Chapter 9
Elizabeth eased in next to her sister-in-law. “Your mind is slipping.”
“I…it must be. I noticed Lawrence’s old clothes laid out on the chair this morning and freaked out for a second. I must have done it when I zoned out.” Prissy rambled on, barely taking a breath, as if she needed to explain what was happening as quickly as possible.
Morgan and her grandmother quietly listened until she finished.
“How long has this been going on?” Elizabeth finally asked.
“A while, but it seems to be getting worse.” Tears streamed down Priscilla’s face, and Morgan could feel herself tearing up.
The only outward sign of Elizabeth’s reaction was a slight trembling of her hand when she reached for Prissy’s.
“We’ll figure this out together. We have a highly regarded geriatrician in residency here on the island.
It could take some rearranging for him to fit you in, but I believe I can pull a few strings and get you an appointment rather quickly. ”
“I feel like I’m losing my mind, literally.” Prissy fumbled inside her purse and pulled out a handful of wadded-up tissues. “What will I do?”
“Stay here with Morgan. I’ll be back.” Elizabeth left, and Quinn and Tristan appeared. “We’re going to go grab some food.”
“I think that’s a great idea. The restaurant down the street has some of the best tourtière and homemade fries on the island, other than Mrs. Arnsby’s of course.”
“What about you, Prissy?” Quinn asked.
“I don’t…”
Morgan gave her a gentle pat. “She’ll take a meat pie and fries too.”
“Are you okay?” Tristan asked.
“I’ll be fine.” Prissy forced a smile. “What a sweet boy for asking.”
“We won’t be long,” Quinn promised, ushering the boy out of the gallery.
Moments later, Elizabeth returned. “I left a message for Peter Carlisle, who sits on the board of Easton Harbor Hospital. He has connections and will help us set up an appointment with one of the best geriatricians in the country.”
“Losing your memory can be a slow process, taking years before you get to where you’re no longer self-sufficient,” Morgan said.
“What if I can’t drive?” Prissy clutched her chest.
“As soon as we consult with the specialist, we’ll have a better idea of what we’re facing. We have plenty of room at Easton Estate. Depending on your level of…decline…you can move in with us. The last thing you need to do is worry about who and how you will be cared for.”
“I-I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “Other than I’m scared.”
“And understandably so.” Elizabeth placed her hands on Prissy’s shoulders. “Whatever happens, I can assure you of one thing: we’ll get through this as a family.”
“Thank you.”
By the time Quinn and Tristan returned with lunch, Prissy was smiling, back to her old self.
The group gathered in the breakroom. While they ate, Tristan gave them a detailed rundown of his tour of the police station. “I got fingerprinted and everything.”
“Good heavens. Hopefully, Wyatt didn’t put you in handcuffs,” Elizabeth said.
“He did when we were sitting in his cop car. I turned the lights and siren on too.” Tristan shoved the rest of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his mouth. “When I get older, I’m going to be a police officer.”
“It’s a noble career but risky,” his great-grandmother said.
“I’ll have a gun.”
“The thought of you shooting someone is terrifying,” Elizabeth shuddered.
“But only the bad guys.” Tristan turned to Morgan. “Am I going home when we’re done?”
“Do you want to?”
“Yeah. I want to fly my drone.”
“Sure. Maybe I’ll even try it,” Morgan said.
“I’ll teach you. It’s easy.”
Tink. The front bell chimed, letting them know a gallery guest had arrived.
“Everyone stay here and finish your food.” Quinn slipped out of her chair. “I’ll help whoever it is.”
Morgan crumpled her food wrappers and tossed them in the trash. “Tristan and I are heading out.”
“Thank you for listening to an old woman babble on,” Prissy said.
“You weren’t babbling. I agree with Grandmother. The sooner you meet with a specialist, the better.” Morgan gave her a gentle hug. “You’ll be okay.”
“I hope so,” she whispered in a broken voice. “I could use your prayers if you don’t mind.”
“Absolutely.” Morgan offered her an encouraging smile. “God’s got this.”
“Yes, he does.”
During the drive to Easton Estate, Morgan thought about how terrifying it must be for Priscilla to face the fact that she was suffering from mental decline. Would the decline be slow and manageable? She hoped so, for Prissy’s sake.
*****
“It’s easy.” Tristan set his drone, a Christmas gift from Elizabeth and Gerard, on the ground and tapped the controls. The drone lifted off, hovering momentarily until it shot straight up in the air. It made a sharp right, twirled around and then zipped to the left.
