Dr. Reyes came to see me later that morning.
She knocked before entering and waited for me to invite her inside.
I appreciated that small courtesy more than she probably knew.
She carried a folder this time rather than the clipboard I had seen before.
"How are you feeling today, Mrs. Dunmore?"
"Impatient."
She gave a brief, understanding smile.
"That's fair."
She sat beside the bed and placed the folder on her knees.
"I've been looking into the history of the center and reviewing the information available in your admission file."
I waited.
"Have you learned anything about my son?"
"Not enough to give you a complete answer yet."
I felt the familiar disappointment.
Then she continued.
"But I have been thinking more about your husband."
I glanced at Frank's photograph.
"So have I."
Dr. Reyes opened the folder but did not show me its contents.
"I want to be careful about what I tell you. I don't want to connect things that may not belong together."
"Then tell me what you know, and tell me what you don't."
She looked at me for a moment.
"I can do that."
She asked whether Frank had ever worked with charitable organizations.
I thought about it.
He had helped people in our town.
He had donated time when someone needed repairs.
He had occasionally disappeared for an afternoon to help an old friend with a project.
But he never gave me a detailed account of every favor he did.
"He believed people should help one another," I said. "He didn't think helping someone made him special."
Dr. Reyes nodded.
"Did he ever speak about helping this facility?"
"I can't remember him saying so."
She wrote something in the folder.
I studied her face.
"Doctor, are you asking because of something you found?"
"I'm asking because I want to understand the connection."
I sighed.
"I wish I could give you a better answer."
"You don't need to apologize for what you don't know."
Those words stayed with me.
For years, I had apologized whenever I couldn't answer a question quickly enough.
I had apologized for forgetting names, for needing help with paperwork, and for asking Scott to repeat things he explained too fast.
Somewhere along the way, I had begun treating uncertainty as a personal failure.
Dr. Reyes did not seem to think that way.
She asked about the house Frank and I had bought in 1982.
I told her we had lived there for forty-four years.
She asked whether we had always owned it.
"Yes. We bought it together."
"And your husband lived there until he died?"
"Yes."
My voice grew quiet.
"He spent his final winter in the front bedroom."
Dr. Reyes lowered her eyes briefly.
"I'm sorry."
I nodded.
There was no need to describe that winter.
I remembered the medicine bottles, the folded blankets, and the way Frank's breathing changed when he was tired.
I remembered holding his hand and pretending not to be frightened.
Some memories did not become easier simply because you told them aloud.
Dr. Reyes closed the folder.
"I understand that you have been told your home was sold."
"Yes."
"Have you seen any documents confirming that?"
"No. I heard it from Gloria, who saw the information in my file."
"Did you authorize your son to sell the property?"
I took a breath.
"I don't remember authorizing that."
It was the most honest answer I could give.
I remembered signing papers at Scott's dining table.
I remembered trusting him.
But I could not tell Dr. Reyes exactly what those documents said.
She made a note.
"I will include that in my review."
I looked at her.
"Can you help me find out what he signed?"
"I will look into what information we have here. You may also need independent advice about the property and the authority your son claims to hold."
I nodded.
It was not a promise to solve everything.
It was a sensible next step.
I felt better hearing it.
Before leaving, Dr. Reyes glanced at Frank's photograph again.
"Would you mind telling me a little more about him?"
I was surprised by the question.
"What would you like to know?"
"What he was like."
I looked at the picture.
"He was stubborn."
Dr. Reyes smiled faintly.
"So I've heard."
I turned toward her.
"You've heard about Frank?"
She stopped smiling.
"I mean that as an impression from what you've told me."
I wasn't convinced, but I let the matter rest.
Frank had been stubborn about the small things.
He wanted tools put back in the right place.
He insisted on reading instructions even when he believed he already knew how something worked.
He disliked being thanked for things he considered ordinary responsibilities.
But he was kind.
Not the sort of kind that needed an audience.
He was the sort who noticed when someone had gone quiet at the dinner table.
He would ask whether they wanted another cup of tea and then sit beside them without demanding an explanation.
When Scott was a boy, Frank never told him to stop crying because he was supposed to be tough.
He simply stayed until the tears passed.
I told Dr. Reyes those things.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she looked toward the photograph once more.
"Thank you for telling me."
I wondered why she needed to hear it.
But I didn't ask.
She stood and tucked the folder beneath her arm.
"I'll return when I have more information."
I watched her walk to the door.
"Doctor?"
She turned.
"If you find something important about Frank, please tell me."
"I will."
After she left, I sat quietly for a long time.
I had spent years believing I knew everything important about my husband.
Not every thought.
Not every memory.
But the things that mattered.
Now I wondered whether he had done something connected to Willow Creek without ever telling me.
I didn't know whether that would explain the director's reaction.
I didn't know whether it had anything to do with my admission.
But the questions were no longer separate in my mind.
Frank's photograph.
My name on the chart.
The building on the hill.
And a director who seemed to remember something I had never known.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: I Finally Admitted That Trusting My Son Had Made Me Stop Reading the Fine Print, and That Mistake Might Have Cost Me My Home
My Son Promised Me Three Quiet Nights Away From Home, and I Was Foolish Enough to Believe Every Word He Said
Part 10 of 24
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