It was almost a relief to have my fate rest in someone else’s hands.
Finally he said that if I wanted a ride, all I had to do was ask.
I turned around. The trucker was standing there, gesturing for me to climb into the passenger’s side. He looked to be in his late fifties, and he wore a red-and-blue plaid shirt. I couldn’t read his expression.
I needed to be gone tonight. I had to get into that vehicle.
I slowly walked over, my head still hung low. He unlocked the door and I got into the cab. It smelled like French fries. There was an open can of Coke in the beverage holder and a half-empty roll of Rolaids in the console. And a decal stuck low on the front windshield of a young woman in a bikini, sitting with her arms behind her so that her boobs popped out.
The trucker walked around to the other side and began to hoist himself up and into the driver’s seat. I knew this was it. If I wanted to jump out and run, now was my chance.
I stayed.
What could he do to me that was worse than what my mother or Coach or James had already done?
My fate still rested in the trucker’s hands.
He settled into his seat and released a sigh, then reached for his leather belt and hiked it down, saying he’d eaten too much.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I waited for him to start the engine or put on his seat belt.
Instead, he turned toward me, his big arms reaching out.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to press myself in the other direction, but the door kept me pinned in place.
I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was wait for his hands to land on me.
I heard his voice again, telling me he just needed to get a little something out of the back.
I opened my eyes. He was almost completely twisted around now, reaching toward the bench seat in the back of the cab.
The trucker lifted up a tiny, old Chihuahua from the nest of blankets. Her eyes seemed to look in opposite directions, and she had a vaguely annoyed air at being awoken.
He told me her name was Cookie, and that she usually sat right where I was.
Cookie stayed on my lap the whole drive.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CATHERINE
The last time I came to work, every resident in the Memory Wing wore my mother’s face.
Now my state of mind is completely altered.
The hours pass quickly as I conduct the monthly assessments we fill out for all our clients with Alzheimer’s. Toward the end of my shift, a male nurse named Reggie and I take a small group of residents outside, into the fenced garden.
A small brown sparrow perched on a branch of a nearby tree begins to sing. Mr. Damon purses his lips and mimics the song, whistling note after pitch-perfect note.
Reggie nods at me, a silent acknowledgment to what we are witnessing. Reggie, who is about my mom’s age and has twin boys, once told me he bought his sons special bars of soap with toy cars embedded inside. You could glimpse the perfectly formed cars, but they were buried under hazy layers of glycerin. “Working here feels like that sometimes,” Reggie had said. I knew exactly what he meant.
Mr. Damon can’t name the street he lived on during the two decades before he moved here, but he can hum along to every piece of music Beethoven ever wrote. His musical memory seems hardwired into the one place Alzheimer’s can’t touch: his soul.
Mr. Damon has a particularly difficult time at dusk. The Debussy CD I brought in last time is for him.
After forty-five minutes, we begin the slow process of helping residents back inside. We’d all like to stay out longer, but the sun will set soon.
We have to be in the locked ward before it does.
Once everyone is settled and finishing dinner, I slip away for my break. I typically leave the Memory Wing and take the elevator down to the kitchen on the main floor. Today, though, I need privacy.
I begin to walk toward the very end of the hallway, to the family quarters.
I look around to make sure no one is watching. Employees have been prohibited from using the space ever since a visiting family showed up and discovered a napping aide. Once I’m sure the hallway is clear, I step inside and quietly close the door behind me. The space is set up like an extended-stay hotel room, with a queen-sized bed and seating area, plus a half-fridge and microwave and sink. There’s always a box of tissues on the table, alongside a book about grieving.
This room is used when one of our residents is near death, and family members don’t want to leave the premises but need a place to nap or shower.
There’s one other item in the room. A telephone.
I walk to it and dial the number I looked up last night. If I used my iPhone to make this inquiry, my name would appear on caller ID. This number is harder to link to me.
A woman answers after the first ring, “RJ’s Steakhouse, this is Melissa, how may I help you?”
My mouth feels dry. I rehearsed my story last night, but maybe I should have written down my script.
“Hi, my name is Annie Nelson. I’d like to speak to the manager concerning an employee.” I’m aiming for a tone that’s just this side of gruff.
“Oh! Certainly. Hold on for a moment, please.”
A man picks up quickly. “This is Curt Daniels. How may I help you?”
“Mr. Daniels, thank you for taking my call. I’m Anne Wilson”—I deliberately give a similar-sounding but not identical name than I first provided—“and I’ve been retained by the Sterling family. My law firm handles the financial trust created by Lucille Sterling.”
I can almost feel his confusion seep through the line as I continue.
“We’ve been unsuccessful in our efforts to locate one of Lucille’s nieces, and family members believe she was employed at your restaurant shortly before they lost touch with her.”
“I’m sorry—what is this about?”
I throw more legalese at him.
“As trustee of Lucille Sterling’s estate, it is my fiduciary duty to dispense assets to the parties named in the will. In other words, one of your employees will be receiving a nice sum of money. Just as soon as we can find her.”
Mr. Daniels isn’t foolish. He pauses for a moment, then comes back on the line. “It says you’re calling from Sunrise Elder Care?”
“Correct. Lucille Sterling is a patient here. I’ve been working with her on codicils to her will since she cannot travel to me. We are nearly finished. Unfortunately, her time is very limited, which is why we are pulling out all the stops to locate her beneficiaries and tie up any loose ends. The last thing this family wants is an inheritance battle.”
He takes this in.
“Mr. Daniels, can you give me any information about Ruth Sterling?”
My question is deliberately open-ended. He may not even be the same manager who fired my mother. This could be another dead end, like the panther mascot clue.
“I wish I knew where Ruth was, but I don’t.”
My stomach clenches.
Keep going, I mentally beg him.
“We owe her money, too. I’ve probably still got her final paycheck in her file. Our accountant makes us hang on to everything for years in case we get audited, and I doubt anyone has bothered to throw it out.”
“Final paycheck?” I echo.
“Yeah, Ruth didn’t show up one day and I haven’t seen her since.”