Three Sundays after Richard finally ate dessert, Mom stopped treating Cedar Grove like a place she was visiting for him.
She began going for Evelyn.
The distinction mattered. On Wednesday afternoons, she drove there alone, carrying flowers from her garden or a magazine she knew Evelyn would never finish. She learned which elevator shuddered between floors, which nurse made Evelyn laugh, and which chair beside the courtyard window caught enough afternoon sun to keep her warm without making her complain.
Richard had mixed feelings about this development.
“You don’t have to go every week,” he told her.
Mom looked over the top of her glasses. “We have covered those four words.”
“I’m only saying—”
“I know what you’re saying.”
“You have your own life.”
“Correct.”
“And you should live it.”
“I am.”
Richard eventually discovered that arguing with Grace after she had made a decision was an inefficient use of his remaining years.
He also began therapy.
He hated discussing it.
That was how we knew he was actually going.
Whenever Chloe asked how it was, he responded with phrases such as “unpleasantly educational” or “an expensive hour of being informed that my coping mechanisms are terrible.”
Chloe approved.
“I like your therapist.”
“You’ve never met him.”
“He annoys you constructively.”
On Sundays, Richard still left before eight, but secrecy no longer sat at the table with us. If Evelyn had been agitated that afternoon, he said so. If he expected to stay late, he told Mom. Sometimes she accompanied him. Sometimes she kissed him goodbye and remained with us.
Nobody had to invent Singapore.
The arrangement was imperfect.
That made it believable.
One Sunday Richard left at 7:25 because Evelyn had refused dinner. Mom stayed behind to help Chloe with a history project. At 9:13, he called.
I knew something was wrong because Mom stopped correcting Chloe’s bibliography in the middle of a sentence.
“Richard?”
She listened.
Her expression changed.
“What happened?”
Another pause.
“No, don’t make her explain.”
She stood.
“We’re coming.”
Richard apparently protested.
Mom interrupted him.
“I said we’re coming.”
She hung up.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Evelyn had an episode.”
“What kind?”
“She became convinced Laura was coming for Sunday dinner.”
Chloe’s face fell.
Mom picked up her coat.
“She set a place for her.”
The words took me back to Richard’s story about the months after Laura died.
Four plates.
Then three.
Then four again.
At Cedar Grove, we found Richard sitting outside Evelyn’s room with his elbows on his knees.
The leather tote rested beside him.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
He looked exhausted.
“She asked me where Laura was.”
Mom sat beside him.
“What did you tell her?”
“At first I redirected.”
“And?”
“She kept asking.”
“So?”
“I told her Laura died.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Oh, Richard.”
“I know.”
“You told someone with dementia that her daughter was dead?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“What happened?”
“She learned it again.”
His voice broke slightly.
“She reacted like it had happened today.”
Chloe sat on his other side.
Richard looked at her.
“I made my mother find out her daughter was dead twice.”
“You made a mistake,” Chloe said.
“I should know better.”
“That doesn’t make you stop being human.”
Richard stared at her.
Chloe shrugged.
“Grandma says that to me.”
Mom smiled faintly.
“I say it because you require frequent reminders.”
From Evelyn’s room came a sudden voice.
“Laura?”
Richard stiffened.
A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“She’s asking for someone.”
“I’ll go.”
Mom touched his arm.
“Wait.”
He looked at her.
“Let me.”
“Grace—”
“You’re upset.”
“So is she.”
“That’s why I’m offering.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
Mom entered alone.
Through the partly open door, we could see Evelyn sitting in her chair beside the bed. Her hair had been brushed neatly, but her face was wet with tears.
She looked up when Mom approached.
“Laura?”
Grace stopped.
“No, Evelyn.”
Evelyn stared at her.
“You came.”
“I came.”
“You’re late.”
“I’m sorry.”
Richard started to rise.
I touched his shoulder.
“Wait.”
Inside, Mom sat beside Evelyn.
Evelyn took her hand.
“You cut your hair.”
Mom glanced toward us.
Then back at Evelyn.
“It was getting difficult.”
Evelyn smiled.
“You always hated brushing it.”
Richard’s face collapsed.
Chloe slipped her hand into his.
For the next few minutes, Grace did not correct Evelyn.
She did not pretend to be Laura either.
She simply answered what could be answered without forcing Evelyn through the death of her daughter again.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“No, you don’t need to set another place.”
“Yes, Richard ate.”
“No, nobody is angry.”
Eventually Evelyn’s breathing slowed.
Her attention shifted toward Mom’s bracelet.
“Leaves.”
“Yes.”
“Richard gave you that.”
Mom looked at her carefully.
“Yes.”
Something in Evelyn’s eyes cleared.
“Grace?”
“Yes.”
The transition was astonishing.
One moment she had been speaking to a daughter dead nine years.
The next she was looking at the woman her son loved.
Evelyn frowned.
“Why are you crying?”
Mom touched her cheek, apparently unaware she was.
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
Mom laughed softly.
“Probably.”
Evelyn leaned back.
“Richard worries too much.”
“I know.”
“He was always like that.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
That answer made Mom smile.
Evelyn seemed amused by her own contradiction.
Then she pointed toward a cabinet.
“Blue book.”
“What?”
“Blue book.”
Mom looked toward the shelf.
There were several photo albums.
“Which one?”
“The blue one.”
Mom retrieved a faded album and placed it on Evelyn’s lap.
Evelyn opened it.
The first pages showed Richard and Laura as children.
Richard with missing front teeth.
Laura holding a kitten.
Both of them standing beneath a sprinkler.
Their father grilling in a backyard.
