Free While My Sister Sleeps by Barbara Delinsky Page B

her age something we don't know for sure. This was only the first EEG. There's a reason they require two. I don't care what the doctors say; I'm not believing a thing until the second is done.”
    OF the disagreements Molly had with her mother, with one the least and ten the worst, their dispute over her grandmother ranked an eight. That was one of the reasons she went from the hospital to the nursing home. Visiting hours were over by the time she arrived, but the staff was used to her coming and going. She smiled at the woman at the front desk and was quickly waved on. After running up the stairs to the third floor, though, she faltered.
    “Is she alone?” she asked at the nurse's station. She didn't mind that her grandmother had a boyfriend. The staff said that they didn't actually have sex, but Molly wasn't taking any chances.
    The nurse smiled. “Thomas is in his room by himself. He has a cold.”
    Grateful, Molly slipped into a room halfway down the hall, closed the door and turned to the figure in the chair. Marjorie Webber was seventy-eight. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's five years before, and for the first two of those years had been cared for by her husband. Then his health declined, and hers spiraled to the point where she needed round-the-clock attention. Putting her in a nursing home had been the only option.
    To be fair, Molly knew Kathryn had agonized over the decision. They had all agreed that moving Marjorie in with Charlie and her was impractical, what with so many stairs. Besides,Marjorie needed constant watching, and Kathryn was rarely home. A dedicated facility seemed their best hope for maximizing safety and care. They had looked at many before choosing this one. Housed in a large Victorian with multiple wings adapted for the purpose, this nursing home exuded warmth the others lacked. Part of its appeal was its closeness to the Snows’ home.
    Kathryn had taken her father to visit often, and after George died, went by herself. Then Marjorie met Thomas, and Kathryn flipped out. No matter that George was dead, she took her mother's having a boyfriend as a personal affront and stopped visiting. Kathryn reasoned that her mother didn't know whether she came or not, and Molly had no proof either way. She herself had always adored her grandmother. Even in her diminished state, Marjorie gave Molly comfort.
    This evening was no exception. Her room was filled with reminders of the past—framed family photos, a tote Marjorie had sewn that was now brimming with yarn, a woven basket in which Molly had put small pots of pothos, foliage begonia, and ivy. In the midst of these soothing mementos, Marjorie looked totally sweet and, in a cruel twist, more like a woman ten years her junior. Her hair was gray but remained thick, styled in a bob much like Kathryn's. Always a pastel person, she wore a pink robe, and she was reading a book—such a familiar activity for a long-time reader that Molly could pretend she was mentally there.
    “Nana,” she whispered, hunkering down by the chair.
    Marjorie looked up from her book and studied her quizzically. And here was another cruel twist: Though they had been warned she would lose facial expressions, she hadn't yet. She appeared to be totally aware, which made some of her behavior seem even worse.
    “It's Molly,” she said before Marjorie could call her something else. Yes, she understood what Kathryn felt when that happened. Marjorie didn't do it deliberately, but it was still sad to hear. “What're you reading?”
    Marjorie looked at her book and brightened. “It's
Little Women,
” she said. “My granddaughters loved this book. Do you have any children?”
    Molly felt a lump of emotion at not being recognized as one of those granddaughters. Swallowing it, she shook her head.
    “Well, you will, a pretty girl like you.” Closing the book, Marjorie smoothed the cover. It was not
Little Women
at all, but a book of knitting witticisms Molly had brought the week