Introduction

There are people who try hard to forget their problems. All Ruby wants to do is remember...

Ruby Donaldson has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's Disease, and she'll be damned if she won't straighten out her troubled family before she no longer knows how.

Ruby spent years fighting to hold on to the home her grandmother built on Ward's Island. The only way she can ensure that her younger, mentally scarred daughter Grace can live there for the rest of her life is to convince her older daughter, Liz, to sober up and come home.

Ruby always thought she'd have a lifetime to make things right, but suddenly time is running out. She has to put her broken family back together quickly while searching for a way to deal with the inevitable- and do it with all the grit, stubbornness, and unstoppable determination that makes Ruby who she is...until she's Ruby no longer.

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Excerpt

Ruby

If I were a teenager, this would be a coming of age story. But having celebrated my fiftyfifth

birthday yesterday -complete with champagne, cake, and more candles than anyone

wants to see in one place -I suppose this is more a coming of old age story. The tale of a

woman well aware that the best is no longer yet to come. Proud that all the years of

canoeing and weight training and green tea have given her firn1 arms, a straight back and

a heart so strong the little darling will probably beat for years and years to come. Yet

knowing with aching clarity that none of these things will stop, or even slow, the

inevitable decline before her.

Fortunately, it's not all bad news. As those thoughtful cards from the Humorous Birthday section of the Hallmark store pointed out, I may be Over The Hill and Past My Best Before Date, but I am also officially a Junior Senior now, entitling me to a free coffee refill at Donut King and a ten percent discount on power tools this week at the hardware store on Sherbourne. Pity I swore off coffee twenty years ago and already have a shed fuJJ of tools courtesy of Jack Hoyle -the man who finished renovating my second floor bedroom yesterday, and shared it with me last night after the party.

While I never expected my handyman to hang around for the long goodbye, a kiss on the cheek or even an elbow in the ribs would have been better than waking up to find an empty piJJow on my right, and a few words scrawled on the back of an envelope stuck to the fridge. Catching early flight from Hanlan's. Tools in shed for safe-keeping. Good luck, Jack.

I couldn't believe it. After everything I'd explained, after everything he'd read, the idiot had still booked a flight out of the Island airport. Another blatant example of self-interest trumping reason. Then again, what else could I expect from a man with broad shoulders and a narrow mind?

"Good luck to you too, Jack," I whispered, dropping the note into the garbage and smiling as I went to plug in the kettle. I'd always meant to tell him that the old shed leaks like a sieve, see if he wanted to stick around a while longer, maybe fix it for me. But like so many things these days, it must have slipped through a crack in my Junior Senior mind, and I can't imagine I'JJ remember to add that repair to one of my lists any time soon.

The lists are everywhere now. Grocery lists, address lists, lists telling me where to go and when and why. I write them to keep myself on track, to stem the flow of details through those damn cracks. For the most part they work, which is why I am dressed in my best trousers and jacket with my hair freshly highlighted and sprayed into submission. The next ferry leaves at 8:30 a.m. and I plan to be on it, because the first line on today's To Do list reads, Find Liz, and the city is as good a place to start as any.

Of course as my Grandma Lucy used to say, the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley which roughly translates into shit happens, and while I was dropping teabags into the pot, one of those Junior Senior cracks opened wide and in danced Mary Anne Biggs, my closest neighbour, my best friend, and my 8:00 a.m. appointment something

I would have remembered had I checked my appointment book before climbing the stairs with Jack last night.

"Wonderful news," she announced, waltzing herself over to the barber's chair that takes up far too much room in this tiny house, but has enormous sentimental value. "I

have decided to have both a trim and a permanent wave. But you're not to cut my bangs.

If you so much as brush my bangs with your nasty great shears, I shall be utterly

wretched for weeks." She sat down and started pulling pins from her hair, slowly

unleashing miles and miles of frizzy salt-and-pepper tresses upon a hapless world. "Now,

I must know. Did you get your secret paramour out before Grace woke up, or is the poor

boy still hiding upstairs?"

