Read Online The Rosemary Spell by Virginia Zimmerman - Free Book Online

Cheshire Cat’s smile. It really is Wonderland in here.
    We escape into the corridor. The wheelchair man’s low moans follow us, and I jump when he shouts, “You’re not Maud!”
    â€œNo one should have to live like this,” Adam whispers.
    â€œCan I help you?” A nurse stops us near a bend in the corridor. She holds a small cup of pills in one hand and a battered clipboard in the other.
    â€œWe’re looking for Constance Brooke.”
    I try to muffle the desperation in my voice, but I’m sure she notices. Maybe everyone who comes here is a little desperate.
    â€œYou’re not family.” She studies us over the clipboard.
    Adam babbles an explanation about our poetry project.
    â€œRoom fifty-five. Just ahead on the left.” She walks past us, but the professional clack of her heels halts. She lowers the clipboard. “You know Miss Brooke suffers from Alzheimer’s disease? At her stage, she has lost most of her adult life.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Adam asks.
    â€œHer memory has diminished significantly. Most of the time she’s in the 1920s.”
    I do some quick math. “So she thinks she’s a child?”
    â€œNot exactly, but she doesn’t remember being an adult.” She notices the pills in her hand, and with a tight, frazzled smile, she clacks away.
    â€œI think forgetting your own life might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard of,” I say.
    Adam sighs. “She won’t remember Wilkie.”
    â€œMaybe we shouldn’t . . .”
    â€œMaud!”
    The sharp voice from the sunroom drives me forward with the vague sense that we owe Constance Brooke the gift of our right minds. Maybe we won’t learn anything from her, but at least we can talk to her and be people in her present who aren’t demented.
    The door to room fifty-five is ajar, and I tap lightly.
    â€œYes?”
    We walk together into the small room.
    Constance Brooke is so frail it hardly seems possible that she’s alive. Her silver white hair almost gives off light, like LED Christmas lights. It’s held away from her face by a black velvety headband and curls in wisps to her jaw, which sticks out as if daring her faded skin to wither away. She’s neatly dressed in a white blouse with a bow at the neck and a sky blue skirt that flares just past her knees.
    â€œCome in,” she says, her pale cheeks widening into a gentle smile. “Do I know you?”
    â€œNo,” I answer. I don’t know what to say.
    Adam clears his throat. “I’m Adam. Adam Steiner. This is Rosemary Bennett. We’re, uh, doing a project—”
    â€œI live in your house,” I blurt out. This seems more to the point than our stupid poetry assignment.
    Constance frowns, her eyes dimming a little. The headband tips slightly as her brow wrinkles in confusion. “My house?” Her voice is wispy like her hair, as if she doesn’t have enough breath for speech. “But my house is gone. Destroyed in the flood. At the new moon.”
    â€œNo, I don’t live on the island,” I explain. “I live in the house you moved to after the flood. On Pear Tree Lane.”
    â€œPear Lane?” She frowns.
    â€œPear Tree Lane.”
    She closes her eyes, as if looking for the house in her mind. When she opens them, her face is blank. She notices us. Her paper cheeks arc into soft folds as she smiles. “Hello. Do I know you?”
    No. You don’t know us. You don’t even know yourself.
    Adam speaks slowly, carefully. “I’m Adam. This is Rosemary. We were asking about your house. Your house on Pear Tree Lane.”
    She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong person. I lived on the island. A lovely stone house. Gone now.”
    â€œShe doesn’t remember,” I murmur.
    â€œMiss Brooke,” Adam presses. “Could you tell us about