The Me I Used to Be

Prologue and Chapters 1-4

Prologue

Audrey, Micah, Jasmine, and Beck are the Core Four. The lucky one, the beautiful one, the smart one, the sporty one. Four equal parts, no leader, no weakest link. They never doubt they'll stay friends forever, be in each other's weddings, godmothers to each other's children, friends to the grave. Until that night, when the accident takes away the friendship they didn't think could ever be destroyed. That night, everything they thought was true dies.

The Arrival

Audrey hears the crunch of wheels on the gravel driveway and rises, smoothing her long yellow dress. She planned this outfit carefully. She's taken an Adderall and had two cups of coffee, wanting to be on top of her game. She hasn't seen the Core Four in twenty-five years. Through the window, she sees an aging Subaru hatchback. It's Micah. She's never left Stafford, so technically they've seen each other, but their forced encounters are excruciatingly superficial. Audrey knows Micah married James, her high school boyfriend, and they have a college-age son. Micah looks the worse for wear, frumpy, heavier, and Audrey feels a not-unpleasant stab of satisfaction. Micah was dubbed the beautiful one, once desperate to leave Vermont. Audrey was the lucky one who grew up on Bitter Creek Farm with her little brother and perfect parents. This was the house that hosted all the sleepovers, the home away from home for all three of them. And then they left her.

The doorbell rings. Audrey opens the door and startles. There are three women here, and she almost doesn't recognize two of them. A moment of silence falls as the four stand in each other's presence for the first time in a quarter of a century. She invited them here. She wanted this. Micah says she brought cupcakes. Audrey takes the pink box and steps back so they can come in. Gracie, her Irish setter, sniffs everyone. "You stuck with the Irish setters, I see," Beck says. Jasmine says the place looks beautiful. Jasmine wears a bronze off-the-shoulder sweater, an immaculate cream skirt, green suede mules, diamond engagement ring, diamond wedding band, diamond stud earrings. Beck's hair is short and funky, her clothes simple but chic. She looks effortlessly cool, upstaging the rest. Beck announces she brought her cat, Mr. Littlejeans. Gracie sniffs the crate and the cat gives a low growl.

They go into the kitchen, and Jasmine immediately compliments the decor. She has always chattered when nervous. She's had some plastic surgery, Audrey thinks. Mathilda thuds down the stairs. "This is my stepdaughter, Mathilda," Audrey says. "Kylo!" she growls. "I go by Kylo now." Audrey introduces Beck Morrow, Jasmine Malinowski. "Hahn. Jasmine Hahn, honey." And Micah Dell. "Yeah, I'm aware. Hi, Mrs. Paulson." Kylo says she didn't know Micah was friends with Audrey. "We go way back," Micah says. Kylo gives Audrey a questioning look. Micah's never been invited here as an adult. Kylo says she'll be at Everest's, thank God. No offense. Audrey explains her girlfriend, not the mountain. Kylo snaps that Everest is her they-friend. Micah says Everest is lovely. Kylo's face softens. Audrey tells her to drive safely and text when she gets there. "I won't." She shoots Audrey a dark look and heads out.

The Gathering

They sit down. Beck asks if she can let her cat out, and Audrey says sure. The cat creeps out and hisses at Gracie. Clay comes in, and Audrey is relieved. He greets everyone warmly. He shakes Jasmine's hand, then smiles at Micah, saying he already knows her, best muffins in town outside of Audrey's. He offers drinks, asks if it's too early for cocktails. Audrey says she's got this. Clay says he'll be staying out in the guesthouse, won't get in the way on their girls' weekend. He slides his arm around Audrey and kisses her head. She watches him leave. "So. That's my husband." Jasmine says he seems nice. "He was a widower. I married him when Mathilda was five."

She brings out the charcuterie board, cloth napkins, wine. She asks if Jasmine and Beck came together. No, they just pulled in at the same time. Beck took the train and grabbed an Uber. So not close enough to share a ride. Jasmine says the foliage is remarkable, asks Micah if she's busy with the reunion. Micah says most stuff is in place. Audrey reaches for wine, fills four glasses. "Figured we'd need this. Grease the wheels, so to speak." They've never had a legal drink together. "To the Core Four, I guess. Thank you for coming." They echo it. They take healthy swallows. Audrey suggests a nutshell summary of their lives. "Micah? You go first." It's not a request.

Life Summaries

Micah shifts. She had a baby seven months after they graduated. Beck is shocked, says her mom got transferred a few months after graduation, she didn't know. Micah says crap timing, great kid. Logan. He's twenty-four, lives in Boston, works in finance. Audrey has never met Micah's son. Jasmine asks if she married James. Micah forces a laugh, says the least likely to marry her high school sweetheart ended up married to her high school sweetheart. It took him six years to convince her. She runs the bakery with her mom, James is a mechanic. It's a good life. Beck asks about her sister. Micah says she lives in Boston, her voice casual. She's a travel writer and influencer. Eve's Suitcase. Ouch. That was Micah's dream. Jasmine exclaims that she follows Eve's Suitcase. They went to Singapore and stayed at the hotel she recommended. Mr. Littlejeans jumps onto Micah's lap, purring. Micah grabs grapes and pops them in her mouth, apparently finished.

Audrey asks Jasmine about her life. Beck echoes it, her voice deceptively mild but her eyes hard. Jasmine flushes, says it's wonderful. She met her husband through Beck. Beck raises her eyebrows. "That's one way of putting it. Oscar and I were on a date when we ran into Jasmine." Micah asks if that was less back-stabby than it sounds. Jasmine protests that it wasn't like that. It was a while before Oscar and she started dating. Beck says they got married a year later, started dating just a few weeks after they broke up. Jasmine doesn't remember exactly, it's been decades, but she remembers he told her Beck broke up with him. Beck says that's true, eats another slice of cheddar, compliments the cheese. Audrey feels a tug of affection. Beck always loved cheese.

