Page 39 of Unburied

“That would be lovely, dear, thank you.” Ellen seemed lost in thought before she finally spoke. “My Christine adored lilies. Did you know that?”

Vivi shook her head. “I did not.”

Ellen smiled softly. “She loved them so—especially the calla lilies. Those huge white ones? He teased her all the time. He didn’t like them. Said they reminded him of funerals.”

Was the man she spoke about Russ? “Who made fun of her? Russ?”

Vivi found herself holding her breath, awaiting Ellen’s confirmation. She seemed to drift for a moment before giving her head a little shake. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Vivi repressed a sigh. She had been hoping Ellen would at least acknowledge his presence, if not what happened to him. Shoving away her disappointment, she focused on what Ellen had said about Christine. She knew Ellen had planted the flowers in the backyard in memory of her daughter after her death, but she hadn’t realized they were also her favorite flower. “I think it’s very appropriate,” Vivi ventured cautiously. After all, what else could she say?

“It is, isn’t it? I love those flowers dearly. I always look at them and think of her.” Ellen smiled broadly. “Well, I think I'll take a nap now,” she said as she rose from the chair. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Vivi said weakly as she blinked back tears. “Can I come see you again?”

“I'd like that,” Ellen said.

Vivi left the room feeling as if her heart was breaking, wishing that things could be different. She cared less about the answers she was seeking than Ellen’s health in general. As she climbed back into her car and headed home, she let the tears fall.

She still felt guilty for allowing Ellen to go to the facility. She knew it was what Ellen had wanted, and she knew it was easier for herself and Elijah. Mostly, she felt guilty because she felt relief at the fact that someone else more qualified was there to help her. Dealing with a dementia patient was hard. Though the doctors and nurses had told her what to expect, she found herself way out of her depth.

Sometimes she just didn’t know how to respond to Ellen—and that made her feel even worse. She had known Ellen for half her life, was closer to her than her own mother. Yet they were now little more than complete strangers.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Vivi had been quiet ever since Mason arrived at her house that afternoon, a dead giveaway to let him know that something was wrong. He snuck a glance at her where she stood just a few feet away, sorting things from the closet in the master bedroom and packing them into boxes to be moved to storage.

“How did your visit with Ellen go?” he ventured warily.

She paused the process of putting the folded shirt into the box, and she stared sightlessly at it for a few seconds before responding. “Not great.”

He hadn’t expected much else, to be entirely honest, but he knew Vivi was disappointed. “What happened?”

She bit her lip. “She didn't even recognize me. I know there are supposed to be good days and bad, but I just… I guess I didn't expect that. It hurt a little bit, you know?” Her gaze lifted to his. “And then I felt awful for feeling that way, because I know she can't help it.”

“I'm sorry.” He abandoned the box of books on the bed and moved toward her, pulling her into his arms.

He couldn't imagine what this was like for her. He didn't have any first-hand experience with anyone who had a form of dementia, nor was he close with any of his family members, save Miles. As similar as their childhoods had been, they were also vastly different.

While Miles and Mason had practically raised themselves, Vivi had had Ellen. He knew she was close to the older woman despite the fact that they weren't even related, and he couldn't begin to contemplate a connection like that. Still, he wanted to ease the hurt that Vivi was feeling right now.

“I know it's hard for you, but I'm sure it's hard for her too.”

“I know,” she mumbled against his chest. “That's what I keep trying to tell myself.”

She pulled away a little bit. “The doctors recommend just giving her little reminders when she forgets, but sometimes she's just so adamant that it's almost easier to go along with it.”

“I don't blame you,” he said. “I'm sure she believes whatever she says. Better to just drop it sometimes than get into an argument that she won't remember anyway.”

A stricken look crossed her face, and he tightened his hold on her. “I'm sorry, that was⁠—”

She shook her head. “No, you're right. I just feel kind of helpless when she's like this.”

“I know, babe.”

He hated that she was hurting, and he wanted nothing more than to take that pain away. He squeezed her hip. “The little plastic things on the ends of shoelaces are called aglets.”