It takes a while to scroll all the way back to Memorial Day weekend, but I finally find it. Picture after picture of my new neighbors and their kids, sunburned noses, big smiles. I can almost smell the chlorine and grilled meat. It was the first weekend the pool was open, and there was a potluck and barbecue, and the pool was packed.
Vicki, Priya, Daisy—they’re all there. I didn’t know half these people yet, of course. And then I find me. In the background of a shot of two teenage girls, arms flung over their shoulders, is me. I’m sitting by the edge of the pool in that bikini. I remember being there for what felt like an eternity as Cole dipped one foot and then the other in the pool, terrified to commit to going in but refusing to abandon the exercise altogether.
But it was more like twenty minutes.
The angle is basically the same as the photo of me in the Tinder photo.
A chill runs down my spine. Whoever took the photo of me was standing basically where this person stood. I check to see who posted it. Heather, my neighbor. Could she have taken that shot of me? But why?
On another screen, I pull up the Tinder photo that Krystle sent me. The angles are not just the same. They are identical. Either someone took a photo from the same place and at the same time as Heather did, or she took the Tinder photo.
I need to find out.
My phone pings with a text from Mark with the name of the lawyer. I look up the website. A banner overlaid across a photo of a gavel resting on a stack of law books reads: Artie Zucker: Aggressive and Experienced! A bald, middle-aged man with arms crossed over his barrel chest sneers at the camera. Below him are boxes to click on for more information, all with names.
Drug Crimes.
Domestic Violence.
Assault.
Sex Crimes.
Drunk Driving.
Is this what it’s come to? I need the help of some guy who defends rapists and drug dealers? This doesn’t feel right. I decide to double-check with Mark before I call. This isn’t the right guy.
My phone rings, and the caller ID says Morningside House. When I answer, a woman introduces herself as Lydia, the head nurse. We talk a little about the bruise on my mother’s neck and the scratch from last week and my concerns that I don’t know where they are coming from. I don’t accuse her staff of anything.
“We completely understand your concern, Ms. Ross. Your mother can become quite agitated, especially in the evenings. She’s been trying to leave after dinner, and there have been some altercations. Have you heard of sundowning?”
I jot the word down on a pad of paper as Lydia explains to me that dementia patients often become confused, anxious, and even violent as the sun starts to set and night approaches. “Our first line of defense in this case is usually some kind of antianxiety drug. With your permission, we’d like her to see the staff psychiatrist, and maybe we can start her on some kind of regimen.”
Drugging her into compliance. “What are the options besides drugs?”
“We may have to move your mother into Memory Care.”
Memory Care is the locked ward on the first floor. I got a glimpse of it when I took the tour, and it scared the heck out of me. Semi-catatonic people slumped over in wheelchairs, staring at a TV blasting infomercials. Sharon might have her problems, but she does not belong there. Not yet.
I tell Lydia to go ahead and make the psychiatric appointment.
“Until then,” Lydia says, “you’ll have to hire an aide from the hours of 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. to shadow her—”
“Wait, eight until eight? I thought you said the problem was in the evening.”
“This is Morningside policy, based on years of experience. If someone tries to escape, doesn’t matter what time, an aide needs to be hired to shadow them until bedtime. We need to ensure your mother doesn’t go out and become lost. We have no problem with residents leaving, as long as they are accompanied. If that works, she can stay on the assisted living floor. But if an aide doesn’t work out, she will have to move to Memory Care.”
She tells me the facility has a service they use that provides private aides, and she offers to call them for me and initiate the process.
“How much will that cost?”
She tells me, and I scribble down a few numbers on the pad. It adds up to another two grand a month, which takes Sharon’s monthly expenses above the income that comes from renting her old house in Westport. Mark and I can make up the difference for now, but it is not sustainable.
This extra cost, along with the repairs the Westport house needs, means one thing to me—I’m selling the house, whether Krystle likes it or not. The fact that it’s sitting there empty, not earning us any money, is just another reason to sell.
“We shouldn’t have moved her,” I say. “She didn’t have these problems in Connecticut.”
“Don’t blame yourself. Yes, the move may have triggered some of this, but in my experience, these declines are inevitable,” Lydia says. “They are a matter of when, not if. And if she had stayed where she was, how often would she see you? What kind of life would that be?”
I don’t answer because my ten o’clock photo shoot arrives. Sarah Ramirez, late twenties, glows the way you do when you’ve just spent the last three days rolling around in bed with someone you love, which she informs me right away she has been doing. I take
