“Chloe?”
My daughter wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Chloe, where did you get that?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t ask how I got it.” Her voice cracked. “You need to see what he hides in here. And why he never stays past 7:30 p.m.”
She walked past me and set the tote down on the dining room table, right next to the birthday pie.
Mom rose slowly from her chair.
“Where did you get that?”
“Chloe, honey, whatever’s in there, maybe we should…”
“Grandma, look,” my daughter said after opening it.
Mom’s hands trembled as she reached for the bag. I stepped closer, bracing myself for lipstick, hotel receipts, some other woman’s photo. Basically, something ugly.
The tote fell open.
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, my God!”
Mom’s hands trembled.
I looked inside.
There were old family photos, worn soft at the edges. A little wooden music box with its paint faded. A stack of laminated cards with large print and pictures of everyday things: a spoon, a comb, and a smiling face labeled “son.”
And on top, another laminated card in careful handwriting.
“My name is Evelyn. Richard is my son. I am safe with him.”
I looked inside.
Chloe wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“Grandma, that’s not even the worst part. I saw who he takes this to.”
My daughter wiped her nose on her sleeve and started talking fast.
“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.”
Chloe saw my concern and quickly said, “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.”
Grace pressed the laminated card flat against her chest.
“Evelyn,” she whispered. “He’s mentioned she’s his mother, but didn’t tell me more.”
I sat down hard, still confused.
Grace grabbed her coat.
“I’ll give it back.”
“Avery, drive. Now. And don’t lecture me about seatbelts; I’ll put it on.”
***
We found Richard in a small room, holding a tiny woman’s hand and reading a picture card aloud as if it were a lifeline. He looked up, saw us, and went the color of paper.
“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 walked right past his shame and sat on the edge of the bed.
We found Richard in a small 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.”
It dawned on me that after all those excuses, the answer had been the softest 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 tilted her head, studying Grace the way you’d study a bird on a windowsill.
“Are you the pretty lady my Richard keeps telling me about?”
Grace laughed, cried, and nodded.
“That’s me.”
Grace laughed, cried, and nodded.
***
Weeks later, Sunday dinners moved to 5 p.m.
Richard brought Evelyn when her good days lined up. Chloe, still sheepish about the “borrowed” briefcase, appointed herself keeper of the picture cards.
Mom got the old music box working again. It plinked out something slow and sweet while I set the table.
I’d been so sure Richard was a liar. And he was, but I found out that he was lying about the one person who deserved his love just as much as my mom did.
