“Oh, before you go,” I call after them. “There’s something I think you should see.”
By the time the men have turned around, I’m already reaching for my purse. I’d tucked Anna’s notebook in there earlier, to use as evidence with Eric if I needed it. I push it into Jack’s hands.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“A letter. Anna wrote it to herself last year.”
Anna’s father takes the notebook and reaches for his glasses in his breast pocket. As he does, Jack scans the page with quick, darting eyes.
“It’s quite romantic,” I say nervously, “the two of them finding love in here.”
I’m certain this letter will invoke a positive reaction in Jack. Maybe even cause him to change his mind about locking the doors. But instead, his face clouds over.
He takes the notebook from his father and closes it in one hand. “Do you mind if I take this,” he asks me, “or will Anna miss it?”
“I … I’m not sure,” I say. “I should probably put it back, just in—”
“I think it’s better if I take it.” His voice is firm. “Thanks, Eve.”
I’m stunned. He gives me a long, steady look. “I suspect, having read this, you’ve got ideas of what you would do for Anna if you were in my shoes,” Jack says. “But if you were in my shoes, you’d realize that fantasy scenarios don’t exist for Alzheimer’s disease. Your loved one is counting on you to keep them safe when they’ve lost the ability to do it themselves. And if you had all the information, you’d know that if I were to do what it looks like Anna wants, I wouldn’t be keeping her safe.” Jack remains calm and articulate as he delivers his speech, but I notice the color rising in his cheeks. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Dad? Let’s go.”
As they turn to the door, I remain where I am, shaking slightly. What information didn’t I have? And how could it possibly change everything to the point that they were willing to keep Anna unhappy rather than with the man she loved? I want desperately to ask Jack, to beg for the missing piece of the puzzle. But instead, I watch Anna’s memories disappear—this time out the front door.
*
After Anna’s dad and brother leave, I go to Anna’s room, tap on the door.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
She’s sitting by the window in her wheelchair, next to an empty chair. I have the strongest urge to sit in it. I want to tell her everything. About Jack and her notebook. About Clem. About Angus. About Eric. Somehow, over the past few months, Anna has become the person I talk to about things. She’s become my friend. But friendship works both ways. And today, I want to do something for her.
“Do you want to go and see Luke?” I ask.
It’s only 5 P.M. but Eric left early. I answer the usual questions about who Luke is, and then I wheel her over into his room.
Luke is sitting on the edge of his bed, admiring a bunch of flowers on his bedside table. Angus had helped him arrange them earlier. He looks up and smiles shyly. And that’s all the introduction they need.
When I return to the kitchen, my phone is ringing, and I snatch it up right before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Kathy Donnelly calling. From Clementine’s school?”
I close my eyes. “Ms. Donnelly! I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. It’s just … been a little hectic around here.”
“I understand,” she says. “Is now a good time to talk?”
“Actually, I—”
“I won’t take up much of your time. I heard Clementine left the school premises unaccompanied today, and I was very concerned. I want you to know that we are taking steps to ensure this never happens again.”
Relief floods me. She’s calling about Clem running away from school. Probably wanting to smooth things over. “I appreciate that.”
“How is Clem doing?” she asks.
I glance around to make sure she’s not nearby. “Actually … she’s been better. She’s not herself. Quiet. Teary. But I’ll get her through it.”
“I’m sure you will. It’s not easy, being a single mother.”
The way she says it makes me suspect that she does know. And for the first time it occurs to me that Ms. Donnelly, with her thick glasses and sensible haircut, might have a story of her own.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very kind of you to check in.”
“Actually, there’s another reason I’m calling. It’s about your address. It’s listed here as 82 Forest Hills Drive.”
My stomach plunges. “That’s right.”
There’s a pause. “Hmm. It caught my eye because, before she passed away, my mother was a resident at a care facility called Rosalind House, which is at 82 Forest Hills Drive.”
I scramble for an excuse, something plausible that could explain this turn of events, but my mind is blank and she is waiting. Finally I open my mouth, and a huge sob comes out.