Mary Anne is the only person I know who is ever utterly wretched or refers to men as paramours. I put it down to too many years teaching Jane Austen at the University of Toronto. If she had taken a sabbatical now and then as I suggested, or perhaps taught contemporary lit for a few years, she might have something in her closet now besides long skirts and straw hats -and she might even let me update her hairstyle by at least a century.

"Jack is hardly a boy," I said, writing Check Appointment Book at the top of the next page in my notebook and underlining it. Twice. "And he was already gone when I woke up."

She squinted at the page. "Was that planned?"

I closed the book. "No, but it's for the best. And Grace will never be the wiser." I poured boiling water into the teapot, went to the table for the cosy and glanced out the kitchen window, thinking I'd see Grace on her bike, certain she should be home by now.

While I like to start my day with a paddle around the lagoons, my younger daughter prefers a morning ride, pedalling the five kilometres from our house here on the eastern tip of Ward's Island, all the way across Centre Island to the dock at the western end of Halan' s Point. I like to think she pauses there, gi ving a finger to the rsland Airport before starting back, arriving home while the air is still cool, and the feITies have yet to start bringing the hordes across the bay from the city.

Hundreds of years ago the hordes could have come on foot because the Island was nothing more than a peninsula of sand bars protecting Toronto harbour from attack. All that changed in April 1858 when a storm severed the peninsula once and for all. Decades of dredging and remodelling since have created five major land masses all connected by paved paths and foot bridges and collectively known as the Island -the city's oasis in the lake.

A ten minute ferry ride is now the only way over, and from April to October three of them ply the water between the Island and Toronto Harbour every half hour. During the summer months, sweltering city dwellers jam those boats every day, coming across to enjoy the parks, the rides and Toronto's only nude beaches. Don't misunderstand me, I know I'm lucky to live with the parks and the beaches, and the hordes would be fine if they stuck to Centre and Halan's. But inevitably they find their way here, to the narrow shaded lanes of Ward's and Algonquin.

They wander our streets and peer at our cottages, taking pictures and passing judgement -My God, these places are small. Why are they cheek-by-jowl like that? And honestly, look at that garden -acting as though they're visiting a zoo, as though we can't understand what they're saying or doing. Most of them are okay, but there are always those who knock on our doors, demanding to know how much it costs to rent a cottage on the Island for the summer. It never fails to amaze me. They live ten minutes across the bay, yet have no idea that we're here year round, and have been for generations.

"Ruby?" Mary Anne called. "Ruby, are you alright?"

I turned to find her watching me intently. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've been staring out that window for the last five minutes." She sat back, massaging her scalp with her fingers. "Tell me the truth. Are you unhappy that Jack left?"

I laughed and put the cosy back on the table. "Not at all. I just didn't think he'd do it on a flight out of the bloody Island airport. But on the plus side, I scored a shed full of tools. Know anyone looking to buy a mitre saw?"

She went back to pulling out pins. "They say a vengeful heart is usually a broken one."

"And sometimes it just wants to make a buck. Would you like tea'?"

Without waiting for an answer, I poured a cup and set it in front of her, hoping to avoid another rant about the inseparability of love and sex in the female constitution. Because no matter what I said -or how loudly -Mary Anne would smile and nod knowingly, confident I was covering up. Lying to avoid confessing to a shattered heart, a splintered soul or something equally ridiculous when the truth is that I have never been even a little bit in love with most of the men I have known, including Jack Hoyle. It was sheer coincidence that he was the first one to stay under my roof in over fifteen years.

With two daughters in the house, discretion was always my first concern. Even when they lived in the city I was vigilant, keeping sex and home separate, knowing it would matter when Grace came back again. Jack Hoyle had been a slip-up. Someone tall and strong, and standing in the rjght place at the right time when I hit a low ebb. He didn't question why I was waiting on the stairs wearing nothing but high heels and a frosty bottle of his favourite beer when he came back from lunch. He just went along. Swept me off my feet and carried me up those stairs. Allowing me to believe, if only for a while, that I still had something to offer, that I wasn't already finished.

