Page 84 of Gone Tonight
I pause, trying to think of what else to add. I can’t give a name or even a physical description. My mother told me she had hair down to her waist in high school, but maybe that was another lie.
Finally I write,
If you worked at the restaurant back then, I’d be so grateful for your reply. It’s really important.
I hit send, then copy and paste my message to a half-dozen other people connected to the restaurant. I skip over the woman who looks like she’s in her teens and works there now. There’s no way she could have intersected with my mother before I was born. But several could be possibilities, including a guy about my mom’s age who looks brand-new to Facebook, and a woman who seems to be the current owner of the restaurant and might have owned it all along. There’s no guarantee anyone will see my note because people are wary about opening messages from strangers on the Internet.
But for the first time, I feel like I’m truly onto something.
I don’t catch a break for the rest of the afternoon. The usual lull during arts and crafts is eliminated when Mrs. Jacobson is walking toward a table and lurches to the side to avoid a deep pool of water. She trips and falls, hitting her jaw on the edge of a table.
Alzheimer’s can affect vision as well as perception. The blue cardigan another resident dropped on the floor was transformed into a water hole in Mrs. Jacobson’s mind.
It takes a while to assess her since she’s understandably upset, but Tin examines Mrs. Jacobson’s mouth and says she doesn’t think the wound is serious. Our on-call doctor checks her out, and then we hold a FaceTime meeting with Mrs. Jacobson’s family to let them know what happened. By the time we’ve finished dealing with the crisis, another resident has scattered the arts and crafts materials all over the table and floor, and it’s time to clean up, serve dinner, and administer evening meds.
I don’t make it back to the family quarters until close to 6 p.m., which is near the end of my shift.
But when I do, one new private Facebook message is waiting on my phone.
Hey there—yes, I worked at PP 25 years ago. I’m still in touch with some of my colleagues. It’s a great group. Who are you looking for?
The little green dot by the guy’s name indicates he’s still online.
I write back quickly, detailing the scant facts my mother can’t alter.
I’m not certain of her name—she would have been about 18, with big hazel eyes and light brown skin. She’s five foot two.
There’s got to be something else distinctive about my mother that hasn’t changed over the past quarter century. I think for a minute, then add,
Good dancer. She may have been on the Poms squad at her high school, but I’m not sure.
The guy writes back so quickly it’s almost like he read my reply the moment I sent it.
Oh, I bet I know who you’re talking about. Her name started with an A… shoot, can’t think of it now but it’ll come to me. Reallylong hair, great smile. She didn’t work here but she hung out here a lot. She sure loved pizza! LOL.
I feel like I’ve stepped off a cliff and am free-falling.
It’s her. I’m certain of it. My mother’s real name started with anA, and she must have lived near the restaurant in Towson, Maryland.
I quickly scan the guy’s profile information. We’re not friends on Facebook, so what I can see of his page is limited—as is what he can view about mine—but his hometown is listed as Baltimore. He must live fairly close to Johns Hopkins Hospital.
I type back, using his nickname for the restaurant.Do you ever go back to PP?
Again, he writes back immediately.
Haven’t been in a while, but now that you’ve got me thinking about lasagna pizza, I may just go tonight.
I think for a moment, then type,
I’m going tonight too. Maybe we can meet and chat a little more?
I could show him a picture of my mother. I’ve got some on my phone. Those images may jar loose his memories of her.
I look down at my response, then I slowly backspace through my words, deleting them one letter at a time.
My mother drilled into me that you can’t trust anyone on the internet. She once clipped out a newspaper story about a girl who went to meet a new social media friend at the mall and was kidnapped by the middle-aged man who’d created the fake account. She left that story on my pillow for me to read when I begged her to let me join Instagram.
Even though I initiated contact with this guy, his profile photo is a picture of a sports car and he comes across as a little too eager.