Jasmine continues, voice tight and fast. They got married, have three beautiful girls, live in Greenwich. Micah says, "Oh, come on. You always wanted to end up there. A mansion in Connecticut and a private jet. Remember?" Her voice is not unkind. Jasmine's face grows redder. Lydia is sixteen, Lucy fourteen, Lyra four. Micah asks if she works. Jasmine says the girls need her home, she dabbles in the market for friends but not seriously. She gives a fake laugh. There's something off about her face, pretty enough but different.

Audrey asks Beck. Beck crosses her legs, rubbing her upper thigh, says she's good. She lives on the Upper West Side in Manhattan. She's a casting director. She has Mr. Littlejeans. Audrey asks what a casting director is exactly. Beck cracks her knuckles, an old habit. She works with the director of a film or TV series and finds the right person for the role. Jasmine says she's underselling herself, she sees Beck's name in the credits all the time. Audrey asks gently about basketball. Beck pauses. No. Never could play again. Audrey says that must be really hard. Beck says yeah, it was. Her life went in a different direction, but it's all good. She smiles, but it's not a real smile. Micah asks if she's with someone. Just Mr. Littlejeans, Beck says. "I'm a happy, childless cat lady." "Cheers to that," Micah says. They all smile, a little more authentically.

The Apology

Beck asks about Audrey, and she jumps, her heart clattering. Before she talks about that, she thinks they should do something. She had a plan. It's the reason she invited them. She thinks they should kill the elephant in the room. Beck says that's a lot of blood. What is? Killing an elephant. Not that she's for that. She loves elephants. Jasmine says they saw them on a trip to Tanzania three years ago. A spiritual experience. Micah says let Audrey talk, and Audrey shoots her a grateful look. Twenty-five years is a long time. This weekend felt like maybe the right time to apologize. For the accident. Silence falls over the room. Audrey stands, walks to the bookcase, returns with a photo of her mom. Mom stands on a hill, rolling fields of lavender behind her, hair blowing, that perpetual smile. She misses her so much. She sets the picture on the table. "Let's talk." She'll go first. The accident. She's been over that night a thousand times, and she thinks they can all find a way to blame themselves. She's sorry she couldn't drive that night. She hopes they'll forgive her.

Beck takes a long breath and lets it out. Jasmine fumbles for a tissue. Micah sits frozen, looking sick. Jasmine thanks her, voice catching, says she'll go next. She was driving. They all know that. Her lips scrunch up and tears spill out of her green eyes. She was inexperienced with a stick shift, but that's all. They took her blood alcohol, it wasn't even close to drunk driving. She'd had a beer or two. All she remembers is looking down at the gear stick, and Beck being all wild and silly. Beck snaps that she's sorry she was car-dancing. Jasmine snaps back that Beck shoved a hairbrush in her face. And Beck was supposed to make sure Micah stayed sober. Beck says right, it was her job to babysit Micah. She failed. Jasmine waits a beat, but Beck is silent. Jasmine says she's truly sorry. She's thought a million times about that night and how she could've done better. She's sorry to all of them, especially Audrey. She hopes they'll forgive her. The words are simple and sincere. Audrey swallows the lump in her throat, smiles through her tears. Beck glances at Jasmine, gives a nod, rubs her leg again. Her turn. Beck was probably the person least at fault. The only one who hadn't had alcohol or weed. She says yeah, she was rowdy, she remembers that. Audrey says she was singing along with the radio, pretending to be Christina Aguilera. Beck did love to sing. The memory almost makes Audrey smile. Beck's face flushes. So maybe she did distract Jasmine. Actually, she knows she did. She's sorry for whatever role she played. Not a good babysitter, not a good passenger. And she couldn't step up and be the driver since she didn't have her license. Never thought it would cause everything. She's sorry. Jasmine reaches over and squeezes Beck's hand. Beck gives a grateful look, takes her hand back, picks up her wineglass.

Now it's Micah's turn. She looks like someone is ramming a broomstick through her stomach. She clears her throat, tries to speak, fails. Her face is white. Beck asks if she wants to say something, her voice bitter. Micah says she thinks they all know she's the one to blame. Her voice is barely a whisper. The cat leaves her lap as if disgusted. Micah chokes out that it was her fault. She was the designated driver, and she got completely shit-faced. She looks at Audrey, then at Beck, whose face looks carved in stone. She's so sorry. She had just found out she was pregnant, and she told James, and he... Anyway, she thought the best thing to do was guzzle some vodka. She was an idiot, and it's her fault Beck's leg got mangled and... and... God, she is so sorry about Audrey's mom. She bursts into tears, puts her hands in her hair, ugly-crying, loud, ragged sobs. She hates herself for what she did to them all. She loved Audrey's mom so much. She's sorry. She doubles over, sobbing. Audrey can't let her sit there like that. She goes to her, wraps her arms around her, rests her head on her shoulder. Sobs shudder through Micah, and she grips Audrey's arms hard. Gracie leaps up to join the hug. "I forgive you," Audrey whispers. Micah manages that she doesn't have to. "I do have to, actually." Audrey sits up and takes Micah's hand. It's rough from all the work she does in the bakery. "I want to, and I need to." She takes a big breath. She asks Beck if she could also forgive Micah. And her, and Jasmine. Because after Mom, Beck was hurt the worst. Beck is quiet a moment, staring at her wine. Then she looks up, right into Micah's eyes. Yeah. Sure. She knows Micah didn't mean for anything bad to happen. Or Jasmine. And certainly not Audrey. It was the butterfly effect. Micah got high, Micah got drunk, and Jasmine had never driven stick.