It was a scene Mary Anne would have appreciated ifI'd told her about it, which I hadn't because I was still embarrassed by my own reaction. Who knew he'd pick that moment to pull a Clark Gable on me? And who knew I'd like it? But I would never mistake lust for love.

"Ruby!" Mary Anne said too sharply. I looked over. She was watching me again, obviously waiting for an answer, but I had no idea what the question had been. "Ruby, what is going on with you?" she asked, and I could not have been more grateful when Grace came up the stairs calling, ''I'm home," saving me from a discussion I was not yet ready to have.

"You'll never guess what I saw," Grace sang, shedding sandals, notebook and binoculars on her way to the fridge.

My younger daughter may be an adult, but she's as carefree as any ten-year-old. Her hair is usually caught up in a ponytail, she wears jeans or cut-offs and her t-shirts invariably have a slogan. Walk/or the Cure. I'm with Stupid, the list goes on and on. She picks them up at the Bridge Boutique, our local clothing swap at the foot of the Algonquin Island Bridge.

This morning she's sporting an electric blue number that is far too large and reads It's Good To Be Queen. As always, I am struck by how beautiful she is. Tall and willowy with white blond hair, pale blue eyes, and a misty, far away look, just like her father. Eric Kaufman. Now there is a man I have loved. One who will never know he has a daughter

who looks just like him.

"I saw a Cooper Hawk," Grace said, her head in the fridge, her hands routing through jars and plastic containers. "That's really rare, and since I don't have any customers till ten, I ..."

"Grace, I'm sorry." Her hands stilled and I took a step toward her. "I know this is short notice for both of you, but I have to go into the city so you'll have to take care of Mary Anne."

"Fine by me," Mary Anne said, but I didn't breathe until Grace said, --Okee, dokee. Just don't ask me to cut those bangs." Mary Anne pointed a triumphant finger at her. "There's a girl who knows a thing or two about hair. I shall trust you to give me both a trim and a permanent wave."

Grace laughed, a sweet, rippling sound that had my shoulders relaxing, my breath returning to normal. "Anybody want eggs?" she asked, holding the carton aloft like a prize.

Like the morning ride, eggs are also part of her new routine -two over-easy with two slices of toast and two cups of tea. At lunch she'll have a sandwich, usually grilled cheese, and for dinner she likes chicken or beef with potatoes and any vegetable that isn't Brussels sprouts. She only likes surprises at dessert, so I try to make sure she doesn't have to deal with them at any other time. But Mary Anne had been a surprise even to me this morning, and I was lucky things had gone so smoothly with Grace.

"She likes her perms tight," I reminded her.

"And her tea with milk and sugar. I remember."

I glanced over at Mary Anne. Her tea was still untouched. I had served it clear. Damn. Grace slipped bread into the toaster then carried milk and sugar over to Mary Anne and lifted a few strands of that salt and pepper hair. "You need conditioning."

Mary Anne nodded and poured milk into her cup while Grace went back to her eggs. They were settled and happy. I could leave, confident things would go well. Grace loves Mary Anne and she was born to do hair. When she was little, she was always with me at my shop in the city, Chez Ruby on Queen; playing with dolls in the waiting room, colouring pictures by the shampoo sinks. Unlike Liz, she loved being at Chez Ruby and she loved being with me.

Some people think I was wrong to start training her when she was only thirteen, but the girl was going to need a trade and time to learn it. Why pretend? Why put off the inevitable? And look at her now. She's a good hairdresser and the clients love her, especially the seniors.

I always thought Grace and I would work together at Chez Ruby on Queen forever. But after that trouble with Liz a few years back, I moved the shop here instead, bringing the barber's chair and some of the other equipment came with me. I lost a handful of customers at first. But when I lowered the prices to reflect the savings in overhead, more and more of them started coming across the bay in all but the very worst weather to join us at Chez Ruby on the Island. As I say to Grace all the time, that's what comes of good service.

The hom blast from the dock reminded that I had five minutes before the ferry left. Grabbing my notebook, I read Find Liz again, then stashed the book in my purse. "I'm off then," I said, giving Grace a hug.

