CHAPTER 45
“Come, let’s get you into bed.” The nurse at the old-age home took Petra by the hand and led her over to her small bed. I looked at her bedside table; she only had one photo on it. It was of her and a young boy—I assumed this was her son, Pierre. My throat tightened as I looked at that smiling picture of her and then looked back at her profound sadness as she climbed into that bed, all alone. She turned to Mike and me again.
“You will come back soon, Pierre?” she asked, urgency in her voice.
“Of course.” Mike walked up to the bed and took her hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, patting the back of her hand. And then he did something that brought a salty sting to my eye—he leaned in and gave her a small kiss on the forehead as she closed her eyes.
We all started backing out of the room slowly, when she opened her eyes and looked at me again. “Bianca, you must take all your vitamins, and do what the doctor tells you,” she urged, “so my grandchild grows strong and healthy.”
“Of course,” I said. We all exited and closed the door behind us.
The nurse, whose name tag saidSister Cynthia, looked over at Mike and gave him a smile. “Thanks for doing that again.”
“How did she get out, this time?” he asked.
“We have no idea; she’s a real escape artist,” Cynthia said, with a hint of affection in her voice.
“We found her on the beach. Something serious could have happened to her.”
“Oh, God.” Cynthia shook her head. “We’ll have to assign someone to watch her all the time. We’re short staffed and we’re doing our best, but, with the recent cutbacks and—”
Mike put a hand on Cynthia’s shoulder. “I know. You’re doing a good job, here. You’re doing your best.”
Cynthia nodded. “We’ll figure something out,” she said softly and thoughtfully. “I have to go do my rounds, now, but thank you.” She looked over at me, as well.
“Oh. Pleasure. No problem. I hope she’s okay,” I said.
Cynthia gave me a sad smile. “She won’t remember any of this in the morning.”
“She won’t?” I asked.
Cynthia shook her head, looking solemn. “I don’t think she has that long to go, either. We’ll miss her when she’s gone. She’s been with us for a long time.” And, with that, with those few words that held such gravitas and importance, she turned and walked away from us. I stood there and watched her go, then cast my eyes back to Petra’s door. She was so alone, right now. Physically and emotionally. My heart was breaking for her; she seemed like the saddest person I’d ever met in my entire life.
“Come,” Mike said softly. “It’s been quite a night for all of us. Let’s go home . . .wife.” He gave me a small smile; I guess he was trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It worked, and I found myself smiling slightly back.
“Wife?” I started walking down the corridor with him. “Funny, I don’t remember you ever proposing to me.” I gave his shoulder a small nudge with mine and he nudged me right back. “Come to think of it, if my memory serves, I don’t think we ever consummated our relationship, either, so it must be the immaculate conception.”
“I’m not going to live that down, am I?”
“Probably not. But I do forgive you, though. Now that I see your excuse was real.” I looked up at him and we shared a small, sad smile together. We walked out into the cold night again and climbed into the car.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“She has Alzheimer’s. She’s stuck in a moment in time. It’s like a daily loop,” he said.
“What moment? Where are her son and husband?”
“Her husband died some years back. And, about forty years ago, their son got married and moved to the UK with his pregnant wife. She’s never met her grandchildren.”
“What?” I swung around in my seat and looked at him.
“I don’t even think she speaks to her son anymore,” Mike said thoughtfully.
“Why?”
“I don’t know the full story, but I know he married someone that the family—mainly the father—disapproved of. He was disowned and moved away.”
“And Petra also disapproved?” I asked. “Why?”
