PART 7 – While I Waited for Answers, I Began Remembering the Papers Scott Had Put Before Me and the Promises I Had Believed

That evening, I asked for a cup of tea.

The nurse brought it in a white mug and placed it beside my bed.

I thanked her and waited until she had left before taking a sip.

The tea was too hot.

I set it down and watched the steam disappear.

I had been thinking about the documents Scott had shown me.

They had not seemed important at the time.

He had said he wanted to make sure someone could help if I ever needed it.

I had been grateful that he was willing to take responsibility.

Frank had always handled many of our household affairs, and after his death I sometimes felt overwhelmed by the things he had once done without mentioning them.

Scott knew that.

He knew I trusted him to explain what I didn't understand.

That was why the memory bothered me.

I could remember the dining table at his house.

I could remember the stack of papers.

I could remember him turning pages and pointing to places where I should sign.

But I couldn't remember reading every word.

I had assumed he would never ask me to sign something that went against my wishes.

I had assumed that being his mother meant he would protect me.

I didn't know whether the papers gave him the authority he claimed.

I only knew I needed to see them.

The next morning, I asked the receptionist whether the director had reviewed my file.

She told me Dr. Reyes was working on it.

I thanked her and returned to my room.

I was trying not to become impatient with people who were not responsible for what Scott had done.

That was easier said than done.

Every hour I spent in the room made the outside world feel farther away.

I missed my own kitchen.

I missed being able to decide when to open a window or make another cup of tea.

I missed the familiar sound of my front door.

Most of all, I missed the feeling that my life belonged to me.

Later that morning, Gloria helped me straighten the small table beside the bed.

I placed Frank's photograph in the center.

Then I asked whether anyone had called.

"No calls yet," she said.

I nodded.

I didn't tell her that I had begun to dread the sound of the telephone.

Each time it rang at the front desk, I hoped it might be Scott.

Each time it stopped, I felt foolish for hoping.

Gloria sat beside me for a few minutes.

"You shouldn't have to go through this without answers," she said.

I looked at her.

"Do you think he meant to leave me here?"

She took a moment before responding.

"I don't know what your son intended. I don't want to guess about something so important."

It was a fair answer.

I wished more people would give me fair answers instead of comforting ones.

After she left, I tried to remember the last time Scott had visited my house before taking me to Willow Creek.

He had seemed unusually interested in the rooms.

He asked whether I had considered changing the curtains.

He commented on the kitchen cabinets and asked if the upstairs bedroom needed work.

I had thought he was making conversation.

Perhaps he was.

I had no proof that those questions meant anything.

But now every ordinary memory seemed to demand another look.

Had he already decided what would happen to the house?

Had he arranged everything before he told me about the painters?

I couldn't know.

I refused to turn suspicion into certainty simply because I was hurt.

Still, I wanted him to face me and explain himself.

I wanted to hear him say why he had done this.

I wanted to ask how he could leave me in a place where I didn't know anyone and then stop answering my calls.

I had raised him to understand what it meant to keep a promise.

I had never imagined I would need to remind him.

That afternoon, Dr. Reyes did not come to my room.

I told myself she was busy.

A care center had many residents, many files, and many problems.

I wasn't the only person who needed her attention.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the moment she had looked at Frank's photograph.

There had been something unmistakable in her expression.

She had recognized something.

Perhaps it was his face.

Perhaps it was the name.

Perhaps it was both.

I wished I had asked her directly.

Instead, I had been too busy trying to explain how I had arrived there.

That night, I took the photograph from the nightstand and held it in both hands.

"Frank, what did you do that I never knew about?"

The question sounded foolish as soon as I spoke it.

He had been gone for years.

He couldn't tell me anything.

I put the photograph back.

Then I lay down and stared at the ceiling.

I thought about the life we had built.

We had never been wealthy people.

We had worked, saved, and tried to make sensible decisions.

We had raised Scott in a house that sometimes needed repairs we couldn't afford immediately.

We had learned to wait for things.

When we wanted new furniture, we saved for it.

When the roof needed attention, Frank patched the worst places until we could pay someone to fix it properly.

We had never believed that owning more made a person better.

What mattered was what you did with what you had.

I had taught Scott those things.

At least, I thought I had.

The following morning, I asked again whether Dr. Reyes had sent word.

The receptionist said she had not received an update.

I returned to room 114 and opened my suitcase.

There was very little inside.

My clothes had been folded neatly, just as I had packed them.

I took out the cardigan and held it against my chest.

It still carried the faint smell of the laundry soap I used at home.

I folded it again and put it away.

Then I sat beside the window.

I was beginning to understand that the truth might not arrive simply because I waited for it.

I would have to ask questions.

I would have to read the papers.

And I would have to stop letting other people decide that my silence meant agreement.

Click here to continue reading: PART 8: When Dr. Reyes Finally Returned, I Wanted Answers About My Son, but Her Attention Kept Returning to Frank’s Photograph