Chapters 5-7

Micah stands in the kitchen at Lola's, leaving a message for her son. "Hi, Logan, it's Mom," she says, voice low and shaky. She asks him to talk. She gets that he's mad, but what should she say? Please call me, she tells him. I love you. She clicks off and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. This is torture.

The bells over the bakery door jangle. Micah fixes her face and goes out front, where Marjorie Fielding, Stafford's self-appointed gentility queen, stares at the display case as if it's full of rats. Micah greets her pleasantly. Marjorie asks about "that boy" of Micah's. That boy is twenty-four. Micah says he's doing great, very happy in Boston, loves his job. Marjorie asks if he's found a special someone yet, if he's settling down rather than living the life of an irresponsible millennial. She asks Micah to tell her Logan isn't whoring around on one of those sex sites. For one, Logan is Gen Z. For two, Micah doesn't know whether he's whoring around. Three, she doesn't know how his job is going. Four, she doesn't know anything, because it's been four weeks and two days since they last talked. She says no marriage on the horizon yet. Marjorie clucks about today's youth. Micah's smile turns to cement. She says she got pregnant out of wedlock, and things turned out just fine for her. Marjorie says lucky for her she has that nice James. A good provider, being in the trades. Marjorie has lipstick on her teeth, and Micah will not tell her.

Marjorie says she just thought she'd check in and see if Micah needed help with the reunion. Micah asks why she'd want to help with a reunion for her class. She knows it's for gossip. Micah asks whether Marjorie's own fiftieth reunion wasn't a few years ago. Marjorie swells like a poisonous blowfish. Micah says luckily they have a great committee, thanks her, and boxes up a red velvet cupcake on the house. Marjorie caves and thanks her.

The second she's out the door, Micah's fake smile drops. Marjorie is small-town Stafford at its worst. No matter what Micah does, a healthy portion of the population will always see her as the wild girl who made bad choices and tormented her poor mother, who was responsible, at least partially, for The Accident. No amount of free cupcakes will erase that.

Marjorie is right about one thing: chairing the reunion is exhausting. The committee is full of people who said they wanted to be involved but are now too busy, so Micah will do 75 percent of the work herself, along with James. He always has her back, and it's his reunion too.

God, she's tired. Every day she's up at 4:30 a.m. to shower and have coffee before heading to the bakery four blocks away. The machinists at the clean energy plant start at 6:30, and Lola's needs their business. It isn't just the hours or being on her feet. Her mother is a spewing volcano of self-pity and complaints about everything except Eve, Micah's egotistical sister, now the golden child thanks to her glamorous job. And there's Stafford itself. As a small business owner, and someone who spent her teenage years loudly declaring her intention to leave town, Micah has to pretend baking for Stafford is her choice, her calling, her joy. That even though this is exactly the opposite of where she thought she'd end up, this is the dream.

She has to atone for The Accident. For being a teenage mother. For not marrying James right away. How many people told her she was lucky he stood by her? Had anyone ever told him he was lucky, too? She has to be the proud scion of Lola's, the bakery her great-grandmother founded seventy-five years ago. She's a registered independent so she can pretend to be politically neutral. She brings cupcakes to every school celebration, scones to town hall, free tastings on winter weekends when the wealthy flat-landers come up to ski. She supplies the Garden Club, the Friends of the Library, the Downtown Stafford Business Owners, of which she's president this year. She donates dessert to the spaghetti supper for Miles Wilkes, the ten-year-old hit by a car who needs extensive physical therapy not covered by insurance. She organizes meal trains for anyone who needs one. She is a pillar of the community. She has to be. She owes Lola's a lot.

It supported her mom after Dad left when Micah and Eve were teenagers. It gave her a job when she was pregnant and unmarried. The first seven years of Logan's life, they lived in the apartment above the shop with her mom. And it has its upsides. She loves baking, thank God, and Lola's is a legend in Vermont, one of the few businesses that has been woman-owned for four generations. The vintage signs are meticulously maintained, the painted window lettering spelling out Corree Partor on one side, Bakeo Goons on the other. The scuffed wooden floors are original, the embossed bronze engraved cash register a work of art. It always smells of cake and coffee and happiness.

And Logan loved the bakery. What if he never comes back? What if the days of him demolishing cupcakes out front or helping her in the back are over? The thought causes actual pain in her chest. Heartache, the kind only a mother knows.

"Hey, Mrs. Paulson," calls Mathilda Joyce, walking in. Micah straightens up and greets her as Kylo. So many teenagers change their names these days, and Micah tries to remember them and use the pronouns they prefer. Making a teenager feel accepted is worth the effort. Kylo is Audrey Porter's, well, Audrey Joyce's, stepdaughter, and comes in at least twice a week. Like a lot of kids that age, she's figuring out who she is, as shown by the occasional green streaks in her hair and the odd choice in name. She's usually with Everest Snow, whose original name means the parents are at fault in that case. Everest is cheery, smart, expressive, the nicest girl in town, or kid, Micah silently corrects. They/them. The same helpful, smiling type of teenager Logan was.

Micah asks if it's her usual, knowing kids love to feel like regulars. Kylo says that'd be great. Micah asks if Everest is joining, and Kylo checks her phone and says any minute. Micah says she'll get theirs too, and starts on the vanilla soy chai for Kylo and a plain cappuccino for Everest. She wonders how Audrey is handling her kid's teenage years. Logan had been easy, affectionate and open with her and James, especially James. His rebellion consisted of nothing more than a few eye rolls and a messy room rife with the smell of sweaty sneakers. He'd never been angry with her before. Not like this. But she can't say she doesn't deserve it. She swallows hard.

