Page 105 of Gone Tonight
I realize Tin is waiting for me to say something.
“Sounds good, I’ll go upstairs and grab the folder in a few minutes,” I tell her. “I might just soak in the sun a bit longer.”
She looks at me a little more closely, her brown eyes filled with kindness. “Are you okay?”
I force a smile. “I didn’t sleep well, but I’m fine.”
Tin briefly squeezes my arm and I know it’s a silent message ofsympathy. She still believes my mother is so ill that I canceled my plans to move to Baltimore.
“I’m heading up myself, so I’ll leave your folder on my desk,” she tells me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shiny brown Cadillac turn into the parking lot.
“Perfect,” I tell Tin. The car stops. My mother doesn’t know where to park. And I can’t gesture her toward the spot where Mr. Campbell last left his car while I’m talking to Tin.
Thankfully, Tin begins to walk back into Sunrise. The moment she disappears through the doors, I start to point to the correct spot.
But was it the fourth spot from the front door, or the fifth?
I stare at the two spots, willing my mind to pick the right one. The Cadillac is idling in the middle of the parking lot. The longer it remains, the more likely it will draw attention.
I point to the fourth spot and my mother eases the car into it. By the time I’ve walked over to meet her, she has slipped out of the car and locked the doors.
I palm the keys she hands me.
“I adjusted the seat back,” she told me. “I figured George is taller than five-foot-two.”
“Good thinking.”
Now I need to do two things, fast: figure out what to do with my mother—and get these keys back into George and June’s bowl.
It will probably be safe for my mother to take on the guise of a Daily Assisted resident. Nearly two hundred people live at Sunrise, and no staff member knows all of them well enough to identify my mother as an imposter.
“Keep strolling around, and I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I say as we begin to walk together toward the entrance of Sunrise. I fall quiet as we approach Mr. Damon, who sits on a bench, staring off into the distance. The aide who brought him down is a dozen yards away, holding the arm of a woman who is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s.
“Good morning, Mr. Damon,” I say, and he looks up.
His face transforms.
“Are you my daughter?” He’s looking directly at my mother.
She blinks rapidly a few times, clearly at a loss for words.
“Sorry,” she finally says, and continues walking. But she only makes it another step or two before Mr. Damon cries, “Sheila! Stop!”
My mother freezes, and I do the same.
Mr. Damon does have a daughter named Sheila—I’ve met her once—but she lives in San Francisco and rarely visits.
“Why are you walking away from me?” Mr. Damon’s voice is loud, and if we keep moving, he’s certain to grow more agitated. He might even run after my mom. Instead of blending in, she will become the center of attention. A dozen or so residents and staff members are nearby. There’s no way a scene will go unnoticed.
The Cadillac keys are pressing into my palm. I have to get them back, now. My mind whirls, trying to find the least risky path.
“Sit with him,” I whisper. “Play along. He used to play piano in an orchestra, and he loves classical music. Mention Bach and Beethoven. It’ll calm him down.”
My mother walks back to Mr. Damon and eases down onto the wooden bench beside him. Before I move away, I hear her begin to speak to him in a soft, soothing voice.
I hurry into the building, wave to the desk clerk, and go directly to George and June’s apartment.
