Wednesday morning, I woke with a headache.
I had barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the receptionist explaining that my son had listed himself as the person responsible for me.
I kept thinking about those papers at his dining table.
I remembered Scott's hand resting beside the documents.
I remembered how quickly he had turned each page.
At the time, I had been grateful that he was willing to help.
Now I wondered what else I had agreed to without fully understanding it.
I washed my face and put on a clean nightgown.
Then I changed my mind and dressed in my clothes.
I didn't want to spend another day waiting in bed.
At breakfast, I asked whether anyone had managed to contact Scott.
The nurse checked the notes.
"Nothing new yet, Mrs. Dunmore."
I nodded.
I didn't ask her to try again.
I had reached the point where each unanswered call felt like another small rejection.
After breakfast, I sat in my room with my phone beside me.
I kept the volume turned up.
Every few minutes, I looked at the screen.
No missed calls.
No messages.
The silence was becoming something I could feel in my chest.
Near midday, a nurse knocked and came inside.
Her name was Gloria.
She had kind eyes and a quiet manner.
I had seen her during the previous days, usually moving between rooms with a chart tucked under her arm.
She always greeted residents by name.
That morning, she pulled a chair closer to my bed.
"Mrs. Dunmore, may I sit with you for a moment?"
"Of course."
She sat down.
For a little while, she asked how I was feeling.
I told her I was fine, although neither of us seemed to believe it.
She glanced at my phone.
"Have you heard from your son?"
"No."
I tried to keep my answer simple.
"He hasn't returned any of my calls."
Gloria pressed her lips together.
She seemed to be choosing her words carefully.
"There's something about your admission that I think you need to understand."
My hands became still in my lap.
"What is it?"
She reached across and gently held one of my hands.
It was such a small gesture.
For three days, I had been surrounded by people who checked my name, delivered my meals, and followed the instructions in my file.
Gloria was the first person who seemed to understand that I was frightened.
She looked at me directly.
"Your son didn't register you here for a temporary stay."
I stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
"The documents say you're here permanently."
I heard the word, but my mind refused to accept it.
Permanently.
I had come with three nightgowns and a framed photograph.
I had expected to return home before the weekend was over.
I had not even brought the cardigan I wore when the weather turned cold.
Gloria kept holding my hand.
"I'm sorry," she said.
I swallowed.
"Did he tell you why?"
She explained that the admission paperwork had been completed by Scott.
His name appeared as the person responsible for the arrangement.
I asked whether the documents mentioned my house.
Gloria hesitated.
That hesitation frightened me more than anything she had said so far.
"What about my house?"
She lowered her voice.
"The information in your file says the property has been sold."
For a moment, I couldn't hear the fountain outside or the television down the corridor.
All I heard was that one word.
Sold.
I looked at Gloria's face.
"Are you certain?"
She nodded slowly.
"That's what the paperwork says."
I pulled my hand away, not because I was angry with her, but because I needed to hold on to something.
My eyes went to the suitcase in the closet.
Three nightgowns.
Slippers.
A cardigan.
A pair of reading glasses.
I had packed for a few nights away.
Scott had apparently made arrangements for me never to return.
I didn't cry immediately.
I couldn't.
I was trying to understand how one person could make so many decisions about another person's life and still call it helping.
I had been in that house for forty-four years.
Frank and I had bought it when we were younger and still believed we had all the time in the world.
He carried me through the doorway after we received the keys.
I had laughed at him because my feet were perfectly capable of carrying me across the threshold.
He told me he had made a promise, and he intended to keep it.
That was Frank.
When the kitchen pipes froze one winter, he crawled under the sink with a flashlight and fixed them himself.
When Scott had a fever as a child, Frank sat beside his bed all night, checking his forehead.
When Frank became ill himself, I cared for him in the front bedroom.
I learned the schedule of his medicine.
I learned which pillows made him comfortable.
I learned how to recognize the difference between a quiet afternoon and a bad one.
He died in that house.
I had stayed beside him until the end.
Afterward, I had walked through every room and found pieces of him everywhere.
The mark on the doorframe where Scott's height had been measured.
The small dent in the hallway wall from when Frank had carried a table upstairs.
The patch of sunlight on the kitchen floor where Frank used to sit with his newspaper.
Now Scott had sold the place.
I looked down at my hands.
"Did he sell it before he brought me here?"
Gloria didn't pretend to know more than the paperwork showed.
"I can't tell you exactly when everything happened. I only know what has been recorded."
I appreciated her honesty.
I also wished she had told me something different.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the question that had been troubling me since Tuesday.
"Can I leave if I want to?"
Gloria looked at me with sadness.
"I don't want to give you an answer that turns out to be wrong. We need to review the paperwork and understand what authority your son has."
I nodded.
It was not the answer I wanted.
But at least she hadn't told me that my feelings didn't matter.
She stayed beside me for a while longer.
Before she left, she asked whether I wanted something to drink.
"Some water, please."
She poured it into the plastic cup and placed it on the nightstand.
Then she adjusted the blanket before standing.
I watched her reach the door.
"Gloria?"
She turned around.
"Yes, honey?"
"Who runs this place?"
"The director is Dr. Ana Reyes."
"How long has she been here?"
"She started last month."
I looked at the framed photograph beside my bed.
Dr. Reyes was a name I had never heard before that morning.
Yet something about the answer made me stop thinking about Scott for a moment.
I turned back to Gloria.
"Would you ask her to come and see me?"
"Certainly. Is there something specific you'd like me to tell her?"
I took a breath.
"Tell her it concerns the building."
Gloria looked puzzled.
I could see that she wanted to ask what I meant.
But she didn't press me.
She promised to pass on the message and left the room.
I picked up Frank's photograph.
His face was familiar enough to calm me, even now.
I ran my thumb along the edge of the frame.
I had been so busy wondering what my son had done that I had almost forgotten where I was.
Willow Creek Care Center was not simply a place with beds and nurses.
It was a building with a history.
A building with a director.
A building where someone had made decisions long before I arrived.
I set the photograph down and looked toward the door.
For the first time since Scott had driven away, I was not waiting for him to explain himself.
I was waiting for someone else.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: I Had Asked to Speak About the Building, but I Was Not Prepared for What the Director Might Recognize
My Son Promised Me Three Quiet Nights Away From Home, and I Was Foolish Enough to Believe Every Word He Said
Part 4 of 24