Everest bangs through the front door, resplendent in black, with three nose piercings and a chain from their ear to somewhere down their shirt, asking how the best baker in the world is. Micah says she's good, honey, and that Kylo ordered them a cappuccino. Everest asks about sugar and carbs, says they can't get through the day without a serious infusion of deliciousness. Micah tells them to pick their poison. They point to a whoopie pie. Micah hands it over on the house because of their deep appreciation of her life's work. Everest laughs, thanks her, and goes to sit with Kylo.

Micah made the pink-and-white cake for Everest's baptism. The purple mermaid cake when they were six. The cupcakes when they earned their black belt. Last year, a goth castle cake for their fifteenth. Being the town baker means being involved in almost every family's life, a privilege as warm and lovely as cranberry-orange muffins fresh from the oven. But she's never made anything for the Joyce family.

Kirsty Talcott comes through the door next, one of the reunion committee members, and announces they've just lost the DJ. Does Micah know anyone else? Micah says she probably does, but can't they just do a Spotify playlist to save money? Kirsty says DJs make it so much more fun. Micah scrolls through her phone. Since she makes a lot of wedding cakes, she knows plenty of people in the business. She finds Jeff Stein and says she'll text Kirsty his number. Kirsty looks at her watch and asks if Micah can call him instead, since she has to get home and pack. She and Jack are going to New York City for the weekend. Micah agrees. And so it goes in Micah's life. She makes the call, then emails her three part-timers to cover reunion weekend, hoping no one flakes. James, like her, will take the weekend off, picking up the slack, doing the stuff she forgets, making sure she knows he's right there. He understands how high school ended for her, how hard it was when most of their class left. He's such a good guy. An incredible dad.

Fear jolts through her veins like a double shot of espresso injected into her heart. Call me, Logan. Please, please call me.

Kylo and Everest call goodbye, thanking her. Micah thanks them for coming in. She glances at the clock. Forty-five minutes till closing. She goes to the tiny office and checks her email. Ten or twelve messages about the reunion from vendors and committee members and former classmates, asking if they can bring a guest, where to stay, and, in one case, the best car services from the airport. It feels cruel to be in charge of this, though she has no one to blame but herself. She volunteered. Her penance, maybe. The Core Four, her part in its ruination. Fear, shame, love, anger. It all wraps around her throat like a rope.

Her computer makes the little burping sound that indicates another message. The subject line reads Reunion weekend. But this one is from Audrey. Audrey, who has barely acknowledged Micah since she moved back with her husband and stepdaughter. Micah's eyes fly across the screen. She reads the email three times. An invitation to stay at Bitter Creek Farm? With Jasmine and Beck? Could she avoid it? Would the other two actually come back to Stafford? God, it would be awful. If they do come, though, she'll have to go. Of all of them, Micah really can't say no. Though Lola's is supposed to stay open till four, Micah goes to the door, locks it, flips the Open sign to Closed, pulls the shade, and goes back to her desk. There, in the bottom drawer, is her emergency Irish whiskey. She pours herself a finger or two, definitely two, and swallows it in one gulp.

Jasmine, the Smart One

Meanwhile, Jasmine Hahn does not like the whine in her voice, but her husband hasn't had dinner with the family in more than a week. She makes her voice husky and seductive and tells Oscar the girls miss him. That she misses him. Oscar says he's got a lot on his plate, asks if she thinks money grows on trees, tells her to tell the girls he's sorry, and says he'll stay in the city tonight. Then he hangs up.

This is not how her life is supposed to be unfolding. She's forty-two, has every material thing she could dream of, three healthy children, and yet she's sick with anxiety and worry just the same. She sits in the vast living room, all white and in desperate need of a makeover, at least by Greenwich standards. Upstairs, her four-year-old laughs with the nanny and housekeeper, Ellen. At least Lyra is happy. For now.

Outside, tires crunch on the gravel driveway, and there's the unmistakable growl of Carmen Guerre's Porsche 911. The car cost $300,000. Jasmine knows because Carmen told her. Jasmine calls to Ellen to answer the door and say she's sick, then throws herself behind the white couch and lies on the floor. Forty-two years old and hiding from mean girls again. Not exactly living the dream. It's the best way to avoid Carmen Guerre and Michele Taylor, the two bosses of the Garden Club Mafia, who are here to collect her for an event-planning luncheon at the club, a show of power and rank Jasmine will obviously lose. A knife fight would be more subtle. This morning, to dodge this moment, Jasmine texted Carmen that she wasn't feeling well, and while her phone says the message was read, it obviously wasn't accepted. The doorbell rings like a funeral bell. Ellen's footsteps sound on the stairs. Carmen and Michele greet her, and Carmen asks where Jasmine is, saying they don't want to be late. Michele remarks that she thought they were renovating, that all-white is so ten years ago. Ellen says Mrs. Hahn isn't feeling well. Carmen booms that she can't be sick, they have a planning luncheon, it's important. Ellen repeats that she's under the weather. Jasmine will have to slip her some cash for this. Loyalty costs money.

Then Lyra cries "Mommy!" in delight, her face appearing at the top of the couch, asking if they're playing hide-and-seek. Jasmine winces. Her four-year-old's voice is nothing if not loud. She says no, honey, sorry. Lyra's face falls, and Jasmine feels the familiar arrow of guilt. She stands and puts a hand on her daughter's head. Michele spots her, irritation clear in her nasally voice, asking what on earth she's doing. Jasmine says she dropped her watch and pretends to fiddle with her Jaeger-LeCoultre.

