Tuesday morning arrived with gray clouds hanging over the gardens.
I woke early and dressed before breakfast.
I had made a decision during the night.
I was going home.
If Scott had been delayed, I could wait for him there.
If the painters were still working, I could speak to them myself.
I was seventy years old, not helpless.
I knew how to make a cup of tea, pay a bill, and open my own front door.
I had done those things for most of my life.
After breakfast, I folded my cardigan over my arm and walked to the reception desk.
The young receptionist was sitting behind her computer.
She looked up when I approached.
"Good morning, Mrs. Dunmore. Can I help you?"
"I'd like to arrange a taxi, please."
She began typing.
"Are you going somewhere for an appointment?"
"No. I'm going home."
She stopped typing.
It was only a small pause, but I noticed it.
Her eyes moved across the screen, then returned to my face.
"I'm sorry. I need to check something."
I waited.
She clicked through several pages.
Then she folded her hands on the desk.
"Your file shows that you're staying with us on a long-term basis."
I thought I had misunderstood her.
"That can't be right."
She looked uncomfortable.
"Your son completed the admission paperwork."
"He brought me here for the weekend."
I heard my own voice becoming sharper.
"He told me the house was being painted. He said he'd collect me."
The receptionist glanced toward the corridor.
"I understand, Mrs. Dunmore, but the paperwork lists your son as the responsible party."
I stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
She hesitated before answering.
"According to the information we have, he holds power of attorney."
For a moment, the words seemed to belong to another conversation.
I knew what power of attorney meant.
Frank and I had discussed it years earlier, when he first became ill.
We understood that it could allow someone to handle certain affairs on another person's behalf.
We had also understood that it was not a casual thing.
I looked at the receptionist.
"Why would my son need that to take me home?"
She lowered her eyes to the screen again.
"I'm sorry. I can't authorize your departure without the required approval."
"Required by whom?"
"By the person listed as responsible for your placement."
I gripped the edge of the desk.
My fingers had begun to feel cold.
"You're telling me I can't leave?"
She looked genuinely sorry.
"I'm telling you that I can't arrange your release myself."
There was a difference in her words, but it didn't make me feel any better.
I asked to see the papers Scott had signed.
She told me she would need to speak to a supervisor about what could be provided.
Then she asked me to return to my room while she checked.
I walked back down the corridor.
The sound of my shoes seemed unusually loud.
I passed a common room where two women were watching a daytime television program.
One of them laughed at something on the screen.
I kept walking.
Inside room 114, I shut the door and sat on the bed.
I had always imagined that if I became unable to manage my own affairs, someone would explain things to me.
I had not imagined that my own son might make a decision about my life without telling me.
I tried to remember signing anything that gave him such authority.
There had been papers at his house months earlier.
Scott had said they were ordinary documents to make things easier if I ever needed help.
I remembered sitting at his dining table while he pointed to places where I needed to sign.
Heather had brought me a glass of water.
I had trusted them.
I couldn't remember every page.
That was what frightened me most.
I picked up my phone and called Scott again.
This time, I didn't leave a polite message.
"Scott, I need you to call me. The staff say I'm registered here permanently. You told me I was coming home."
I stopped before saying anything else.
I didn't want to beg.
I ended the call and waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Nothing.
I called Heather.
Her voicemail answered.
I asked her to tell Scott to contact me immediately.
My voice sounded calm, which surprised me.
Inside, I was beginning to panic.
I looked around the room.
The suitcase stood open in the closet.
My slippers were beside the bed.
Frank's photograph was still on the nightstand, facing me.
I picked it up.
"I don't understand," I whispered.
There was nobody there to answer.
At lunchtime, I tried the reception desk again.
The young woman told me she had spoken to a supervisor.
The paperwork would have to be reviewed, she said, and any questions about my placement would need to be addressed through the appropriate process.
I asked whether I could at least see a copy.
She said she would make another inquiry.
I returned to my room without the papers.
That afternoon, I ate soup and a piece of bread.
I couldn't finish either.
I had spent years telling myself that Scott was a good man who sometimes made thoughtless choices.
He had forgotten birthdays.
He had arrived late for visits.
He had once left me waiting outside his house because he had mixed up the time we had agreed on.
Each time, I had found a reason to forgive him.
He worked hard.
He had responsibilities.
He was busy raising his own family.
Now I wondered whether I had mistaken his willingness to accept my forgiveness for evidence of his goodness.
I didn't like that thought.
I pushed it aside, then brought it back again.
By evening, I had stopped expecting a phone call.
I sat beside the window until the sky darkened.
The fountain continued to run.
A car pulled up near the entrance, and a man got out carrying a paper bag.
He walked inside, greeted the receptionist, and disappeared down the corridor.
Someone was visiting someone.
I watched the empty driveway after he was gone.
Then I turned toward Frank's photograph.
I had spent forty-four years in our house.
I knew every loose floorboard, every mark on the kitchen counter, every place where Frank had patched a wall and promised to repaint it properly later.
I knew which window stuck when it rained.
I knew the sound the front door made when it closed.
That house was not just a building to me.
It was where my husband had lived and died.
It was where I had raised Scott.
And now, somehow, I was being told that I couldn't return to it without my son's permission.
I placed the photograph back on the nightstand.
Then I made myself a promise.
I would stop treating this as a misunderstanding until someone gave me a reason to believe it was one.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Nurse Sat Beside Me on Wednesday, Took My Hand, and Confirmed That the Weekend I Had Packed For Was Never Going to End
My Son Promised Me Three Quiet Nights Away From Home, and I Was Foolish Enough to Believe Every Word He Said
Part 3 of 24
