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

That afternoon, I asked the receptionist whether I could have access to the paperwork connected to my admission.

She said she would pass the request to the appropriate staff member.

I thanked her.

Then I returned to my room and waited.

I was beginning to dislike that word.

Wait.

I had waited for Scott on Sunday.

I had waited for him to answer my calls on Monday.

I had waited for someone to explain the long-term admission on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, Gloria had told me the truth about what the file said.

Now I was waiting for documents that might explain how my son had managed to arrange everything.

I sat at the little table and tried to remember every detail of that afternoon at Scott's house.

He had placed the papers in front of me.

Heather had brought coffee.

Scott said it would be easier if he could take care of certain things for me.

I had asked whether the papers were necessary.

He said they were routine.

I believed him.

I had known Scott all his life.

I had changed his diapers, sat beside him when he was sick, and helped him through the disappointments of childhood.

I had watched him grow into a man.

It never occurred to me that I might need to protect myself from him.

That was not because I believed children could never hurt their parents.

It was because I believed my own son would tell me the truth.

I could see now that those were two different things.

Trust did not mean I should have signed whatever he placed in front of me.

Love did not mean I should have stopped asking questions.

I wished someone had explained that to me when I was younger.

But I couldn't change what had happened.

I could only decide what to do next.

When Gloria came by, I asked whether she knew anything about the papers.

She shook her head.

"I'm afraid I only know what the admission record says."

"That's all right."

I didn't want to make her responsible for information she didn't have.

She checked the water on my nightstand and asked whether I needed anything.

"I need my son to tell me the truth."

Gloria looked at me sadly.

"I hope he does."

After she left, I tried calling Scott one more time.

Voicemail.

I didn't leave a message.

I put the phone down and stared at it.

I had always thought that if I was patient enough, people would eventually do what was right.

That belief had helped me through difficult years.

It had also made me too willing to excuse behavior that should have been challenged.

I was not proud of that.

I could admit it without blaming myself for everything Scott had done.

Both things could be true.

I had trusted him too easily.

He had still been responsible for his own choices.

In the late afternoon, Dr. Reyes sent word that she was still reviewing the information and would speak with me again.

I thanked the staff member who delivered the message.

Then I sat beside the window.

I watched a family arrive with a bouquet of flowers.

An older man met them near the entrance.

He looked pleased to see them.

The woman carrying the flowers bent to kiss his cheek.

I turned away.

It was difficult to see other families keeping their promises when mine had disappeared.

I did not begrudge the man his visitors.

I simply wished I had someone coming for me.

That evening, I took Frank's photograph from the nightstand.

The frame was cool against my fingers.

I remembered the way he used to read the newspaper at the kitchen table.

He would fold it carefully when he finished, even if he had been annoyed by something he read.

He believed people should be given a fair chance to explain themselves.

I had tried to live by that principle.

I had given Scott chance after chance.

Perhaps I had confused giving someone a chance with refusing to see what they were doing.

I set the photograph down.

"No more guessing," I said softly.

The words sounded strange in the empty room.

But I meant them.

I would not invent a reason for Scott's behavior just to make it easier to bear.

I would not assume the paperwork was valid simply because he said it was.

I would not assume I had no choices simply because the receptionist had been unable to arrange my departure.

I needed facts.

The next morning, I asked whether my request for the admission documents had been received.

The receptionist checked and said someone would follow up.

I returned to room 114.

My suitcase remained in the closet.

I had begun to think of it less as luggage and more as evidence of what I had believed.

I had packed three nightgowns because I expected to be away for three nights.

I had taken Frank's photograph because I thought I would miss home.

I had never imagined the photograph would become the only familiar thing in a room I had not chosen.

I took out my cardigan and folded it across the bed.

Then I folded it again and placed it in the suitcase.

I didn't know when I would leave Willow Creek.

But I was no longer going to act as though I had agreed to stay forever.

Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Director Returned With More Questions About My Husband, and I Began to Understand Why My Name Had Stopped Her Cold