Evelyn younger, dark-haired and laughing.
Richard watched from the doorway.
“I haven’t seen that album in years.”
Mom turned another page.
A photograph slipped loose and fell to the floor.
She picked it up.
Then froze.
“What?” Richard asked.
Mom stared at the photograph.
“Richard.”
He entered.
She handed it to him.
I followed with Chloe.
The picture was perhaps thirty years old. Richard, young enough that I barely recognized him, stood beside Laura at a summer picnic. Evelyn was behind them.
Beside Evelyn stood another woman.
I knew that face.
Not personally.
From photographs.
Mom knew it too.
Her hands trembled.
“That’s Margaret.”
Richard looked confused.
“Who?”
“My sister.”
I stared at Mom.
“Aunt Margaret?”
Mom nodded.
Margaret had died when I was twenty. I remembered her mostly as a loud laugh, bright scarves, and the aunt who always gave me cash instead of sensible birthday presents.
Richard looked at the photograph again.
“Your sister?”
“Yes.”
Evelyn tapped the picture.
“Margaret.”
Mom knelt beside her.
“You knew my sister?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
Evelyn frowned, annoyed by the question.
“School.”
Mom looked at Richard.
“My sister taught fourth grade for twenty-six years.”
Evelyn had been a principal.
The connection suddenly seemed obvious.
“Were they at the same school?” I asked.
Mom nodded slowly.
“For a few years. Margaret taught at Franklin Elementary before transferring.”
Richard stared at his mother.
“You never told me.”
Evelyn ignored him.
She touched the photograph.
“Margaret had a sister.”
Mom swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Grace.”
The room became very quiet.
Mom sat beside her.
“You remember me?”
Evelyn studied her face.
“I remember your picture.”
“What picture?”
Evelyn looked at Richard.
“In his bag.”
Richard frowned.
“I never had Grace’s picture in my bag.”
Evelyn became irritated.
“Not your bag.”
“Whose?”
“Margaret.”
Mom went still.
“What did my sister have?”
Evelyn tapped the photograph again.
“A picture.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Long time.”
Her attention began drifting.
Mom leaned closer.
“What did Margaret say?”
Evelyn smiled.
“Her sister was stubborn.”
I nearly laughed.
Mom did not.
“What else?”
“Widow.”
The word struck us.
Mom’s husband—my father—had still been alive when Margaret died.
“That can’t be right,” I said.
Evelyn frowned.
“Widow.”
Richard crouched beside her.
“Mom, when did Margaret tell you Grace was a widow?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“Not Margaret.”
“Who?”
She looked directly at Richard.
“You.”
Nobody moved.
Richard stared at her.
“I did?”
“You showed me.”
“What?”
“Picture.”
Mom’s breathing changed.
Richard looked genuinely lost.
“I don’t remember this.”
Evelyn closed the album.
“Too many questions.”
“Mom—”
“Tired.”
The lucid window was closing.
Richard knew better than to push.
He helped her into bed.
As he pulled the blanket over her, Evelyn caught his wrist.
“Don’t be stupid again.”
Richard almost laughed.
“I’ll try.”
She pointed weakly toward Grace.
“Good woman.”
Mom’s eyes filled.
“I know,” Richard said.
Evelyn released him.
Ten minutes later, she was asleep.
We took the album into the family lounge.
Mom kept staring at the photograph.
“I don’t understand.”
Richard sat opposite her.
“Neither do I.”
“You knew what Margaret looked like?”
“Apparently.”
“You knew about me before we met?”
“I swear I didn’t.”
Chloe looked at the picture.
“Maybe you forgot.”
Richard stared at her.
“People without dementia are allowed to forget things.”
“I know. I’m just saying.”
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Faded blue ink.
A date.
June 1993.
And four names.
Evelyn.
Daniel.
Margaret.
Laura.
Richard was not named because he was apparently the one taking the picture.
Beneath the names, in different handwriting, someone had later added another line.
Grace’s sister says Grace grows the best tomatoes in the county.
Mom read it twice.
Then she looked at Richard.
He stared back.
“What?”
“You introduced yourself to me because of my tomatoes.”
His face changed.
“That was a joke.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“You said anyone who grew tomatoes that large deserved a medal or an investigation.”
“I remember.”
“Where did that line come from?”
Richard’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t know.”
Mom looked at the photograph again.
“Margaret used to say almost the same thing.”
Nobody spoke.
Richard sat back.
“I honestly don’t remember ever hearing it.”
Mom studied him.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
Not because she believed fate had engineered anything.
My mother had little patience for destiny.
But something forgotten had traveled thirty years through two families and surfaced in a garden.
That was enough.
Richard reached across the table.
Mom gave him her hand.
Chloe leaned toward me.
“Please don’t say Grandma was destined to grow tomatoes.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking your great-aunt apparently had no respect for intellectual property.”
Chloe smiled.
Across from us, Richard was still looking at the old photograph.
Then his expression changed.
“What?”
Mom asked.
He turned the picture over again.
“There’s another date.”
Beneath the faded writing was a much newer notation.
Three years earlier.
The year Evelyn had been diagnosed.
Richard read it aloud.
Show Richard when he is ready to live again.
Mom stared at him.
Richard’s eyes filled.
For once, he had no answer.
Click Here to continue read next: PART10: Richard Tried to Honor Evelyn’s Final Clear Request by Walking Away From Grace, Until Grace Refused to Let Guilt Choose for Either of Them
Every Sunday Richard Vanished at Exactly Seven-Thirty, and My Mother Was the Only Person Willing to Pretend It Meant Nothing
Part 9 of 12
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