“She’s been in a home for years,” Amber adds. “The dementia is really advanced. She doesn’t recognize anybody at this point. Not even Ben.”
“Is she nearby?” I ask.
“I think so,” Amber says. “It’s one of those special places for the elderly—what do you call them?”
“Nursing homes? Assisted living?”
“Something like that. I know it’s on water. It has a name like Placid Lake. No, wait,” she says, readjusting her ponytail in its cream-colored scrunchie. “I’m thinking of Lake Placid. Ben took me ice-skating up there once. It was one of our first dates.”
“How nice,” I say. “Does Ben go to visit her?” I put Lily’s arms through the sleeves of the bright red hoodie, then zip it up.
Amber shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess it’s hard on him, seeing what she’s become. He never talks about it. And I don’t ask.”
Good lines of communication here. No wonder they’re so happy together.
Amber heads out to her tennis lesson. Her friend Bonnie is picking her up, since her car is in the shop. I had it towed while she was away. Amber barely blinked when I told her about the damage. She just kept asking if I was okay.
I’m sure Ben will do more than blink when he sees the bill.
Lily lifts her arms, and I could swear I hear her say, “Up.” So I pick her up and carry her down to her carriage. She’s six months old now and sitting up—probably big enough to go on the Taggart Park kiddie swings.
Later on, as I’m pushing her with one hand, I’ll be holding my phone with the other, just like all the moms and caregivers there do.
The difference is, they’re all on social media. Me, I’ll be checking out every place within a fifty-mile radius where Ben Harrison might have stashed his mother.
CHAPTER 73
AMBER WAS SORT OF RIGHT. Mrs. Harrison’s nursing home, La Serena LifeCare, is on water—a huge man-made pond in the back. It’s the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. Which is probably why so many residents are clustered on the huge lawn in front—on benches, in wheelchairs, or shuffling around with walkers, all under the careful watch of several roving attendants.
The building itself is solid brick with several wings, and the name is pretty accurate. The people on the lawn all seem, well,serene—lost in thought, staring off into space as if they’re wondering where they are, or who they are, or what they should wear to school tomorrow.
It’s Tuesday, my day off, a beautiful sixty-degree day, butmost of the residents are in winter coats, hats, and gloves, some with woolen blankets tucked around their legs. I approach the front door and say a silent prayer to whatever god may be listening:Please, when my time comes, let me be hit by a bus.
Inside, the walls are painted a bright Crayola yellow, with giant floor-to-ceiling windows. La Serena looks happy and sunny, like a child’s playroom. Even the art is happy and sunny—colorful posters filled with cheerful quotes from Roald Dahl’s children’s books.
One shows a glowing cartoon sun above the wordsIf you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.Another poster readsThose who don’t believe in magic will never find it.And another:It’s impossible to make your eyes twinkle if you aren’t feeling twinkly yourself. Well, Roald Dahl ought to know. Apparently, nothing makes a man feel more twinkly than carrying on a years-long affair with his wife’s best friend. No wonder his wife referred to him as “Roald the Rotten.”
The receptionist at the information desk is dressed in a bright sky-blue uniform with a name tag that readsMISS BECKER.Miss Becker looks friendly but seems a tad suspicious, like a chaperone at a high-school dance. Actually, she resembles an illustration in a Roald Dahl book: She’s big and blustery with a long pointy nose.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Harrison,” I say.
“Oh?” She looks surprised. “And are you… a visitor?”
Does she think I’m here to sell her a set of Ginsu knives? “Yes,” I say.
“Have you visited before?”
“Well, no,” I say, lapsing into the kind of FBI bluff we were taught at Quantico—something possible but not really checkable: “I just moved back to the area after many years.” I’m about to tell her I’m an old friend but the demographics might not be right. Mrs. Harrison could be ninety. “She used to babysit for me,” I say, playing it safe. “I thought I’d drop by and say hello. I know she doesn’t get to see her son as often as she might like.” (Another classic FBI info-elicitation trick: confidential bait. Divulge confidential info in hopes of receiving some in return.)
“I can’t remember the last time he was here,” says Miss Becker. (It worked!) “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
She still seems a little suspicious, but I understand. She’s probably heard her share of lies and half-truths from relatives desperate to get a family member off their hands.
“Mom will really enjoy it here,” they say. “She always said she’d sell her house and move into a place like this” (…over her dead body). And “You’ll love Pop. He’s a real ladies’ man.” (He’s been thrown out of three nursing homes for indecent exposure.)
“I’ll be happy to show you some ID,” I say. That line always gets them. If I volunteer to show ID, I must really be who I say I am.
I guess Miss Becker hasn’t been to any college bars in the past thirty years, because she says, “That’s not necessary.” She looks through the register in front of her. “Mrs. Harrison is in room seven seventy-three.”
