The Summer of Second Chances

Chapter 1

One

I always held my breath when I signed in at the nurses’ station, as if the visitor log was a test that I hadn’t studied for. Date? it quizzed me. Time?

Sadly, I could relate to Mother Nature.

“It was a restless night,” Tara told me after I scribbled my name on the visitor line. Not all the Elkins nurses knew me, but the team in Finlay House did. They offered me upbeat but heartfelt smiles four times a week. “But after sleeping in, it’s been an uneventful day.”

“Oh, good.” I forced myself to exhale as she handed me a familiar green guest badge. Knowing the drill, I pressed the sticker to my chest and then saluted Tara before turning on my heel and heading down the hall. The carpeted floor somehow silenced my squelching rain boots.

I smiled when I reached the atrium, trying to appreciate its hominess.

Colorful photographs of Bucks County flora and fauna hung on the taupe walls, and the overhead lighting was now warm thanks to a petition banning fluorescent bulbs.

A skylight usually bathed the atrium in a cheery glow, but today raindrops thumped against the glass.

Most of Finlay’s residents gathered here during the day; I called it the “rally point.” A couple women sat at the round table working on a jigsaw puzzle while hundred-year-old Bob Coleman relaxed near a window wearing big headphones.

I knew the Elkins librarian hooked him up with audiobooks, since Bob’s eyesight had abandoned him.

Other people had been herded around the huge TV, but House Hunters International held not one iota of their attention.

Instead, they dozed in their wheelchairs.

My chest tightened at the sight of Sally Jones—who slept silently under a blanket in her fleece-lined recliner chair on wheels.

“Why is that lady in a stroller?” Maisie had asked the first time here, and before my dad could answer, Bryce had pointed to snoring Frank Richards and said, “Why are his eyelids see-through?”

They had both sounded so scared.

They didn’t visit very often.

I said hello to several village elders as I crossed the floor, but my pulse quickened when I reached the other side—when I reached the third door on the left.

Room F-18. An artificial but elegant boxwood wreath hung on the half-closed door.

Once upon a time, the wreath would change with the seasons, but now one season slipped into the next without notice.

Greenery worked no matter the time of year.

The door’s nameplate read: ANNETTE LUPO.

But who am I? I thought, shifting from one foot to the other. Who will I be today?

Sometimes I was Olivia, loving granddaughter.

Other times I was not.

I took a breath and gently knocked on the door.

“Come in!” a slightly startled but kindhearted voice called.

I walked into the room to find my grandmother relaxing in her cushy white armchair by the window. My dad had nicknamed it her throne.

“Hello there!” Her face lit up in recognition. “What a surprise!”

I threw up my arms in a ta-da sort of way, having accepted that every single one of my visits—scheduled or spontaneous—would forever be a surprise.

Time was no longer on my grandmother’s list of priorities.

“Hi, Annie,” I said, upbeat. My grandmother had always been Annie to me, never Grandma or Grammy. “Delighted?”

“As ever.” She beamed, and I hurried over for a hug before she tested her limits and tried to stand.

Her left cheekbone was still bruised from her fall last month.

“It’s so good to see you, darling,” she said as I held her close.

For the overwhelming majority of my life, her signature scent had been Jo Malone perfume and L’Occitane soap, but I was getting used to the Dove the Elkins staff now bought her—or, I was trying to. “How long has it been? Weeks?”

“Mmm,” I said noncommittally.

It had only been two days.

Forty-eight hours.

But Annie had thought I was a new aide on Monday.

The days she didn’t recognize me felt like slaps in the face, but I’d learned that no matter how many times I insisted I was her granddaughter, her battlefield brain wasn’t going to believe me.

I’d never forget the first visit she hadn’t known me, the first visit I’d had to introduce myself.

She thought I was her neighbor’s adult daughter.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” she’d said with her effervescent smile, so familiar it made my bones ache.

“I have a granddaughter named Olivia. She turned ten a couple months ago…”

Now, I gently kissed Annie’s cheek and played along with my supposed absence. It was easier. “I’m sorry, it has been a little while.”

“I understand.” My grandmother nodded. “School must be keeping you so…” She trailed off, wincing.

I knew she was searching every nook and cranny of her vocabulary for “busy.” After my grandfather unexpectedly passed away several years ago, my grandmother started losing and mixing up words.