The morning was already hot, the air close. In the garden, the lilacs were finally spent, the rich purple faded to brown, the show over for another year. My grandmother planted that lilac bush in 1943, the year she built our cottage. It's now fifteen feet tall and the pride of a property that has been nurtured by Donaldson women ever since. On any other morning, I'd pause to inspect the peonies, the climbing roses, the pots of geraniums. Taking time to breathe in the perfume that is unique to this garden, this Island. But not today. Today I have to find Liz.

Kicking back the stand on my bike, I gave Grace a quick wave as I pulled away, still grateful to see her at the window, to have my girl home again.

I pedalled carefully along the narrow lanes, dodging cats and kids, giving way to the bikes moving faster than mine. With the exception of emergency crews and park staff, motorized vehicles are prohibited on the Islands. No cars, no Vespas. Definitely no golf cars. Bicycles get us where we need to go, with carts on the back and baskets on the front to help us carry groceries, liquor, tired kids and anything else we need tram the city because there are also no stores on the Island. Life can be hard in the winter when the wind cuts your face and heavy snow makes the going impossible on two wheels. But Islanders have always been a different breed. Urban misfits the lot of us, happy to sacrifice a few comforts for a life apart from the push and shove of the city.

There used to be five thousand of us here with houses and businesses spreading from Halan's Point to Wards Island. Everything from hotels to comer stores, and a milk man who came to our doors every morning. Life was good until the late fifties when the city decided the Island should be a park. Year after year they came with their sheriff and their bulldozers, pushing us back farther and farther until we finally took a stand in July 1980. Banded together and said No More. We would not be moved.

There are only seven hundred of us left, but instead of chasing us away, the hardships make us stronger, more determined to hold on to the homes and the life we love. Which is why another blast from the ferry had me pedalling faster. I could not afford to miss that boat.

My bike is a black 1946 Schwinn. Brand new when my grandmother brought it over after the war and in its prime when my mother claimed it as her own in the fifties. But now, just like me, the poor thing is well past its best before date. There won't be anything worth passing on so I never bother with the lock when I leave the bike at the ferry dock. If some kid pitches it over the wall into the Eastern Channel, I won't mind. In fact, rcan't think of a more fitting tribute for the old girl than to be laid to rest among the other bikes at the bottom of the gap.

Jamming the Schwinn into the last available spot, I raced aboard the Ongiara, the small ferry that trundles back and forth between Toronto and Ward's all year round -the one meant for Islanders. The 8:30 serves mostly commuters and I moved through the crowd as r used to every morning, calling hello to people I knew, nodding to those I only recognized. There was a time when I missed my daily commute. Missed the small talk, the gossip updates, and the money that came with working in the city. But like Grandma Lucy, I've come to prefer the pace and freedom of working from home. And I have always known how to stretch a buck until it screams -something Liz's father used to admire about me.

"Ruby, darlin'," he'd say. "There is nothing sexier than watching you clip those coupons. Gets me all hot and bothered just sittin' here." That much was true. Doubtless

because I was building a healthy sum in the coffee tin we were filling for our future together.

His name was Gideon, he hailed from Okalahoma and he was just another draft dodger who found his way to the Island during the sixties and seventies. I was no child when he arrived in 1974. No breathless virgin waiting to be wakened to the joys of sex, but the day that man stepped off the ferry, I stood perfectly still on the dock, barely breathing while I watched him come down the ramp.

Gideon may have been a hayseed back home, but to me he was a dark and exotic mystery. A man who smiled easily, knew every sensitive spot on a woman's body and played a mean guitar. Grandma Lucy warned me about him from the start, but I fell in love anyway. Made us a nest in my room and gave birth to his daughter a year later. I even thought about marriage every time I clipped a coupon or stashed another bill in that tin.

Liz was almost two years old when Jimmy Cat1er granted amnesty to all the artful dodgers in January 1977. I left Chez Ruby early that day, heading home to celebrate. Mary Anne met me at my front door, told me Gideon and my money had hopped on the ferry an hour earlier, bound for the city and a train to warmer climes. She knew because she caught him packing the coffee tin into a duffle bag when she dropped by to check on Grandma Lucy.