Chapters 8-10

The days blur in ways that feel less like ordinary forgetfulness and more like something fundamental slipping away. She sits at her computer, staring at the flower photo, knowing she has work to do for the architect, but the path from image to task has vanished. She closes her eyes, counts to ten, and the knowledge returns. Of course it does. But then a form asks for her middle name, and she cannot produce it. Her heart pounds. The answer doesn't come until 3:12 a.m.: Evangeline. For God's sake.

Her annual physical brings a diagnosis of anxiety and depression layered on top of perimenopause. Her doctor writes a prescription and says it's all very common. She takes the medication and waits. Words keep slipping. She says chickpeas instead of chicken, closet instead of drawer. She googles dementia. Her doctor humors her, tells her she's too young, no family history, and runs tests on her thyroid, B12, and blood sugar. Everything comes back normal. She suggests a gratitude journal and a Mediterranean diet.

Then she stands at her own front door, key in hand, and cannot work out how the two connect. Someone has to let her in. She rushes upstairs, heart thudding in terror, and the next day she knows how to unlock the door again. She calls the doctor and gets a referral to a neurologist who can see her in five months. The wait feels reassuring. She is not a priority case.

The neurologist asks about concussions, Lyme disease, COVID, family history. The memory test is designed to make her fail. Count backward by seven. Give me your phone number in reverse. Remember three words: banana, running, furnace. Draw a clock showing 11:20. She justifies every wrong answer. When she flunks, they give her more tests, which she also flunks. Four weeks later, they call and tell her to come in. It's dementia. She knew it, deep in her bones. She sits in fury while he rattles off words like amyloid-something and p-tau. He tells her most people with dementia are seventy-five and older, but there is a rare subgroup who are truly young. Thirties. Forties. It is quite rare, but she has won the Shit Lotto. It is a terminal condition.

Her husband bursts into sobs, and she is surprised by his depth of feeling, then irritated. Can something be about her and not him for five minutes? The doctor is sorry. How long? Three years? Five? No one can predict. Don't panic, he says. There is promising research on the horizon. She might still have some good years left. She asks what good looks like. Everyone is different. Are you eating a Mediterranean diet? Blueberries? Turmeric? There are support groups.

She goes home to digest the news. She will not make fifty. She will not remember her family, her friends, her home. She will not be able to use sharp instruments, light candles, or drive. She does not want her brain to congeal into a bowl of overcooked potatoes while her body is still healthy and youngish. No one wants to be a potato person. She reads Still Alice because she can still read, and sobs when Alice goes upstairs to overdose and forgets what she was supposed to be doing. She watches the movie to reinforce the takeaway: Don't wait too long.

As the weeks pass, her spouse starts to seem irritated with her, as if she is forgetting on purpose. He says things like "You've done this a thousand times, you seriously can't do it?" She wants to scream that she doesn't and stop making her feel guilty. She takes to lying to cover. People who don't know about the diagnosis look at her with puzzled expressions and veiled impatience. She wishes she had cancer instead. Cancer is more noble. You get to be a warrior. There do not seem to be dementia warriors. She sees them in the neurologist's waiting room, their partners or children telling them why they are there for the fifth time. Exhaustion is clawed in deep grooves on the caregivers' faces, and they meet her eyes, assuming she is there with a parent. But she is one of them.

The disease creeps up on her. She once knew how to button a shirt, and today she doesn't. She used to be able to open a window, and now she can't. And then she remembers how. There are days when the words are there, when she feels perfectly fine. She thinks this is probably as bad as it will get. The next week, she wakes up and is not in her childhood bedroom, and tears leak out as she waits for doom. Her fate is potato. A scared and lonely potato. She has watched all the documentaries, seen spouses and children acknowledging that the person they knew is already gone and a stranger remains. A duty. A burden. If they put her in a facility, she cannot blame them, and she will hate that facility. Every day she will ask when she can go home, and the answer is never.

She has to make a plan. She cannot end up a drooling, vacant potato person. She will take control. She looks up medical assistance in dying. A few states allow it, including hers. But she may not meet the criteria. She has to be six months away from death or less and mentally competent enough to make the decision and administer the meds. Her brain will be potato soup by then. The law condemns her to life, or she will have to take matters into her own hands.

She researches painless ways to die and gets pop-ups from the suicide prevention hotline. Help is available, it says. She wants help, but not in staying alive. Freezing to death sounds kind of nice, except she might forget what she is doing and walk inside. Voluntary stopping of eating and drinking takes days, maybe weeks, and if someone nearby was eating pasta, she would be on that plate so fast. Helium might work, but where do you get it? She would like to be Canadian, where if you are circling the drain you can check into a hospital and someone slips in an IV. But she is American, and only animals get put out of their suffering in this country. She could buy a gun, but she thinks of how they would find her. There is another perk of being American: prescription drugs are easy to get. She is a white female without a history of substance abuse, so top-shelf drugs are a piece of cake. She still has eleven Vicodin from a wrenched back four years ago. That is a start.

She goes to her general practitioner and says she cannot fall asleep. The doctor gives her ten immediate-release Ambien, 5 mg each. She does not swallow a single pill, then tells the doctor the 5 mg is not working. She gets bumped to 10 mg and ten more pills. Two weeks later she says it is working beautifully, and the doctor renews the prescription for thirty pills. Mission accomplished. At her neurologist, she mentions bad anxiety. He prescribes Xanax, take as needed, but warns her to be careful given her diagnosis. Just one, okay? Sure thing, Doc. Mission accomplished again. Reddit and three reliable medical sites tell her she is all set. She buys over-the-counter anti-nausea medication. All that and a nice bottle of Grey Goose should do the trick. She keeps the pills and a note from herself in a Tupperware container hidden in a blue suitcase on the top shelf of her closet. Unlike Alice, she will not wait until she forgets the "Am I Still Me" questions.

