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People come and go. Families, couples, individuals. The parking lot changes in color and shape as different vehicles arrive and leave. Saturday is clearly a popular visiting day.
I look over the gardens that are still green despite the late season, and smile to think that so many people are coming to spend time with the residents. Little sweeping lawns separate the different buildings that are all named after flowers, and someone has taken the time to plant each ward’s namesake around their front doors.
The trees aren’t evergreen and have started to turn with the passing year. They sprinkle leaves of scarlet and burnt umber over the ground. Bushes along every wall seem primed for flowers but bear only a few lingering petals.
The place would be stunning in the spring.
Yellow Fields, I decide, is a beautiful place. Full of plants and people, both loved and tended to with care.
Which, I know from first-hand experience, means that it’s expensive.
And Caleb wants to move his Mom to an even pricier place? A better place?
I know I’m lucky, in a way. My career, my mother’s money—even Dad’s life insurance—has made me able to put money worries to the back of my mind. But I still remember my college days when I fended for myself financially. I like to think I know the value of a dollar.
And, observing the way he lived, so did Caleb.
Yet, he clearly felt that only the best would do for his mother.
As if I need any more reasons to be attracted to him.
Instead of admiring his devoted son routine, I try to focus on Caleb’s tardiness. At least that could be a source of contention. I’d never found punctuality to be top of my checklist for romantic partners, but there’s late and then there’s late. It’s now encroaching on an hour past our agreed time to meet.
I watch the door to the Sunflower Ward with concern. The sun has slipped behind the clouds and I’m forced to bounce from one foot to the other in the chill. To rub my arms for warmth.
What if something is seriously wrong?I think. What if there’d been an accident and Caleb is hurt? Or his mom?
What good am I standing here if there’s an emergency going on in there?
“Oh, screw it.”
I quickly take off my coat and wrap the picture frame inside of it. Leaning up and over the rim of the truck bed, I peel back the tarp. Underneath is a large, black duffel bag. I pin my bundle down beside it and put the tarp back into place. I blow on my fingers to keep them warm, and speed for the door with a painted sunflower on the glass and yank it open.
Instantly, I’m bathed in the blessed warmth of central heating. Despite the hour, lights are on to keep the corridor bright and clear. The walls are painted apricot, the carpet is a soft cream. The only disturbance to the off-white serenity is a loud wailing coming from the end of the hall.
“No! No, I won’t!” a woman is crying.
I take off my shoes, nudge them towards a rack of similarly wet and frosty boots, and hurry toward the noise.
Most of the doors along the hallway are closed. Little squares of stained glass mark out their numbers, 2,4,9,14. Some break the pattern, standing open.
Glancing into each, in search for the voice, I spy neat little rooms. From the doorways, I can spot the corner of a bed, a loveseat, a large television mounted on the wall, and the edge of a countertop that seems to lead into a cooking area. There’s an old gentleman in one, watching a program about hyenas. I catch a flash of the elbow and blue rinse of a woman clattering about in her kitchen and then meet the surprised look of another who’s just gotten up to slam her door shut against the yelling.
“She’s at it again,” the woman calls back to her husband who’s reading in an overstuffed armchair. She spots me, flushes with color and then closes the door with an awkward smile and nod.
“I said no! I need to go! They need me!” the voice calls again.
This time, it’s clearer and definitely winding its way around the far corner. I jog to the end of the corridor, look right, look left, and know exactly where I’m headed.
Halfway down the corridor on the left is an open door. Extra light streams into the hallway, turning the cream carpet to platinum. Amidst the brightness are shadows. Shadows of several people trying to calm a raging monster.
“NO!” the voice screams again. “No! I need to leave! You bastards can’t keep me here! There’s nothing wrong with me! This is kidnapping! I’ll have the police on you, I will! Sheriff North will have you! He knows me! He knows my boys!”
“Ma!”
I skid to a halt, reaching out to take the wall. A single syllable and I feel like I’ve just taken a gut punch. The new voice is Caleb’s.
But it isn’t.