"1 have spent long enough on this godforsaken spit of land," he'd said. "And 1am tired to death of leaving my balls at the dock."

She tried to stop him, ending up on her backside in a snow bank for her trouble. I haven't heard from him since and don't care to either. He was just another man I have loved. Another man who has a daughter who looks just like him. And Grandma Lucy was right again.

1 made my way to the front of the Ongiara where old Benny Barnes had taken up his position at the railing. Benny's family has lived on the Island as long as mine, maybe longer, but I don't remember him aging. As far as I can tell, he has always been old, which must have been easier than coming to it the way I did -head on and without warnll1g.

He nodded and moved his bike over so we could stand together, watching the harbour come closer and closer. The skyline has changed dramatically over the past few years. More office towers, more condos -nothing that means anything to me. I prefer the view at night when the lake reflects the lights and the city looks like a fairyland from my bedroom window.

"Gonna' be a nice day," Benny said.

I smiled and turned my back on the city, watching the Island recede while he made small talk. Special on pork chops at Sobeys. Another damn rock festival coming. And finally, "Poor Mike lost another bicycle. Kids dumped it in the Eastern Gap. Someone ought to do something."

"Indeed," I said, not mentioning my thoughts about my own bike and the watery graveyard at the bottom of the Gap. Some things you kept to yourself on the Island. The Ongiara began to slow. The deckhands readied the ropes for docking and Benny raised the kick-stand on his bike. "You shopping today?" "Not today." I said and left it at that, joining the pack heading down the ramp before he got his bike rolling. No one needed to know why I was in the city. Not even

me.

I stood for a moment at the traffic lights on Front Street, checking my notebook,

reading again the first few lines. Find Liz. Go to 100 King Street. Look up Mark Bernier.

King Street wasn't far from the harbour and I found the address in under fifteen minutes. But since when were community legal clinics located in bank towers? Worried I'd taken the address down wrong, I ventured over to the directory and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Fleming, Hitchcock, Romney and Bernier. Barristers and Solicitors. Thirtieth floor.

So much for community legal work. And I couldn't help smiling as I walked into the elevator, wondering if Mark ever missed his principles.

We met in 1979 at a rally to Save The Island Homes. I was with Eric then, the one with the blue eyes who would be Grace's father in a year, but never know it. Mark was big -six foot four -with a handshake that made my teeth rattle and an operuJess that took me off guard. Both Eric and I liked him right away, and Liz adored him, but she was only five and based her judgement solely on the fact that he always brought treats, so hers was not a fair assessment.

Even then, he spoiled that girl, but I was pleased when he kept coming to the meetings, grateful he was there the day Eric took the ferry into the city for the last time, and shocked he didn't run for the next one after I confessed in a drunken slur that I was pregnant.

Mark stayed with me through everything. The pregnancy, the birth, those first horrible weeks, trying to keep Liz from lugging that baby around like it was her own. I was surprised to find him still with us when Grace turned one. I'm not sure when we decided we were officially living together, but if you were to ask Mark, he'd say it was the day Grace was born.

A pretty redhead looked up from the reception desk and smiled. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Mark Bernier."

"Do you have an appointment?" She frowned when I shook my head. ''I'm afraid Mr. Bernier is tied up in meetings for the day -" "Tell him his ex-wife is here. And tell him she's pissed." She was on her feet at once. ''I'll be right back." I have never been anyone's wife, but I knew the line would work better than, "A

situation has come up. and I could use his advice because I'm very confused right now, but I can't afford a lawyer and I'm hoping he'l! be a sweetie and help me out, you know?" Sure enough, she was back within minutes, escorting me along gleaming hardwood to an office furnished with leather chairs, a rosewood desk and what was undoubtedly expensive modem art on the walls.

Mark looked up from that desk as I stepped past the secretary. "Ruby, good to see you."

I paused, suddenly flustered, a hand at my throat, heart beating rapidly. "It' good to see you too."

He rose and approached, hand outstretched, face collapsing into a minefield of wrinkles when he smiled. My God, but the man had aged. I couldn't help wondering ifhe is thinking the same thing as he took my hand. My God, Ruby's looking old.

