Arden kicked off her sandals, instantly feeling sand on her feet just like she had as a girl, and walked toward the stacks.
Growing up, her mother had read National Geographic, Life, and Newsweek religiously. When Arden had told her mother she had gotten a job at Paparazzi, Lolly had stated, “I never knew celebrities interested you. I hope you’re also writing about something that is deeply meaningful to you.”
Arden picked up a copy and did a double take. She stooped with some effort and began rifling through the issues.
These aren’t just any magazines, these are my magazines. Paparazzi. Seemingly every issue. Even though I don’t have a byline on any of the articles.
Arden’s lip quivered, and she clutched the magazines to her as if they were her mom.
A breeze through the screen door ruffled Arden’s hair, and she heard a fluttering. She tilted her head, trying to determine the noise.
She walked into the cabin and that’s when she noticed a myriad of Post-its fluttering in the wind. They were stuck to nearly every surface, almost like a Yellow Brick Road: The log walls, the refrigerator, the microwave, the pantry, the phone, even the floors. Arden followed the trail, plucking and reading the jagged handwriting aloud: “Eat breakfast!” “Get milk!” “Do laundry!” “Pay the phone company!” “Vacuum!” “Make dinner!” “Be at work by noon!” “Always put keys in basket by fridge!”
Arden drew her arms around herself.
She turned and walked into her mother’s bedroom, a little log-filled nook that overlooked the lake, the long shadow of a pine falling across the middle of the worn mattress. More Post-its were stuck to the mirrors over the dresser and the bathroom sink.
“Take medicine!” “Take a bath!” “Brush wigs!”
Arden took a seat on her mother’s bed and turned to face the window looking out at Lost Land Lake. The glass was cracked open, and the smell of water and pine filled the air. In the distance, kids screamed as they jumped into the still-cold lake. A dragonfly flitted onto the old wood windowsill.
Arden grabbed a pillow from her mother’s bed and began to hug it.
Another scent overwhelmed her: Her mother’s perfume.
Shalimar.
Arden noticed Lauren standing in the doorframe. In the shafts of light splaying off the lake and through the pines, her daughter looked so young.
“Mom?” Lauren asked, walking over to take a seat on the bed. “Are you okay? What’s going on with all the Post-its?”
“No, I’m not okay,” Arden said, her voice shaky. “And I don’t know.”
Suddenly, the screen door banged shut.
Lolly appeared in the door, smiling. It was then she noticed Lauren fidgeting with a Post-it and the look on Arden’s face. Her smile began to fade.
“I didn’t want you to see this. I didn’t want you to see the cabin this way,” Lolly began to mutter. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“What’s going on, Mom?” Arden asked.
Lolly walked over and took a seat on the end of the bed. She hesitated, as if she wanted to make up an excuse, but all she could do was blink back the tears pooling in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said, as a flood of tears trailed down her cheeks, clearing paths through her makeup. “I’m scared.”
Six
“It’s my belief she has MCI.”
Arden was sitting with a geriatric doctor in an office at Lakeview Geriatric Center, grateful to have gotten an appointment on such short notice.
The beauty of living in a small town, Arden thought, before asking, “MCI?”
“Mild cognitive impairment,” Dr. Van Meter said. “It’s the stage between normal forgetfulness due to aging and the development of dementia.”
Arden watched her mother through the window walking with Lauren in the immaculate back garden of the center, pointing out birds and flowers to her granddaughter, before the two took a seat on a teak bench. Arden knew this facade was, in essence, just like a pretty celebrity on a magazine cover. It made a great first impression, and helped distract people from the real issues in their lives.
“Are you sure?” Arden asked.
“Completely,” the doctor said, patting Arden’s leg. “We’ve performed a comprehensive series of physical and neurological tests on your mother, including a mental status examination.”
The doctor stopped and smiled at Arden. “This isn’t the end of the world, Ms. Lindsey. You need to know that. Not everyone with MCI develops dementia, but this does signal the need for significant changes in your mother’s life and care. People with MCI have mild problems with thinking and memory, and they are often aware of their forgetfulness. Symptoms can include difficulty performing more than one task at a time, difficulty solving problems or making decisions, forgetting recent events or conversations, taking longer to perform more difficult mental activities.”