"These matters are often best discussed in family therapy," Maria said, her voice rising over the room. She reasserted her control by taking Janet's painting down and moving on. "I see we have something by Tony, and it looks like a watercolor."
But Diana held tight to her mother's hand. She stared into her eyes, looking for something, some life, some spark of recognition. "Mom, do you know what I'm saying to you?"
Her mom pulled her hand back and in the same motion slapped Diana across the face. "You're Rachel. You liar. You're Rachel. You're Rachel."
Her mother screamed the words over and over, and the room fell into chaos as the attendants grabbed her mom, and the other patients yelled and moaned and Maria stared at Diana as if she were the worst daughter who had ever walked the earth.
Diana rubbed her cheek, felt the raw sting of her mom's hand for the first time since childhood, and decided that if that's what Maria really thought, there was no argument she could offer in her own defense.
*
While the attendants calmed and sedated her mother, Diana was forced to listen to a lecture from Maria in a cramped office near the nurses' station. The room was cluttered with papers and binders, and on the desk, Maria had a picture of her own family—a beaming, manly husband and two toddler sons in matching clothes. Not a hint of trouble, scandal or tragedy in her family.
"I don't think you understand the seriousness of what happened this evening," Maria said. Her bun was still in place, but her cheeks were flushed from the excitement. "Your mother is very ill, terminally so, and she's not going to get any better. She doesn't know what year it is or what state she's living in. You can't expect her to know the difference between you and your sister. It's not her fault."
"Can I see her now?" Diana said.
Maria shook her head. "I don't know if I'm going to let you see her. She needs her rest."
"Then I'm going to go."
"Wait. You need to hear this." She brushed some paperclips aside, then folded her hands on the desk. "I know about your family's history. I know your father left the family when you and your sister were just children. I know that your sister disappeared four years ago and is presumed to be dead."
"She is dead."
"Why do you say that?"
Diana shrugged, and thought of Kay Todd, a pathetic woman clinging to a pathetic hope. She didn't want to turn into that, and she told herself that the visions, the pathetic visions, were just that—false hope, refusing to die. "Just a feeling I have. Rachel wasn't much for standing on her own two feet. She wouldn't make it long on her own."
"And no one's heard from her?"
"Not a word. The police said there was no evidence of a crime, so she must have run away. I think somebody probably took her. The end result is the same. She's gone, and mom went downhill because of it."
Maria raised a finger in the air. "You see, that's what I want to talk to you about. You act as though your mother's condition is a choice, that events in her personal life triggered this illness. I know you know better than that. She has Alzheimer's disease, and it's a coincidence that she developed it shortly after your sister disappeared. Admittedly, she developed the disease much earlier than is typical. Only about ten percent of cases present symptoms before the patient is sixty years old, so your mother's situation is quite rare."
"My mother has always run away and hidden when the going gets tough. When my dad left us, she went to bed for two years. I ran the household. I raised my sister. I know my mother has a disease, I know all about that. I've done the research. But I can't help but think this is her way of checking out and not dealing with what happened to Rachel. She calls me Rachel. Why? She paints a pretty house and says Rachel lives there. Why? Is that the reality she chooses to live in while the rest of us are stuck here?" Diana held out her hand. "I know, I know. It's not a choice. My mind knows that. I understand that. But there's a part of me, the part that knows my mom real well, that's suspicious."
Maria refolded her hands. "I can't make you feel compassion, Ms. Greene. But maybe this will help you see things in a different light. The child of someone with early onset Alzheimer's has a fifty-fifty chance of developing the disease themselves. Maybe that will help you gain some clarity." She stood up. "Why don't we go see your mom now. She's probably back in her room and resting."
CHAPTER FIVE