“I’ll be out in a minute, Mother.”

I can’t read Mom’s face. But I can read Mema’s. It’s the angry emoji times a million. Mad is better than sad, though. At least for right now. I want to tell her that Mom’s a genius at the work-around. Maybe she’ll come up with something the doctor has never considered. I pull on Mema’s hand a little until she starts moving again.

Back out front, we spot Grandpa in the waiting area talking to a little girl wearing an Elsa dress. They’re standing in front of the fish tank. We move toward them.

“Your mother is trying to kill me, Ellie,” Mema says angrily.

“Nah. She has her methods. I bet she’s just giving that doctor a piece of her mind.” At least, I hope so.

Grandpa turns when he sees us coming. He’s neat and tidy and smiling. He looks like himself, healthy and strong. He looks happy.

“Marianne, look who I found in reception!”

We both look at the girl, and I wonder if I am supposed to know her too, but Mema looks just as confused as me.

“Look, M, it’s little Lily! Can you believe our baby granddaughter has finally learned to walk?” He claps his hands together. “It’s a miracle!”

Time stops.

And then it starts again.

And I am rolling on by now.

Past the fish and the girl.

Past my grandmother, gently taking my grandfather by the elbow.

Into the hallway where windows overlook the parking lot.

I catch sight of myself in their reflection and cannot remember when I started to cry.

It’s way past lunchtime when we leave the hospital, and I haven’t eaten anything since a rushed bowl of oatmeal this morning, but my stomach feels sloshy and heavy, like I drank too much water.

I don’t look at Grandpa as Mema walks him out to the Buick and Mom loads me into the van.

When we pull onto Route 9, all I want to do is go home and crawl into bed… and wake up in Nashville. But instead of crossing the bridge that will take us back across the lake, we head toward town.

“Where are we going?”

“One more stop, baby, I promise, and then home.”

I lean my head against the cold window. Maybe Grandpa has it right. It’d be nice to forget your life. It’s why I like to bake. When you’re doing something that takes all your brain power, the world kind of falls away and leaves you alone. You can be anyone anywhere when your mind is so full of an idea. Maybe that’s what Alzheimer’s is—a thing that fills your mind so full of a story that the real world can’t get in. Except that’s a scary thought if you don’t get to pick the plot.