Bea chewed the inside of her cheek. “Nothing, really. She was just being so weird. She forgot that I wasn’t in school, and then she yelled at Grandpa. And when I reminded her about the baby, she . . . I don’t know. Shut down or something and left the room. Like she couldn’t handle talking about it. I thought she would be happy.”

Dad scrubbed a hand over his face. “What did your grandfather say?”

“That she wasn’t feeling well, and I should go.”

Jeremy covered her hand with his. “That must’ve been upsetting.”

Dad gave him a sour look. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

Another sob worked its way up from Bea’s chest and flew from her mouth. Why did he have to be so childish? Jeremy scooted his chair closer.

“And there was . . . hardly any food . . . in the fridge.” Bea’s words came in spurts through her sobs. “All Grandma had to offer me . . . was a beer.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “You didn’t take it, did you?”

Dad glared at him. “Of course she didn’t.”

“I’m worried about her.” Bea slumped back in her chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Dad. What did the doctor say at the consultation?”

She had dismissed his concerns as soon as she heard what the appointment had been for and hadn’t given Dad a chance to explain any of the details. Now she turned to him with eyebrows raised. Ready to hear. Jeremy moved his thumb across the top of her hand.

“He wants to do more tests,” Dad said. “We’re taking her for a CT scan and blood work next Friday.”

She hated to ask but needed to know. “Does he think she has dementia?” Her shoulders tightened as she waited for the answer.

Dad waved an arm. “He said not to jump to any conclusions.”

“But he must’ve given you some information about—”

“Yes.” Her dad joined them at the table, his face grim. “When I brought up your grandmother’s age, how she’s not even sixty-five, he admitted he was going to want to look into the possibility of the early-onset familial kind of Alzheimer’s disease. But he said it’s way too soon to know anything for sure.”

Bea tensed. Familial? She put a hand on her stomach. “Does that mean it could be hereditary?” She heard the panic in her voice and told herself to calm down.

Dad held up his hands. “The chances are so slim there’s no sense in worrying about it. Dr. Wilson said it could end up not even being a neurological problem at all. Her confusion and mood swings might be the result of some sort of chemical imbalance or nutritional deficiency or something.”

Bea took a deep breath. A nutritional deficiency. That sounded like a solvable problem. Maybe that’s all it was. Poor Grandma. No one had been making sure she was taking care of herself.