She trailed the spoon through the bowl of sugar, making dunes of white crystals. “I pictured Stanley and me spending the rest of our lives together. All the times we shared, those trips we took. Now it was only me that remembered them. And the bad experiences do a great job of replacing the good memories.
“If you think about it, Daisy, that’s all we are: a collection of memories. Once that’s gone, who are we? Other people live in ours, whether living or dead. In turn, our actions and words take up a place in their hearts and minds. Alzheimer’s is so cruel because it steals them. The great memory thief.”
I desperately searched my mind for some stories of our time together. “Hey, remember that dinner we had out on the patio that one summer? When Joe and I came over and we cooked steaks and lobsters on the grill?”
Her mascara-smudged eyes brightened a little. “Oh, what a feast that was. What a great evening. Joe even made a tarte tatin on the grill for dessert. That was amazing.”
“And Stanley always made the best coffee,” I murmured.
Ruth gave me a sad smile. “I begged the doctor for better medicine, more medicine, to prolong his life as long as possible. The doctor asked me what it was exactly that I wanted to prolong. That’s when I realized how selfish I was being. I had to watch my husband slowly fade before my eyes, like a Polaroid photo in reverse.”
I pictured Joe’s well-built body wasting away, the anguish I would feel if he didn’t know who I was. My eyes were brimming now, and I grabbed a tissue out of the box. “Jeez. I’m supposed to be comforting you. Not doing a very good job, am I?”
“Yes, you are. It’s such a relief to finally tell someone.” She sighed heavily. “Life has been so manic. I missed my friends. I missed my life. I was looking forward to some peace, some sense of control again. And now this.”
A few minutes later I was relieved to hear a knock on the door. I hurried to answer it, and Martha and Eleanor came rushing into the house, followed by Debby Millerton, the librarian, and Annie Sparks, who owned the herb shop. I led them into the kitchen, where Ruth dissolved into tears again at the sight of the members of the Historical Society.
“My God, what have I done?” she wailed. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I’m so embarrassed.”
They crowded around her, making murmurs of condolence and reassurance, while Ruth moaned and kept repeating how sorry she was. Above the babble, I noticed Eleanor hanging back, white-lipped and silent. I drew her into the living room.
“E, are you mad at Ruth?” I whispered.
She ran a hand through her hair. “Yes. No. Oh, hell, I don’t know. I’m just as mad at myself, I suppose. As president, I should have had better procedures in place. There should have been two signatures required on checks, that type of thing. But it seemed as though Ruth was so good with money, and I trusted her . . .”
“We all did. Turns out she was good at raising money, but maybe not so good at managing it.”
We glanced toward the kitchen, where Ruth was taking great gulps of air. “Of course, I’ll have to lay off my cleaning service,” we heard her sob. “Kathleen won’t be happy, but what can I do? I’m not even sure where she keeps the vacuum!”
Eleanor rolled her eyes at me. “And now we don’t have the resources to hire another photographer, or get the calendar printed. Damn it.”
“Come on,” I said, taking hold of her arm. “No use crying over spilt milk.”
“Can we think of some other ideas to make money?” Debby was asking the group as we walked back into the kitchen.
Eleanor sighed. “We’ve been through this before. The calendar was the best idea we ever came up with.”