“—Ponzi scheme.”
A knot tied itself, slowly and painfully, in my gut.
“We’re going to lose all our money,” he said. “Our house. And I’ll go to jail.”
I rose from my stool. “Jail?”
“I thought it would be all right, as long as I reported modest returns. I thought … I thought it would be all right.…” He began to sob, and that’s when I knew this was real. When it came to business, Richard was always arrogant to a fault. I’d never seen him so defeated. With both hands, I formed a tent over my mouth and nose.
“I’ve tried to think of a way out of this,” he continued, “but I can’t.”
I began to pace. “Holy … shit. Holy, holy, holy shit! This is crazy. How could you?…” On the oven, I suddenly noticed the time. “Shit! I have to pick up Clem from school.”
I grabbed the keys and headed for the door. Then I stopped short. I had no idea of the protocol for this situation. Were the police about to turn up on our doorstep? Was he going to be hauled away in handcuffs in front of our daughter? And what then? Would we be marched out of our house?
“Richard—”
“It’s all right,” he said, strangely eloquent now that he had shared the burden. “We have time. Go and get Clem.”
I held his gaze silently for what felt like hours, but must have been only seconds. Then, with a stomach full of savage maggots, I turned and pressed through the swing doors.
*
My tour of Rosalind House is brief, and doesn’t include an introduction to the residents, so much as a viewing of the residents. We pass a handful of people in the corridors and a few more in a high-ceilinged living room that Eric calls the parlor. Everyone else has been planted on the vast expanse of lawn that abuts the property, probably absorbing a year’s worth of vitamin D from the brilliant, clear sky. The gardener, Angus, is standing on a short ladder, hacking at an overgrown bush.
“That’s Bert,” Eric says, pointing at a balding man in his eighties. “And over there, that’s Clara. That was her husband in the parlor, Laurie. And that’s Luke and Anna, under the tree.”
The young couple stand out, in a garden full of elderly folk. The man, Luke, sits on a garden bench. His head is down and his dark wavy hair spills over his face. The woman, Anna, sits a few paces away from him in a wheelchair, her hair a tangle of red-brown curls.
“They’re so young,” I say. “I can’t believe they have dementia.”
“It is hard to believe,” Eric says. “Some days are good and they just act like quiet, normal people. Other days are not so good.”
“Why is she in a wheelchair? Is that to do with the dementia?”
“Oh—” Eric scratches a sudden itch at his neck. “Well, no—”
“She’s dropped her scarf,” I say, stepping toward the lightweight linen dancing on the grass by Anna’s feet. Its cheerful colors remind me of the painting Richard gave me for our first anniversary, the one the auctioneer showed great interest in last week when he came to peruse our possessions.
I snap up the scarf. “You dropped this,” I say, resting it on Anna’s lap. Up close, I can’t resist taking a better look at her. She’s not beautiful—at least not in these parts, where beautiful equals blond, slim, and symmetrical. But she is something—striking, perhaps? Her skin is alabaster and thickly spread with freckles, and her arms and legs are long and lithe. But what hits me the most is the color of her eyes: a pale, clear jade. Without the eyes, she might have been plain. But with the eyes? I can’t seem to look away.
Before I can remove my hand, she cloaks it in her own and squeezes.
“Oh.” I pull back, but her fingers dig farther into mine. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just didn’t want you to lose your lovely scarf.”
She’s getting ready to speak, the cues are all there—the wetting of lips, the swallowing, the tensing of facial muscles. It takes only a fraction longer than, say, a thoughtful person would take, but I am hyperaware of her dementia and can’t seem to think of anything else. “Please,” she says finally. “Help me.”
A prickle travels down the length of my spine. “What did you say?”
I wait, but she doesn’t speak again.
“Anna?” I persist, but already the comprehension in her face has fluttered away, replaced by a vacantness so at odds with her young, smooth skin. Her eyes film over, still beautiful but now empty. I stand straight.
“Eric,” I say, returning to him, “she just said, ‘Help me.’”
Eric blinks, the perfect picture of surprise. “She did? Are you sure?”
“Yes. I mean … I think so.”
“What prompted it?” he asks. “Did you say anything to her?”
I look back at her. “Just that I didn’t want her to lose her scarf.”