She feels stronger, braver. This is the hand she has been dealt, and she will navigate it with grace and good humor, like a noble warrior. Her daily journal tells her things are stable. There are dead zone moments when she goes blank, but they do not last too long, fifteen minutes maybe. She writes about the fog, the mistakes. She puts a loaf of bread in the linen closet. She pours herself a glass of Pine-Sol instead of apple cider, but smells it before she swallows. The journal also tells her there are days when she is fine, when she can make breakfast, shower, dress appropriately, do jobs around the house. Days when she does not make a single mistake. She finds coping mechanisms. She sets her phone to remind her to take meds or do tasks. She goes for long walks. She listens to songs she knows and sings along. She makes nutritious meals. She meditates. She paints or rearranges the furniture, which backfires when she crashes into the couch because it did not used to be there. She is becoming clumsy, falling off the last stair, missing the counter with a glass, falling off the treadmill. She chats with fellow dementia patients online. She, the youngest, still not too far along, watches her cyberfriends deteriorate. They post in gibberish. Inevitably, a relative or friend posts that someone has passed away. They talk about the exhaustion, the urgency, the command to wring the last drop of joy out of the time given. It is exhausting, all that wringing.

With the future denied to her, the past burns with fiery importance. The smell of Thanksgiving dinner as a kid. Summer thunderstorms. Sledding in the cold snow. Family and friends, long hot days of summer vacation when time stood still. Crushes and dances and college tours. The Core Four. Those memories are a green valley where her brain wants to bask.

It has been two years since her diagnosis. Things are not going to get better, but she is still mostly competent. The fog episodes clear, though they have been getting longer. She thinks about what she would like to experience before she dies. Then the invitation to her twenty-fifth high school reunion arrives, and she knows. She has to see them, the best friends she ever had. One more sleepover, one more chance to be the person she once was. One more chance to forgive and let go. And then she will be ready to go to her blue suitcase, get the bottle of vodka, and slide into the afterlife while she still has some say in the matter.

Thursday night, reunion weekend, Audrey answers the questions. She tells them the facts, checking the notes on her phone that Clay helped her with, because it is harder to focus when emotions are high. Seeing the other three, so much older, so much time lost, so much the same, is confusing and overwhelming. She keeps forgetting why they are old now, then remembers that she is also older. Micah looks softer and more friendly, she has gained weight, how could you not working in a bakery making all those things, the word disappearing but she can picture sugar and puffiness and thick stuff with sprinkles. The sharp angles of her teenage face have softened. Her eyes are still so blue. Beck's hair is cropped, and Audrey keeps doing a double take. She is not wearing sports stuff, so it is hard to snap her into place. She looks cool and successful, like someone Audrey used to know. Audrey cannot look at her for long, because maybe she loved her best. Jasmine looks great, her skin smooth and hair perfect, but there is something different, her eyes greener than Audrey remembers. These were her best friends in the world, the friends-till-the-grave type, and since her grave will be first, she does not have a lot of time to waste. The apologies went well, she thinks. She feels sorry for Micah because it is true: she blamed her the most. They all did, including Micah herself, it seems.

Micah asks who else knows about her situation. Lola's is the heart of the town, so if she has not heard about the diagnosis, the secret has been kept. Audrey says Stephen, of course, and Clay. Mathilda, her stepdaughter, does not know. She just knows Audrey is getting more embarrassing and irritating. Jasmine murmurs that she is sure that is not true, but in her eyes Audrey catches a glimpse of that word where someone knows how you feel because they have felt it too. Audrey asks if Jasmine has a daughter. Yes, Jasmine says, her eyes bright with tears. Three. Audrey thinks the tears are for her. She is fading for the night. Sundowning, they call it.

Beck asks how Stephen is doing with all this, her voice trailing off, and says he must be crushed. Audrey says he is. Crushed. They are still really close. Her brother is a doctor, but she cannot remember the name of his specialty. It starts with an A. He is obviously sad. He knows about her plan. The only one who does, except for them now. Jasmine asks if her husband does not know she is planning on suicide. Audrey wonders if they have eaten dinner yet, if she cooked anything. Jasmine's nose is definitely different. They are waiting for her to answer something. Clay? He is good. Helpful. Kind. Even if she had wanted a divorce. Even if they have not had sex in years. Even if he tries to pretend this is not really happening. Jasmine's nose. Stay out of the weeds, Audrey. Micah asks if he is on board with her plan to end her life. Oh, sorry. No. Then the fog clears for no reason other than it does. He had to watch his first wife die, and she does not think he could take it again. By the way, he seems to be cursed when it comes to marriage, so do not make a play for him at her funeral. This results in weak smiles. An image of Clay eyeing another woman at her funeral is all too easy to picture. He and she both know she has never measured up to Saintly Wife #1. Also, she found a draft of his dating profile a while back when she mistook his laptop for hers. She should probably be angry, but she does not really have the energy.

