Page 99 of Gone Tonight
Something akin to guilt mingles with all the other emotions stewing inside me.
I tuck the empty wrapper in the pocket of my shorts and look around, making sure there is no trace of our presence.
Smuggling my mother into Sunrise was easy. Getting her out could be more complicated. Ideally, we’d wait until later this morning, when residents are milling around after breakfast.
But as I explained to my mother last night after I sat up in bed, I want the Cadillac back in its spot as early as possible. My hope is that George Campbell still follows the routine he used to. He swims in the lap pool or uses the weight room on alternate mornings, then showers and heads to the dining room for a late breakfast with June. Still, I can’t risk the chance he might need his car early for some unforeseen reason.
I glance at the time on my iPhone. The security guard works the front desk from 9 p.m. until 5 a.m. He should be long gone. The receptionist covering the morning shift won’t know who my mother is.
My mother could exit under the guise of a number of identities: resident, family member, visiting overnight nurse. I just have to figure out which persona will be the easiest one for the receptionist to accept.
But first we need to get out of the Memory Wing.
My mother and I do a final sweep through the family quarters, straightening the comforter on the bed and wiping a few drops of water from around the sink and removing the rolled-up towel from the bottom of the door. Once we’re satisfied the space is exactly as we found it, I put the straps of my backpack over my shoulder and stand at the door, listening, for a long moment.
Then I slowly crack it open and peer out. The hallway is clear.
I look back at my mother and nod. I step out, my sneakers treading slowly and softly down the long linoleum hallway. My mother isdirectly behind me, mirroring my movements. I stop every few yards, listening hard.
It isn’t quite 7 a.m. yet, which is when the early staff will start arriving. We’ve timed our exit for when the skeleton night crew is hopefully completing final paperwork. We shouldn’t run into anyone, unless a resident awakens and draws the attention of the staff before we reach the exit.
We’ve almost made it to the turn that will put us within sight of the blue-painted exit door when I hear the noise I’ve been fearing: the light padding of footsteps.
Someone is heading our way.
I turn around and see my mother staring at me, wide-eyed.
There’s no way I can explain our presence here. The night staff knows me, but I’m not on the work schedule. They’ll also instantly know my mother isn’t a resident.
I do the only thing I can think of. I open the door of the nearest room and slip inside. My mother follows and I ease the door shut behind her.
We step to either side of the window in the door and press our backs against the wall.
The footsteps are drawing closer now. The person coming our way must have turned the corner. If their destination is this room, we’ll be caught.
I hold my breath.
The footsteps are rhythmic. Ten steps, then a pause. Ten more, then another pause. They draw closer, until they are just outside our hiding spot. There’s another pause, then the footsteps continue on.
I exhale slowly. Someone peeked in as part of early morning rounds, but they obviously didn’t see us.
Not ten feet away sleeps Mrs. Jacobson, the woman my mother impersonated last night. Mrs. Jacobson is curled up in the fetal position, with guardrails up on her bed.
I watch as my mother takes her in, then glances around the bedroom. There are no sharp edges here. The nightstand and dresser haverounded corners, as they do in all the other bedrooms. Contrasting colors for the furniture, walls, floor, and bed linens are designed to help Mrs. Jacobson differentiate between surfaces. Soft, pleasing hues fill the room rather than busy patterns. When Mrs. Jacobson first moved in, her son brought in her favorite easy chair. But the chair was covered in a chintz pattern, and one morning we discovered Mrs. Jacobson on her knees with a washcloth, trying to clean the “spots”—the rosebuds in the pattern. Now the chair is slipcovered in a solid green shade.
There’s a row of family photographs on top of the dresser, including one of Mrs. Jacobson surrounded by her four children and eleven young grandchildren. It was taken before her disease progressed. In it, she’s looking directly at the camera, her joy and vibrancy almost palpable. It’s difficult to believe she is the same frail-looking, gray-skinned woman curled up in bed a few feet away.
I’ve told my mother lots of stories about my job, but this is the first time she’s seen a piece of it close up.
This is what you did to me,I think.You made me believe this would be you.
I hope she takes a good, long look.
I wait until the footsteps come back around, moving more quickly with no pauses this time, and when they fade away, I crack open the door and make sure the hallway is empty before we continue.
We finally reach the blue exit door and I input the code, then push through. The clicking sound of the lock engaging behind us makes me flinch, but I doubt the noise will carry.
A moment later, my mother and I are inside the elevator.
