Winter Garden

“Of course. ”

“Meredith, you stay here. ”

“Gladly,” she said, watching nervously as they made their way up the stairs and disappeared.

Meredith paced impatiently, chewing on her thumbnail until it started to bleed.

When Jeff and Dr. Burns came back down the stairs, she looked at the doctor. “Well?”

“She’s sprained her ankle. It will heal if she stays off it. ”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Meredith said. “You saw her fingers. And I found an X-Acto knife by her bed. I think she did it on purpose. She must have Alzheimer’s. Or some kind of dementia anyway. What do we do?”

Jim nodded slowly, obviously gathering his thoughts. “There’s a place in Wenatchee that could take her for a month or six weeks. We could call it rehabilitation for her ankle. Insurance would cover that, and at her age, healing is slow. It’s not a long-term solution, but it would give her—and you—some time to deal with what’s happened. It’s possible that time away from Belye Nochi and the memories here might help. ”

“You mean a nursing home?” Meredith said.

“No one likes a nursing home,” the doctor said. “But sometimes it’s the best answer. And remember, it’s only a short-term solution. ”

“Will you tell her she’s going there because she needs rehab?” Jeff asked, and Meredith could have kissed him. He knew how hard this decision was for her.

“Of course. ”

Meredith drew in a deep breath. She knew she would replay this moment over and over, probably hating herself more every day. She knew her father would never make this choice and wouldn’t have wanted her to make it. But she couldn’t deny how much this would help her.

She sleeps outside . . . tears down wallpaper . . . falls off chairs . . . what will be next?

“God help me,” she said softly, feeling alone even with Jeff right beside her. She’d never known before how profoundly a single decision could separate you from other people. “Okay. ”

That night, Meredith couldn’t sleep. She heard the clicking of digital minutes into one another as she lay in bed.

Everything about her decision felt wrong. Selfish. And that was what it was in the end: her decision.

She stayed in bed as long as she could, trying to relax; at two o’clock, she dropped the pretense and got up.

Downstairs, she roamed through the shadowy, quiet house, looking for something to help her sleep or to occupy her mind while she was awake: TV, a book, a cup of tea . . .

Then she saw the telephone and knew exactly what she needed: Nina’s complicity. If Nina agreed about the nursing home, Meredith would shoulder only half the guilt.

She dialed her sister’s international cell phone number and sat down on the sofa.

“Hello?” said a heavily accented voice. Irish, Meredith thought. Or Scottish.

“Hello? I’m calling Nina Whitson. Did I get the wrong number?”

“No. This is her phone. Who am I speakin’ to?”

“Meredith Cooper. I’m Nina’s sister. ”

“Ah, brilliant. I’m Daniel Flynn. I suppose you’ve heard of me. ”

“No. ”

“That’s disappointing, isn’t it? I’m a . . . good friend of your sister’s. ”

“How good a friend are you, Daniel Flynn?”

His laugh was low and rumbling. Sexy as hell. “Daniel’s me old man, and a mean son of a bitch he was. Call me Danny. ”