Just as I’m ready to call it a night, I find what I’ve been searching over an hour for.
Tee or T: small, little, petite.
I don’t know if Simon meant it as a compliment, but it’s better than swamp rat.
I put my phone on the side table and snuggle into my pillows. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake feeling great for the first time since arriving at Sutton Hall. No lumpy mattress. No creepy ghost sounds. No hibernating-bear snores from the monitors. I even take a really quick bath in the pink tub. Unfortunately, not quick enough, and the water turns cold while I’m halfway through shampooing my hair. On the bright side, Lindsey bathed before me and has flushed the pipes of rust.
An Uber arrives precisely at ten thirty and Lindsey tells me one last time, “I left a list of numbers and the salmon recipe for lunch on the kitchen counter. I put Patricia’s Xanax in the cupboard above the refrigerator. If she gets anxious, get her to put half a pill under her tongue.”
“Okay,” I call after her as she gets in the car. Lindsey obviously doesn’t trust me not to overdose Mother and knock her out for a couple of days.
I watch from the doorway as she is driven toward the road and am fleetingly concerned
that she’s bolting, escaping the madness, and never coming back. Then I recall how happy she was when I offered her the same health insurance that I provide for all my employees, effectively roping her in and tying her down with a half hitch. I close the front door and smile.
“Is that Earl?” Mom yells from the front parlor, where she is settled with scrapbooks and photo albums.
“No.”
I grab my laptop before I join Mom on an olive-green velvet chesterfield that I’m guessing is fairly new to the house. If you consider circa 1972 reasonably new. A delicate goblet made of Venetian glass is on a side table next to her. It’s pink and gold and filled with sweet tea. “Was it Tony?”
I don’t answer, but Raphael makes a gurgling sound. He bobs his head as if he’s the cool kid in school, listening to beats that only he can hear. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Raph, but you can’t be cool if you look like a plucked chicken.” He flaps his wings, and I warn, “Behave.” He opens his beak, and I steel myself for his scream, but he just yawns.
“Was it Tony?” she persists.
“Tony’s an asshole,” I say, before I remember that I’m supposed to be extra patient today.
Mom does the usual gasping thing as I open the laptop, and we indulge in online therapy. We shop for everything from shorts and summer shirts to light cotton dresses and skirts. I buy respectable summer nighties, and Mom picks out stripper lingerie that I know she’ll never wear. I’m still planning to go to the mall, but I can’t take Mom with me. She hasn’t been alone with Lindsey yet, and I have to make sure she’s comfortable without me before I leave her.
When we’re done, I’m all shopped out, but Mom cracks open a photo album and starts ordering from it like it’s her own personal Google net.
“I want this lamp.”
“Which lamp?” I’d rather skip out on old family photo time and work, but I’ve read that thumbing through familiar pictures helps to stimulate the Alzheimer’s brain. Nothing will stop the progression of the disease, but recalling even small things is a healthy exercise and makes her feel good about herself.
“This tall one.”
She points to a tintype photo and a floor lamp behind a row of dour-looking women. “That has to be an oil lamp and probably isn’t around anymore.”
“It’s here somewhere.”
I remember what Simon said about Sutton treasures buried in the attic. “You’re probably right.”
She moves her finger to a black-and-white portrait of a beautiful woman in a wedding gown. “And this is Great-grandmere.” It’s the right era, so she could be right. The picture was painted in front of potted ferns, clustered next to the fireplace in the library. At the bottom, almost obscured by a long lace veil, is a fireplace screen with a beagle painted on it.
“Look.” I point it out.
“What?”
“Here, it’s Great-grandfather’s beagle screen.”
She looks up at me. “Great-grandpere had a beagle?”
“Yes!” She’s only been obsessing about it for days. “It’s painted on the fireplace screen you want.”
She shakes her head and her nose pinches. “That’s ugly.”
I’m about to ask if she still wants it but stop myself just in time. She’s obviously forgotten all about the screen, and I can cross it off my search-and-find list. Thank God I don’t have to put on a pith helmet and spend my day sucking up dust bunnies in that attic.