It had been one of the first signs that something wasn’t right, that her mind was doing more than grieving. “On your toes!” she finally sputtered.

School must be keeping you on your toes.

“Mmm,” I again neither confirmed nor denied.

Annie hadn’t been well enough to attend my high school graduation last spring.

Not only was she becoming less steady on her feet, but her doctor had adjusted her medicine, and the side effects had hit her hard.

Paranoia, in particular. She wouldn’t stop accusing the Elkins chef of kidnapping her cat.

Annie hadn’t had a cat in years.

Maybe she thought I was in college now, but after a series of arguments with my dad and Erica, I’d deferred Northwestern. Was I spending my gap year at a cooking school in Paris? Or hiking the Appalachian Trail? Or teaching English in Thailand? Or blowing glass in Brooklyn?

No, but I worked almost full time at Haddonfield’s bookstore. That was something.

I know we are losing her, I remembered saying. But I can’t just suddenly lose her.

* * *

My heart warmed when Annie invited me to curl up in her armchair, big enough for the two of us. “Those look pretty,” I said once I’d gotten cozy, gesturing to the vase of pink flowers on her windowsill. Tulips were her forever favorite.

“Yes, aren’t they gorgeous?” she said in the dreamy voice she’d developed. “I found them at the market yesterday.”

No, you didn’t, I couldn’t help but think. I brought them on Monday.

But that doesn’t matter! I quickly scolded myself. Who cares how she got them? The point is they make her happy.

We admired the tulips together, and then I stretched for one of the many Shutterfly memory books arranged near the vase.

They all had a theme, ranging from Annie’s childhood on the Chesapeake Bay, to my parents’ wedding, to my dad’s second wedding, to my Halloween costumes over the years.

The newest book was titled Beach Days with Maisie and Bryce.

(Erica had taken literally a thousand photos of the twins on vacation last summer.)

Today’s selection was She’s Too Young to be Seventy!

Twelve years ago Pops had thrown Annie a surprise party with thirty of their closest friends.

She’d thought the plan was a fancy family dinner, so she had looked stunned—blue eyes wide and hand covering her mouth—but also stunning, in a sophisticated black dress with gold jewelry and hair in her signature blond pixie cut.

I glanced at her now, feeling a twinge at the sight of her flat gray hair. I still couldn’t get used to it. For as long as I could remember, up until Elkins had transferred her from assisted living to Finlay House six months ago, her hair had been blond and coiffed to perfection.

With each passing visit, she looked less like my grandmother.

I hadn’t realized I’d been biting my pinkie nail until Annie lightly swatted my hand. “Olivia, stop,” she said. “You need to break that habit.”

Flushing, I folded my arms across my chest. I only ever chewed my pinkie nail, and it was only when I was lost in thought or a little anxious, but she was right. Plus, I’d just treated myself to my monthly manicure, keeping Annie’s and my tradition alive. I didn’t want to ruin it.

“Chris’s nails were nothing more than nubs,” she continued. “I couldn’t stand it.”

Chris. I hadn’t heard her say his name in a while. Whenever we were together, Annie never referred to my dad as “Chris,” or even Christopher. It was always “your father.” Or, if she thought I was an Elkins aide or nurse or long-lost family friend, “my son.”

“I didn’t know he bit his nails,” I said.

“Oh, yes, he most certainly did.” Annie let out a deep sigh. “Sometimes I wonder where he is…”

It was silent for a beat, save for the pouring rain outside. I understood why she was disappointed. My pilot dad didn’t visit Elkins as often as I did; American Airlines kept his schedule pretty tight.

“He had an exasperating flight to O’Hare today,” I offered, smiling to myself. Every single time he flew to Chicago, my dad found its airport a hot mess. “One of his college roommates lives right on Lake Michigan, so they’re getting drinks tonight.”

“That’s nice…” Annie said, but in her faraway voice again. She caught my gaze, and I tried not to let my heart sink at her distant smile, at her glazed-over eyes. Two tells that her thoughts had drifted to a mysterious elsewhere…

Before suddenly returning to the room.

“Look at my tulips!” she said delightedly, pointing to her vase. “Aren’t they just lovely?”

“Yes.” I swallowed the rising lump in my throat. “They’re beautiful.”

But dementia was not.