Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber

hands. She closed her eyes, silently praying for wisdom. She hadn’t expected this to be easy, but so far she was getting absolutely nowhere.

      After Vivian had dressed, she came back into the kitchen. Ignoring Susannah, she collected a straw basket and clippers. The garden was in full bloom; irises and roses were two of Susannah’s favorites and they were in abundant display along the white picket fence. The lilacs were pruned and shapely, and their heady scent drifted through the open window.

      Given her mother’s limited endurance, Susannah had been surprised to discover that the garden looked quite good, although the fence was a disaster. The paint had faded and one entire section tilted precariously. Her father would never have allowed that to go unfixed for more than a day. He was a stickler for order, at home and in the courtroom.

      “I thought I’d clean out the refrigerator,” Susannah said, making a peace offering.

      Vivian kept her shoulders stiff as she pulled on her gloves. “If that’s what you want to do, go right ahead.”

      “Mom.” Susannah walked toward her. “We still need to talk.”

      “Not about me moving. That subject is closed.”

      “I need to make sure you’re safe and well.”

      “I don’t know why you’re so concerned all of a sudden. Besides, I’m getting stronger every day.” The back screen door slammed as Vivian walked out of the house.

      Susannah sighed heavily. She didn’t want this to dissolve into a battle of wills between her and her mother.

      It took her forty minutes to clean out the refrigerator. She discarded all the containers; the contents of some were impossible to determine. Among the identifiable remains, she found old tuna fish, green-tinged cottage cheese, rotting fruit and vegetables. Her mother saved every scrap and bit. Rather than leave this garbage to smell up the kitchen, she wrapped everything in plastic and carried it outside to the receptacle by the garage.

      As she returned to the house, Susannah noticed that the shelves on the back porch were filled with dozens of senseless items. Her mother must’ve kept every plastic container she’d bought in the last six months. Piles of aluminum trays were neatly stacked, not for recycling, but for some future use. As a daughter of the Depression era, her mother tended to save everything, but it had never been this bad. Even empty toilet paper rolls were carefully piled up.

      “Mom, what do you intend to do with all this stuff?” Susannah asked.

      Her mother looked over from where she stood in her garden, a hose in one hand, and shrugged. “I’m saving it.”

      “For what?”

      “I don’t know yet.” She paused. “I never snooped around your house.”

      “I’m not snooping. Everything’s out in plain sight.”

      “Do I question what you save and don’t save?”

      Susannah had to agree that she didn’t. She went back to the kitchen and wiped the counters. This wasn’t how she wanted the visit to go, but she couldn’t delay the inevitable, either.

      “Would you like to ride down to the grocery store with me, Mom?” she asked when Vivian entered the house.

      Vivian put one long-stem red rose in a vase and set it in the center of the table. “My lettuce is coming up nicely,” she said with satisfaction. “So are my herbs. Rosemary’s my favorite, you know.”

      Susannah nodded. “Maybe we could take a drive around town when we’re finished our shopping.” She strived to make this sound like an enjoyable outing.

      Vivian hesitated, as if she wasn’t quite ready to forgive her for their earlier argument. “That would be nice,” she finally agreed.

      Together they drove to the Safeway. Vivian slipped her arm through Susannah’s as they crossed the parking lot and Susannah had the distinct feeling it was because she needed help maintaining her balance. This was also a silent message to let her know all was forgiven now.

      They loaded the cart with food Susannah hoped would tempt her mother’s appetite. She bought macaroons, her mother’s favorite cookie. Asparagus, Ritz crackers and other treats Susannah knew her mother wouldn’t purchase for herself. She quietly put back a jar of Russian mustard Vivian had placed in the cart, but kept the olives.

      They left the air-conditioned comfort of the store. The sun was out in full force and at ten o’clock it was nearly seventy-five degrees.

      “It’s going to be a hot one today,” Susannah said as they transferred their groceries to the trunk of her car.

      Her mother responded with a half smile. “I’m sorry, Susannah, but I wouldn’t do well in Seattle. I know you’re disappointed, but I can’t leave Colville. This is my home.”

      A lump momentarily filled Susannah’s throat. “I know, Mom. I don’t want to take away your home. Please understand that I only want what’s best for you.”

      “I’m the one who knows what’s best for me.”

      “Of course you are. Assisted living doesn’t mean you’ll lose your independence. I—”

      “Assisted living? Why bring that up?” Cutting her off, Vivian climbed inside the car and locked the door.

      “Well, I guess that’s that,” Susannah said under her breath. She finished unloading the groceries, closed her trunk and parked the cart.

      Opening the driver’s side door, she slid into her vehicle. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a look, would it?”

      Her mother refused to answer.

      “Mom, please don’t be so stubborn.”

      Vivian turned her head away and gazed out the passenger window. In all her life Susannah had never seen her mother behave quite like this. Susannah had always viewed her mother as a subservient and obedient wife, the passive partner in that marriage. She couldn’t remember her mother going against her father’s dictates even once. Her father, the judge, ruled the home and his family. What he said was law.

      Thinking about it now, Susannah marveled at the fact that, despite her father’s authoritarian ways, Vivian often managed to get what she wanted. The methods she employed were never direct. Vivian was a master manipulator, and that was clearer in retrospect than it had been at the time.

      Now Susannah was compelled to be equally indirect. “I thought we’d go for a short drive,” she said pleasantly. She turned on the ignition and the air-conditioning kicked in, flooding the car with an influx of hot air until it gradually cooled.

      Vivian remained quiet.

      “You didn’t tell me there was a Wal-Mart in town,” Susannah said in conversational tones. “Want to go?” Her mother had always loved shopping.

      “Oh.” Vivian smiled then and the tension eased from between Susannah’s shoulder blades.

      Instead of going back to the house to drop off the groceries, Susannah detoured and drove past the first of the assisted-living facilities she’d contacted. It was a modern complex that resembled a nice hotel, with balconies and a fountain in front of the circular driveway.

      Susannah didn’t say anything, but slowed as they drove past.

      “You apparently don’t know your way home anymore,” her mother said, ice dripping from every word.

      “Oh, I know where Chestnut Avenue is,” Susannah murmured. She shook her head. Vivian had never been to the assisted-living facility, but she knew exactly where it was located.

      “I don’t want that milk to spoil.”

      “It won’t.” Susannah turned and drove toward the house.

      In less than five minutes, Susannah was unloading the car. She put the refrigerator items away and left the rest of the bags on the kitchen