Back and forth, Tristan expertly guided the drone high above the treetops and over the estate’s roof. It flew past and hovered over the garage before returning to almost the exact same spot it lifted off from.
“You make it look easy,” Morgan grimaced.
“Cuz it is once you get used to it. It’s your turn to try.”
She reluctantly took the controller and gingerly tapped the stick. The drone lifted off and promptly dropped back down.
“Keep your hand steady,” Tristan said. “Keep moving it until it’s over our heads.”
She followed his instructions, finally getting the device airborne. Hovering left and then right, Morgan was starting to get the hang of it when she tapped the control a little too hard. The drone flew forward, colliding with a cluster of trees near the corner of the garage.
To her horror, it tilted to the side and became tangled with two low-hanging branches. “Oh, no!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it out.” Tristan scampered up the tree. Clinging to a lower branch, he crawled toward it and finally grabbed hold of the base.
“Be careful.” If Morgan didn’t know better, she would’ve thought her nephew was a professional tree climber.
He plucked the drone from its resting spot and held it in the palm of his hand. “I can’t climb down with one hand. You've gotta get it back up in the air.”
“I’ll try.” Slowly…slowly, Morgan tapped the joystick, lifting the drone off Tristan’s palm. With the utmost care, she brought it back toward her and lowered it onto the ground.
Tristan clambered down the tree and ran over. “It’s a good thing you didn’t get it caught too high.”
She handed him the controller. “It’s a cool drone, but I think I’ll leave the flying to the pros.”
“I’m ready to go in.” The boy carefully packed up his new toy and followed Morgan to the house. Taking the side door, they tromped into the kitchen.
Mrs. Arnsby stood at the back counter, pastry bag in hand.
“How was the drone lesson?”
Morgan gave a thumbs down. “Okay until it crashed into a tree and got tangled in the branches.”
“I got it out.” Tristan eyed the counter with interest. “What are you making?”
“Carrot cake.”
He curled his lip. “Gross.”
“I love carrot cake,” Morgan said. “Have you ever tried it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it has carrots and I don’t like them.”
“It doesn’t taste like carrots,” the cook chuckled.
“What does it taste like?”
“Cream cheese, sugar, nuts, cinnamon.”
“I like cinnamon,” Tristan said.
“What about cream cheese?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t know what it tastes like.”
“You’ve never tasted cream cheese?”
He shrugged.
Mrs. Arnsby sliced a piece of the freshly frosted cake and eased the wedge onto a clean plate. “I think you should try it.”
Tristan, in true boy fashion, dramatically clutched his throat and made a gagging sound. “I’ll puke.”
“You will not,” Morgan laughed. “It’s delicious.”
He slyly slid the plate toward her. “You can have my piece.”
She grabbed a fork and took a big bite. “Yummy.”
“How about a glass of milk?” Mrs. Arnsby poured a tall glass of cold milk and set it in front of him.
He fidgeted, watching Morgan enjoy her sweet treat. “You like it?”
“I do.” She reached inside her shoulder bag and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “I’ll give you five bucks if you take one bite.”
“Only one?”
“Yep.” She set the five on the counter.
“Okay, but if I throw up, it’s your fault.”
“Deal.”
Mrs. Arnsby sliced a thin sliver, placed it on a dessert plate and set it in front of him.
“Can I eat it with my fingers?”
“Not in my kitchen, young man. We use silverware.” She reached into the silverware drawer and handed him a fork.
As if having second thoughts, Tristan began fidgeting again and scratched his head. “You’re sure it won’t make me sick?”
Morgan held up her three middle fingers and placed her thumb over her pinky. “Scout’s honor.”
He scraped a chunk of the cream cheese frosting off and ate it.
“No cheating.” Morgan gave him a playful nudge. “You have to try the cake to get your five dollars.”
“Okay.” Tristan scooped up a small amount of cake with an equal amount of frosting and ate it. “It doesn’t taste like yucky carrots.”
“Nope.”
He took another bite. “It tastes like dessert.”
“Because it is.”
Tristan promptly polished off the piece and held up his plate. “Can I please have another one?”
Mrs. Arnsby placed another piece on the plate, and Tristan nearly inhaled it, not even taking a breather in between bites.
“This is my new favorite dessert,” he announced.
“You like it even more than my double chocolate chip cookies?”
“I like them the same.” He scraped the last bit of frosting from the plate and licked his fork. “I guess carrots aren’t so bad after all.”
“Not when they’re mixed with lots of sugar.” Morgan dangled the five in the air. “You earned this money fair and square. From here on out we’re calling you the carrot cake kid.”