Page 4

Sure, Willow would never be a millionaire. But at the end of her life, she could at least say she’d done a bit of good.

Stepping outside, she hurried through the rain to the bus, which whisked her to Lexington. This was the historically charming area in which she’d been raised. Now, at twenty-five, she had an apartment in a trendier part of Boston, vibrant with young people, hip restaurants, and cool coffee shops. But she was hardly ever there, since she often made the trip out to Lexington.

As she drew closer to her old neighborhood, familiar houses and shops lent a cozy feeling. This was where she’d always belonged.

That evening, she found herself seated beside a beautiful woman of seventy-two, whose long, slender fingers slid across bright piano keys. The woman moved gently, playing a Chopin piece she and Willow had worked on in music therapy for most of five months. It was remarkable. When the woman began to play, it was as though everything else in her life fell away. All the devastation. All she’d lost. It didn’t matter, not when she was within the confines of the music.

When the piece ended, the woman raised her hands over the keys and blinked down at her fingers. It was as though she didn’t recognize them. Willow was afraid to speak, not wanting to break the spell the woman had created. She didn’t want to yank her back into the confusion that awaited her.

But soon, the woman’s eyes lifted to Willow’s. Willow’s eyes filled with tears.

“That was beautiful,” she said. She was careful not to call her Mom because she knew better than to confuse her. Her mother, Donna Cay, had forgotten Willow’s name nearly six months ago. Sometimes through the power of music, pieces of Donna’s memory returned. But most often, especially two years into her dementia diagnosis, all the music therapy did was offer her a bit of solace in a world that had turned its back on her.

A single tear dropped down Donna’s cheek.

“Why don’t you play it again?” Willow suggested. Sometimes it was better to have her mother play the piano for a couple of hours before bed, if only to calm her before she fell asleep.

Donna furrowed her brow and rubbed her thighs with the heels of her hands. “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I don’t know.”

“You’re so talented,” Willow said gently. “But you don’t have to play right now. Maybe we could sing instead. Do you know any songs?”

Donna’s eyes were vacant. Willow tried not to think about her childhood, when her mother had taught her countless songs, and they’d turned on the radio and belted out the lyrics to whatever was on. The entire world had been their stage.

“Do you know this one?” Willow began, before whisper-singing a Shania Twain song that her mother had adored back in the day. At first, her mother’s eyes stirred with confusion, then something triggered the memory, and she began to sing, too. Her voice wasn't as strong or as honeyed as it once had been. She sounded old and tired. But there was enough truth behind it to calm even Willow for a time.

I miss you, Mom, she tried to translate with her eyes, with her smile. But the woman singing before her had no idea who Willow was. She likely never would again.

After Willow helped her mother change her clothes, brush her teeth, and slide into bed for the night, Willow went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. It was nearly nine, and she wasn’t sure yet whether she wanted to fall asleep in front of the television or slip into her childhood bed. Ever since things had gotten especially bad with her mother, she’d spent anywhere from four to six nights here each week. Sometimes she hired a night nurse. Other times, her mother’s ex-husband, Ralph, came by to help.

Speaking of Ralph, Willow spotted him through the front window. He was carrying a platter of something and headed straight for the front door. He’d probably assumed Willow was here for the night. Willow hurried to open it, ushering Ralph into the living room’s warmth. Ralph shook the drizzle from his coat, then handed the platter of cookies to Willow, sheepishly explaining that he’d had a bit of extra time today. “I felt like baking something. I don’t know if they’re any good.”

Willow laughed and took a bite. “They’re perfect,” she said. They were gooier than she’d expected, filled with oatmeal, melted chocolate, and plenty of butter.

Ralph sat on the sofa and spread his hands across his thighs while Willow fetched him a mug of tea and sat beside him. Willow tried not to analyze Ralph’s face too much. At seventy-three, he was looking older by the day, it seemed like. Or maybe the rainy weather made everyone look a little duller. Willow had avoided her own reflection all day.

“How is she today?” Ralph asked.

“The same,” Willow said. “But she played a gorgeous piece, the Chopin. And we sang some songs.”

Ralph nodded. “She was always a brilliant singer.”

“It’s incredible how the lyrics come back to her,” Willow said.

“The brain is a fascinating and terrifying thing,” Ralph agreed softly.

Ralph sipped his tea and took a cookie from the platter. Willow tried to remember the last time she’d seen Ralph and thought it must have been a couple of weeks ago, late August, when he’d come over for dinner. All summer, they’d avoided talking about how much worse her mother was. But now that autumn was rushing toward them, bringing storms and dark clouds, Willow wasn’t sure she could hide from it any longer.

“She feels far away from me,” she said gently. “Far away from the world and getting further all the time.”

Ralph looked Willow dead in the eye. “I know you’re a therapist yourself. I know that all you do is mind other people’s emotions, other people’s inner lives.” He paused. “Your mother would want you to mind your own, as well.”

Willow lowered her gaze. The truth was that she wasn’t sure she had time to take care of her own emotions. Life as a freelance music therapist wasn’t easy. She had to manage her own schedule, find her own clients, and work herself to the bone. On top of it all, she had to take care of her mother, which was something she’d never handed off to anyone else. But still.

“I came to see her the other day,” Ralph offered finally. “The nurse was here and let me in. I sat with her for a long time, watching television. She had no idea who I was. I was just grateful that I didn’t frighten her.”

Willow’s lower lip quivered, but she didn’t let herself cry.

“I think we have to start preparing ourselves for what’s coming next,” Ralph said. “It’s impossible to know how much time she has left. But she’s a prisoner in her own body.”