he’d quietly been testing her mother’s memory and speech patterns—looking for memory lapses to the simple answers.

“I feed and water them weekly. Usually I use…” Mama paused looking for the right word.

“Fertilizer…” Emma gently added.

Mama smiled at her. “Fertilizer in a gallon of water.”

“Is there anything else you do?”

“Well, I cut them back regularly. A good…” Again, Mama searched for the word.

“Pruning?” Emma asked. During the last hour she’d realized just how many times during a conversation she’d supplied a missing word for her mother. Over the past months it had become second nature to fill in the blanks.

“Yes, pruning. It encourages new blossoms.” Her mother sat back in her chair, then quietly looked about the paneled walls of the doctor’s office.

Clint pushed the button on his intercom then wrote a few notes on the pad of paper in front of him. Almost instantly Harriett appeared at the office door.

“Isabelle, why don’t you come have a cup of tea with me out on the veranda?”

“Thank you, Harriett. I believe I’d love to.” Mama paused at the door and looked back at Emma hesitantly. “Are you going to join us, dear?”

Emma shook her head. As much as she wanted to avoid it, she knew Clint wanted to talk to her in private about her mother. “I’ll be along in a bit. You have a nice visit with Harriett.”

Once the two women were gone and the door shut firmly behind them, Emma turned to face Clint once more. Her fingers laced together in her lap, she clenched her palms together and took a deep breath. “So, what did you discover with all those questions? I’m sure you’re not really interested in quilting, canning and gardening.”

He pulled a slip of paper out of the file on his desk. “I have a few questions for you about your mother’s behavior since your father’s death. Let’s go through those then we’ll talk.”

She knew she should appreciate his professionalism, but her nerves were already frayed from worry and she wished he’d just get on with telling her what he suspected. Otherwise, she might just explode or put her fist through his window, because right now she really felt like hitting something.

“Does your mother need to be reminded to do things around the house like chores or cooking a meal?”

“Occasionally.”

“Does she seem sad, cry more often?”

“Yes, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Her husband of fifty-five years died less than a year ago.”

He looked at her with compassionate eyes. “Yes, it’s part of the grieving process.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from letting her own tears start.

“Did she have to give up driving?”

“No.”

“No? You mean she still drives?”

If the situation with Mama weren’t so worrisome, the look of incredulity on his face would be funny. “No. What I mean is Mama never did drive.”

“Really?” He held his pen between his two hands and studied her as if she’d announced she’d discovered men on Mars. “In this modern age she never learned to drive?”

“She was a stay-at-home mom and we lived in a small town where she could walk anywhere she needed to go—like the groceries, over to the school, church or even here to see Doc Ray. If she needed to go to the shopping mall in Columbus or Newark, then Daddy would take us all on Saturday.”

Clint nodded his head as if that made sense then looked at the paper in front of him again. “Has she become forgetful lately? Like forgetting where she’s placed things? Or having trouble with short-term memory?”

With a deep sigh, Emma nodded. “You already know she does.”

“Does she repeat herself often or ask the same question over and over again?”

Emma considered the question and thought back over the past few months. Her mother had been repeating questions she’d just been given the answer to. Had she simply been distracted by the chaos of her grandsons? Or was there some other reason behind her behavior?

“Yes, she has.” Emma took a deep breath and asked the question she’d been avoiding for months. “Does Mama have Alzheimer’s?”

T
he sound of the clock’s second hand clicking off several seconds echoed in the silence that filled the office. Clint braced for Emma’s reaction to his diagnosis. She had so many problems in her life right now he hated handing her one more. He gripped his pen in both hands and lifted his gaze across the desk to hers.

Her pale face, tear-filled eyes and stiff posture as she teetered on the edge of her chair tore at his heart. Over the years he’d delivered bad news to numerous patients and their families. This time was different. How did he tell someone he’d become friends with bad news? How had Uncle Ray done it time and time again for so many years?

Setting his pen down, he stood and walked around the desk. He leaned on the desk’s edge in front of her and took her hand in his. “Yes, I think your mother is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, Emma.”

She gasped softly, her bottom lip trembling a moment before she caught it with her teeth. Her hand squeezed his as she inhaled and exhaled slowly.

Watching her broke his heart. He wanted to gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. However, he was talking to her as her mother’s physician right now, not as a friend. He couldn’t hide the facts of her mother’s condition from her—especially not a condition that would change not only her mother’s life, but also her whole family’s completely over the coming months and years.

“I can’t afford a nursing home for her.” Desperation and guilt filled her voice.

“That’s not something you need to think about right now. According to the research, the longer Alzheimer’s patients remain in their own environment, the slower the progression of the disease.”

“Really?”

He nodded at her.

She squeezed his hand then seemed to compose herself with another deep breath. “There isn’t a cure yet, is there?”