But he said, "You look fabulous," and I smiled back, wanting to believe him. He

may have been older but his handshake hadn't changed and my teeth were still rattling when he said, "Have a seat," and led me to the desk. "I assume you're no longer in the legal aid business," 1said, taking in the floor-toceiling

view of the city before sitting down. "What made you change your mind?"

"Debt mostly. Drink?" he asked, indicating a bar on the far side of the room.

I was still curious about his leap into the world of big law, but nothing about him indicated a willingness to chat about that chapter in his life. So 1 said, "Not right now," and stashed my purse under the chair. "Thanks for seeing me." "1 always make a point of seeing a pissed off ex." He sat down and folded his hands. "What can I do for you, Ruby?"

And suddenly I had no idea. Not a clue as to why I was there.

"1 need to talk to you," I said, because it made sense.

"About what?"

"It's hard to explain," 1 said, and waited, hoping it would get easier. Or at least clearer. He tipped his head to one side. "Do you want to try?" "I hardly know where to start." I rose and walked around to his side of the desk

because it felt like the natural thing to do. The picture in the frame by the phone made me pause. Mark and a little girl in a tree house. Same brown hair, same green eyes. His daughter? Possibly, but where was the mother? Why no shots of her?

"Ruby? Are you okay?"

"Yes, of course." I smiled harder and did the only thing that came to mind. I moved in closer, making him roll his chair back to accommodate me. Those green eyes flicked up and down my body. He let out a long controlled breath, inched his chair back a little farther, and I could have cried. The child's mother aside, he still found the ex tempting.

I perched myself on the comer of his desk. "I've been thinking about you a lot lately," I said, which was probably true. Why else would I be there? "And I'm happy to see that life has been good to you."

He rolled his chair back farther still. "What do you want?"

"A chance to get reacquainted? Let by-gones be by-gones?"

"Ruby, you can't-"

"Can't what?" I leaned forward slightly. "Stoke an old flame? See what flares up?" He leapt up, knocking over his chair, and flattening himself against the wall. "For God's sake, what are you doing?" "Trying to stir up some memories," I said, which was definitely true. I moved closer, pressed myself against him, ran my hands over his chest. "I see it's working."

"It's not working."

"You never could lie to me. Not about this." Cupping his face in my hands, I brought his mouth down to mine, kissed him lightly, once, twice. Third time and he was on me, dragging my mouth closer, covering my lips with his and trying to get his tongue inside. He might have been older and out of shape, but he was hard in a hurry and he still wanted me.

"Oh, Mark," I said, feigning breathlessness, hoping the real thing would overtake me while 1tried to pull him to the floor.

Half-way there, he stopped, dragged me back to my feet and stepped away from me. "What the hell are you doing? What is this about?"

"Reconciliation?" He looked doubtful and my shoulders slumped. "All right fine, I don't know what it's about right now. Let's assume it's about sex. Let's just do it and I'll leave."

He held a hand over his belt buckle. "Ruby stop. I'm not going to let you screw up my life again."

"I screwed up your life?"

"For years and years to come." He moved me around to the other side of the desk, sat me in the chair. "I need a drink. Do you want one?"

"Something red. Something I wouldn't buy for myself." I flopped back in the chair, told myself to concentrate. There was a reason I was there. I was sure of it. I crossed my legs and my foot nudged a purse under the chair. My purse. The one with my notebook inside.

While Mark poured us both a glass of something red, I took out the notebook, read the first line. Find Liz. Of course. Find Liz. I gave myself a mental slap. Stay on track, Ruby.

He set a glass on the desk in front of me. I raised it and sniffed. Pomegranate juice. Definitely red. Definitely something I wouldn't buy for myself. I should have known.

He carried his own glass around to his side of the desk. "Okay, be honest. What has gotten into you today?" "Today, nothing. But last week ..." I closed the notebook and set it on my lap.

"Last week was another story completely."

"Go on," he said more gently than I'd expected. But then he had always been gentle, hadn't he. Even on the day I threw him out. If only I could remember why I'd done that.