Beck asks what exactly the plan is. The cocktail thing. Medical aid in dying is legal here, right? Micah asks if Stephen, being a doctor, will hook her up. Jasmine asks if he is a doctor and where he went to med school. University of Michigan, Audrey says. How does she know that and not whether she has made dinner? Dementia is so random. Beck asks why that matters, and there is definitely

Chapters 11-13

Jasmine wakes at 5:45 Friday morning, more than an hour before sunrise, her body accustomed to little sleep from years of motherhood and a lifetime of feeling unsafe. She checks the tracking app she secretly installed on Oscar's phone after he stopped sharing his location. He is home, and she feels grim satisfaction that at least he did not sleep at his mistress's apartment. The evidence of his affair reads like a case file: Alyssa Cottington, twenty-four, hired after a drinks event, a recent MBA from the University of Florida when Oscar typically hires only from Ivy League schools; Oscar's name on her apartment lease; a personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman on his dime; and two first-class tickets to Paris for a "client meeting" he booked himself. Her marriage hangs by a tattered thread, and her daughters' sense of family hangs with it. Jasmine resolves to remind Oscar why he loved her, to take hot yoga, learn new tricks, visit the dermatologist more often. More work, in other words.

She slips out of the house, backing down the long crushed-stone driveway of Bitter Creek Farm. The town is still dark, unchanged from her last visit more than twenty years ago. She passes Lola's Bakery, a newer restaurant, then Luca's Pizza, and memory floods back of her last year of college, a reluctant visit home to see Jade, no food in the house, picking up a pizza hoping the cheese and carbs would soak up some of her mother's booze. She remembers the stillness of recognition, the eyes, the whispers: That's the one who caused the accident. The girl with the slutty mother and the drug-dealing brother. Not the class valedictorian, not the only Stafford kid ever to go to Princeton. The driver on the night Dr. Kate was killed. Shame rolls through her.

It was Oscar who saved her from that person. When their relationship showed staying power, Jasmine told him the truth about her life, the way she had told no one since leaving Stafford. She told him about growing up poor, taking care of her mother, enduring the rages and slaps and broken glasses and curses, the threat of foster care, Jade's leering boyfriends, the fear of being raped at home, the hand-me-downs and hunger, her brother's prison stints. She left out only the accident. Oscar was amazing, called her a remarkable woman, said he didn't know anyone who could have endured all that and turned out the way she had. He promised to take care of her, to be her shield. He asked her to marry him then and there. He told her he and Beck had been compatible and friendly, but that Jasmine was the love of his life.

For the past four years, she has been trying to get them back to a happier place, but Oscar is now bored with her troubled past. She understands it made her more attractive to him back then, more than a normal, self-sufficient woman like Beck ever could. With her, he was not just a husband but a savior. My poor little injured fawn. Daddy's got you now. She knows if it were just her, she would leave him, but the girls deserve stability, a father even one who isn't around much. Their lives are safe and they are loved. Jasmine does everything her own mother never did: reads to them, tucks them in, makes sure they have healthy food and nice clothes and all the material things that help them fit in. She almost hopes Oscar has been blowing his money on his mistress rather than losing it through incompetence, because at least then the girls will still have the status of being Oscar Hahn's daughters.

She pulls onto Pomeroy Street, a shabby little dead end lit by the Dollar Tree parking lot, and there it is, her childhood home, smelling the same, fresh Vermont air with a hint of rotting food. The house still stands against all odds, the roof now covered in a blue tarp. She remembers getting home from elementary school every day, Audrey waving furiously from the fourth row of the bus, the dread of walking inside, and sometimes Cash meeting her at the door with relief flooding through her. Hey, kiddo. Mom's sleeping. Wanna go to the diner? She was so grateful for those times, too bad there hadn't been more of them. For reasons she cannot explain, she takes a picture of the house, then drives to the cemetery. She has only been here once, just before leaving for Princeton, but she remembers exactly where Dr. Kate is buried. She reads the headstone: Katherine Chevalier Porter, MD. Daughter, Wife, Mother and Friend. Beloved Citizen of Stafford. A Life of Laughter and Service, Missed by All Who Knew Her. Strange that Jasmine can still cry over this woman. When Lydia was born, it was Dr. Kate she wanted to call. She has emulated Dr. Kate's mothering style as best she could, always trying to speak calmly and wisely, asking about their day with genuine interest, being warm around their friends. She doesn't have what Audrey and Dr. Kate had, but she has done her absolute best. She puts her hand on the headstone and tells Dr. Kate they all miss her, then walks back to her car.

It is 6:20 when she calls Lydia, because Oscar is a heavy sleeper and doesn't know the day-to-day routines of his children. She always wakes the girls, tapping on their doors, smoothing their hair, coaxing them awake. Lydia answers with irritation, and when Jasmine asks if she had fun with Daddy, Lydia says, Um, sure, Mom. So much fun. She has to get in the shower, she's late already, Jasmine is supposed to wake her at six fifteen. When Jasmine starts to say she can set her own phone alarm, Lydia has already hung up. No questions about how Jasmine is, no curiosity about her mother's life.

Kylo is driving back to Everest's house, relieved to escape the farm and Audrey's lame friends. She slept over at Everest's last night but forgot her retainer and had to drive back this morning. At the farmhouse, she found the friends sitting at the kitchen island and endured their boring questions. She grabbed her retainer from her bathroom upstairs, tried not to freak out at seeing one of the friends' stuff on her counter, and raced back to her car before Audrey got up. She is being careful not to speed because she already got a ticket for doing fifty in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone, which caused Audrey and Dad to lose it.

She loves being at Everest's house. Their parents call her Kylo, even though, when they met her, she was still going by Mathilda. Audrey doesn't call her Kylo, can't seem to manage it, always self-correcting with Mathilda, I mean Kylo, and Mattie, I mean, and Ma-Kylo. Kylo has been calling herself that for eight months and Audrey still pretends to forget. Mr. and Mrs. Snow have told her to call them Jack and Paige, but she physically cannot because she started life in the South where kids never call adults by their first names without a title. They have no problem with Ev's pronouns and didn't blink when Ev said they were nonbinary. Everest's little brothers, Winter and North, worship Everest. Kylo is still shocked that Everest picked her when they could have had anyone. She doesn't know if they are actually a thing. They have kissed twice, the second time being last night. It was nice, kind of weird, but she is still new to this.

