The door sprang open, revealing Chloe standing in the frame with tears streaming down her cheeks and labored breathing. Richard’s leather satchel was pressed up against her chest.
I paced.
“Chloe?”
My daughter refused to look me in the eye.
“Chloe, where did you get that?”
She gave a headshake.
Her voice broke as she said, “Don’t ask how I got it.” “You need to see what he hides in here. And why he
never stays past 7:30 p.m.”
She passed me and placed the tote next to the birthday pie on the dining room table.
Mom slowly got up from her seat.
“Where did you get that?”
“Chloe, honey, whatever’s in there, maybe we should…”
My daughter exclaimed, “Grandma, look,” as she opened it.
Mom reached for the bag, her hands shaking. I moved in closer, expecting to see lipstick, hotel receipts, or a picture of another woman. Basically, anything unsightly.
The tote collapsed.
Mom’s hand shot to her lips.
“Oh, my God!”
Mom’s hands were shaking.
I peered inside.
There were antique family photos with soft edges. A small wooden music box with faded paint. A pile of laminated cards featuring large print and images of commonplace objects, such as a spoon, a comb, and a
happy face with the caption “son.”
And another laminated card with meticulous penmanship on top.
“My name is Evelyn. Richard is my son. I am safe with him.”
I peered inside.
Chloe used the back of her hand to wipe her face.
“Grandma, that’s not even the worst part. I saw who he takes this to.”
My daughter began speaking quickly after wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“I asked Cindy, my best friend’s sister, to come wait outside so we could follow Richard’s car. He drove
south to that memory care facility. He left the tote on the passenger seat and ran inside. The door wasn’t even locked.”
“I saw who he takes this to.”
“I’ll give it back, I swear. I saw an aide wave him in, as if he lives there. There’s a cot, Mom. A folded cot next to a hospital bed,” Chloe replied as soon as she noticed my worry.
The laminated card was flush against Grace’s chest.
“Evelyn,” she muttered. “He’s mentioned she’s his mother, but didn’t tell me more.”
Still perplexed, I sat down firmly.
Grace reached for her coat.
“I’ll give it back.”
“Avery, drive. Now. And don’t lecture me about seatbelts; I’ll put it on.”
We discovered Richard in a little room, reading aloud from a picture card as if it were a lifeline while grasping the hand of a petite woman. He went the color of paper when he looked up and spotted us.
“Grace, please! I was going to tell you! My last partner left when she found out. I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Grace ignored his embarrassment and took a seat on the bed’s edge.
Richard was in a tiny room.
“My mom is 86 and has dementia. It gets really bad after dark. She becomes disoriented, and the only way to calm her down is for me to be right here. I’ve been sleeping here for months. That’s why you’ve never
seen my house. There’s barely a house to see.”
After all those justifications, I realized that the softest response had been the one on the list.
“Richard. You don’t have to choose between taking care of your mother and loving me.”
“It gets really bad after dark.”
Evelyn cocked her head, examining Grace in the same manner that one might examine a bird perched on a
ledge.
“Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”
Grace nodded, sobbed, and laughed.
“That’s me.”
Grace nodded, sobbed, and laughed.
Sunday dinners were shifted to 5 p.m. a few weeks later.
When Evelyn’s good days coincided, Richard brought her. Chloe designated herself as the goalkeeper of the image cards, still feeling awkward about the “borrowed” briefcase.
The antique music box was fixed by Mom. As I was setting the table, it plinked forth something slow and lovely.
I had a strong suspicion that Richard was lying. And he was, but I discovered that he was lying about the one person who was equally deserving of his affection as my mother was.
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