“No, although more and more research is being done all the time.” He didn’t want to fill her with false hope. “I’m not sure their efforts will be in time to actually help your mother, but they may make enough advances to help keep her at home longer.”

“How long do you think that will be?”

“The early stages can last two to four years. The symptoms are mild and you’ve already learned to deal with them—forgetfulness, mild confusion, getting lost in strange places.”

“Like when she decided to walk home from the Miller’s down the highway?”

“Yes, and believing Cleetus was the taxi driver.”

A wistful smile played on her lips. She released his hand and relaxed back in her seat. “If it hadn’t been so dangerous, it would’ve been funny.”

“You realize she can no longer be considered an adequate caregiver for the boys, don’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips into a firm line. “I figured that out the day you put casts on the boys’ wrists. In fact, I’ve been aware something serious was wrong with Mama for a few months now. I just didn’t want to face it.” She stared out the window a moment then looked back at him. “Denial. It’s the first stage in the grieving process, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Then anger.” As much as he wanted to reach out and touch her once more, he returned to his own seat instead, already missing the physical contact of holding her hand. She’d needed his strength for a few minutes and he’d gladly given it. Now that the initial shock was over, she’d moved past the need for his help. He admired her independence even while he wanted to solve all her problems for her.

“You said Mama is in the early stage of the disease? What comes next?”

“It depends. The symptoms vary from person to person. Her memory will deteriorate. She may begin having difficulty with activities of daily living, such as brushing her hair, showering, choosing clothes for the day.”

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away. “Mama would be devastated. She’s always been very…particular about her appearance.” Emma crossed one leg over the other, tapping her hand on her knee. “Anything else?”

“She may start to wander at night.”

“Out of the house?” Panic filled her face. She sat straight up in her chair.

Again, he wanted to ease her worry. “Some people do get out at night, but you already have Harriett sleeping at the house the nights you work. I doubt even Houdini could escape her watchful eye.”

This seemed to reassure Emma some and she eased back in her chair. “When will I need to think of placing her in a nursing home?”

“Once she requires more than general supervision. That might be years from now.” He picked up the business card on his desk. “This is the name and phone number of a county social worker.”

When she opened her mouth to protest, he held his hand up to still her words. “Before you accuse me of trying to take the boys away again, let me explain.”

She clamped her lips together, but anger kept her eyes narrowed. Sometimes talking with Emma was like working around a time bomb—a very cute, very sensitive time bomb. The least little move and he could set her off. He wondered what she’d do if he ever tried to kiss her.

Whoa. Where did that come from?
He needed to focus on the matter at hand—Isabelle’s health—and nothing personal.

“Ms. Wilson specializes in geriatrics. You can meet with her to discuss your mother’s situation. She’ll be a good resource person for you when the time comes to move Miss Isabelle out of your home.”

Emma took the card and read the name printed on it, her spark of anger once more diffused. “I know Elizabeth. She eats dinner at the Peaches ‘N Cream every Wednesday. It’s the day she visits her clients in this end of the county.”

“Why don’t you meet with Elizabeth one afternoon this week? She can fill you in on care options for your mother and when they’ll be needed better than I can.”

“I can’t this week. I have work to do on the house and the boys will be so wound up after school.”

“I’ll keep the boys busy after school.”

When she drew her brows together and stared at him, he knew she’d quickly forgotten their earlier discussion. He tried to squelch his disappointment. She’d just been given devastating news that would make anyone forget what had happened earlier in the morning. “I’m going to work on the house in the afternoons, remember?”

“You’re starting this week?” She seemed to suddenly remember his plans to help her.

So much for making an impression.
“That’s what we discussed this morning. The supplies are there and I’ve instructed Harriett to keep my afternoons free for the next few weeks.”

“That makes sense.” A light blush filled her cheeks and she nodded. “I’ll call Elizabeth to set up a meeting.”

“I’d like to start your mother on medication. It’s shown to have an effect on improving memory and slowing down the disease’s progression.” Clint picked up the other paper on his desk and handed it to her. “It’s not a cure, but it might help with activities of daily living.”

She took the paper and read it. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Not right now.” At least nothing to do with her mother’s care. He didn’t think asking her to have dinner with him would appear too professional, so he walked around the desk as she stood and opened the door for her.

She held out her hand. “Thank you for taking the time to look all this up for me. You could have simply left me to find it out on my own.”

“I’m new at this kind of medicine, Emma. Usually in the ER I just refer people to specialists. But Uncle Ray would follow through, so I just did what he would’ve done.”

She stopped in the doorway, laid her hand on his and smiled. “He taught you well. Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Doctor Preston.”

As he watched her walk out the front door he hoped so, at least where she was concerned.

* * *

Clint hammered the last nail into the wall’s stud frame. Standing, he stretched the aching muscles of his back and arms. Despite telling Emma about his past construction experience, he hadn’t told his body how much work it was in for when he came up with the idea of helping her. Every muscle in his body had ached for days now.