A stop sign comes out of nowhere. She stomps on the brake, tires screeching, seat belt yanking across her chest, arms and legs going tingly with fear. She has only had her license three months. Audrey said she should wait till seventeen, but Dad overruled her. They disagreed. Dad said it made sense, that she could be more independent, Audrey said she was too young, threw down the guilt card about her mother dying in a car accident. As if Kylo could forget. The house is a shrine to Grandma Kate. At least Audrey's father doesn't insist on being called Grandpa. He is just Burt, and they only see him a couple times a year because the farm makes him sad.

Kylo didn't want to move here when she was eight, but no one cared what she thought. Mee-maw and Papa, her real mother's parents, were furious and even took Dad to court to try to stop the move. At least she gets to stay with them in the same house. For the past two years, she hasn't wanted to go to Georgia. Her friends there say she sounds like a Yankee, talk about people she doesn't know. Here, she has Everest. Ev is totally her best friend, and now maybe her they-friend. The thing is, she doesn't know if she has the right feels for them. She just wants to be them. They are so happy all the time, so comfortable in their own skin. Their life is everything hers isn't. Happy. Normal.

Everest's house is small and ordinary, in town, on a street, not like the huge farmhouse with five bedrooms and a guesthouse and a million acres. She has to feed the horses twice a day and they scare her. Audrey wanted her to learn to ride when they first moved here and wouldn't let it go. The first time she climbed on, she fell off and broke her wrist. She was wriggling around in the slippery saddle, trying to show how not for her it was. After that, Audrey stopped bugging her. Just looked sad, her go-to expression. Audrey is exhausting, like a kicked dog who keeps coming back for more, trying to be like her mother, the saint who was perfect. But Kylo had a mother. She remembers her tucking her in, lying on her bed, lifting her out of her crib. The soft skin of her neck against her cheek, how safe she felt. Making forts, saying prayers, singing funny little songs about ladybugs and butterflies. Teaching her to write the alphabet. Straight line up, slant down, slant up, straight line down. Look at that, sugar! M for Mathilda! Even now, if she catches a whiff of her smell, her whole body breaks out in goose bumps. When her mother got sick, her smell changed to something bitter, her hair fell out. Kylo remembers Dad taking her to the hospital, being scared of how she looked, but letting her hold her. She wanted her soft, good-smelling mama, but the skeleton came, and she screamed, and Kylo hid in her closet and sucked her thumb. Mee-maw brought her in that last day to say goodbye, and she fought her the whole way down the hallway. When Dad reminds her that Mama did everything she could for even one more day with her, she feels guilty, like it's her fault her mother became a skeleton person. She still has nightmares about going down that hallway. But that soft version of her mother, she hasn't forgotten her. Those memories are hers.

Audrey, with her puppy dog eyes and yearning to be Mommy, makes Kylo want to scream. When she picks flowers on Mama's birthday or gives her a card on Mother's Day, Kylo wants to yell that Audrey didn't know her, she was mine, go be sad about your own mother. For the past year, Audrey has gotten worse. She stares into space, doesn't seem to hear. Last month, Kylo found her sitting in the tack room crying. When Kylo asked if she was okay, Audrey jumped. Kylo fed the horses and filled their buckets, and by the time she left, Audrey was standing, asking about the beautiful day. Then two weeks ago, Kylo came home from school and found Audrey sleeping in her bed. She woke her up, and Audrey looked at her funny and left without a word. Dad said Audrey is feeling a little blue and not to worry. That is the way he deals with everything, ignore and smile. He doesn't work anymore since they moved here. He has embarrassing hobbies: wool-spinning, goats, beehives that lasted until he got stung thirty times, and now pottery, and not very good pottery. Kylo still tells her friends he is a carpenter.

A squirrel runs out in front of her car, and she shrieks and slams on the brakes. She doesn't think she hit it. A horn beeps behind her, and her forehead gets sweaty. She creeps along at fifteen miles an hour, looking for squirrels and rabbits and deer. In town, the idiot behind her hits the horn again. She takes a big cleansing breath as she pulls into Everest's driveway. Mrs. Snow calls to her that Everest is in their room, that they are thinking of going to Stone Hearth tonight. Kylo says that sounds great, thanks her. Mrs. Snow tells her to call her Paige and smiles with no subtext, a wicked-nice change from home.

Audrey went to Savannah two months after her mother died, despite her tears and pleading. She had begged Dad to let her take a year off or transfer to the University of Vermont, but Dad, in shock and staggering through his own horrible new reality, deferred to her mother's parents, tough old Vermonters whose credo was that things happen and you keep working. Gran was iron in her grief, telling Audrey she needed to carry on, that her life didn't end, that her mother would want this. The concept of the Core Four died as well that horrible night when Audrey realized her mother was dead, when she screamed in grief and rage and blame. Jasmine had been going too fast. Micah was supposed to have been the driver. Beck had been too rowdy. Later, when Audrey learned Beck was still in the hospital, she sent her a card and never heard back. If she could blame the others for the accident, Beck could certainly blame her too. But really, it was the enormity of her mother's absence. They could not be friends when her mother had died in the accident they had caused. They had killed not just her mother but Dr. Kate, everyone's favorite person. Audrey would never forgive them. Or herself.

She left at the end of August and started at SCAD numb and listless. The orientation counselors thought she was just homesick