"Ruby," he said. "Tell me what happened last week." "Last week. Yes. That's why I'm here." I drew in a quick breath and said the words out loud for the first time since the diagnosis. "I have early on-set Alzheimer's."

If I'd hoped for a feeling of relief, a lightening of the load perhaps, I was sorely disappointed. The telling had only made it more real, more frightening, more final. It didn't help that Mark's face drained of colour. Or that he shook his head and moistened his lips. I watched the horror leave his eyes, saw comprehension take its place, and in a flash, I became something new in those eyes, something dreadful. An object of pity.

He tried to say something but his first attempt failed. He couldn't find the words, sounding much like I imagine I'll sound in a year or two. "Are you sure?" he managed at last. "Have you been tested?"

"Extensively. The actual diagnosis was a year ago. I've been on medication since and it seemed to be working fine until a few weeks ago. So I went back for a check-Up, thinking all I needed was an adjustment on the meds. It hadn't been that long, after all. But apparently I have the form that progresses rapidly. This time next year, I probably won't know you."

"This makes no sense. You're too young."

"Like I said, it's early on-set."

"But no one in your family had it."

"My mother died young. Who knows what might have happened later? And I'm sure now that Grandma Lucy had it, but no one knew. We just thought she was old and doddery."

He reached across the desk to take my hand. "Ruby, I'm sorry."

"Me too." I looked down at our hands. His were huge, paws really, made for working outside, for cutting wood and tilling soil, not for pushing papers around on a desk. He'd always dreamed of going north, as far as Alaska, to work on the land and see justice done. But he'd been tied to the city in his youth. Tied by an unaccountable love for me and my daughters, and I couldn't bring myself to pull away just yet. "As much as I appreciate your sympathy, you don't have to worry about me, because I don't plan to stick it out."

"I don't understand."

I smiled and ran my thumb across his. "Don't play dumb, Mark. You know how I feel about this, how I've always felt."

"Ruby, if you expect me to take you out and shoot you-"

"I don't, so you can relax." 1 sighed and took my hand back, knowing 1 shouldn't be weak, shouldn't lean, and more importantly, I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. "Just because I don't want to hang around for the long goodbye doesn't mean 1'd ask you or anyone else to do it for me. I'll take care of that end of things while I still can."

"You're being hasty. You need to explore alternatives. There 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, 1can't let you kill yourself."

"Fortunately, you don't have a say in this."

"You're being selfish."

"1' m being practical."

"And what about Grace? Have you thought about her at all?"

1laughed, 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 ofattorney-"

"Eventually, yes. But first 1 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. "1 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. 1don'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."

1 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?

"Fran's on College Street. Five 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. 1 picked up my purse. Walked briskly to the door. "Like 1said, don't worry about me. Just make sure Liz is at Fran's." I paused with my hand on the knob, but couldn't risk looking back. "And Mark. Tell her not to be late." view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. As a single working mom with two kids and the sole caregiver for her cantankerous grandmother, Ruby had to be tough and she had to make decisions that weren’t always popular. It’s the kind of situation many working moms find themselves in, and years later, they scold themselves for being too strict, or too rigid. Certainly, Liz blames her mother for everything that is wrong with the family, but is that fair? In spite of their problems, was Ruby a good mother? Does she deserve forgiveness? Or was every move she made calculated to keep Grace at home? To save Ruby from being alone?
2. The issues that arise when illness strikes a loved one are never easy, but with Alzheimer’s the problems become even more complicated. Taking care of someone with Alzheimer’s is a twenty-four hour a day, seven days a week job, but whose job is it? The daughter-in-law who was always the target of a jealous mother-in-law’s insults? The son who is closest geographically but the least able to cope financially? And for how long must you commit to the job? How much of your life do you owe to a parent or someone else’s loved one? And when is it time to say, enough?
3. Should we have the right to decide our futures when confronted with terminal illness? If not, why not? If so, how do you decide when the time is right? And who holds the burden of seeing that your wishes are carried out?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Lynda Simmons' web site

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