“There must be a mistake.” My car keys jingled as I fidgeted with them. “I visited Mrs. Martins two weeks ago. She was very happy to see me.” Until, of course, she became so upset that medical personnel had needed to rush in and tend to her.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, but there’s a note on Mrs. Martins’s file that you can’t visit her. You did say your name is Amira Abadi, right?”
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Did the doctors make the decision? Can I speak to one of them?” I needed to speak with Martha Martins, and I wasn’t going to let Surfer Dude deter me.
“Nope. The doctors have nothing to do with it. The family makes the no-visit list.”
“The family?” I stopped jingling my keys. “Are you saying that Mrs. Martins’s son or daughter specifically asked that I not be allowed to visit her?”
He squinted at the computer. “It says here that the son, Bill Warren, made the request.”
I stiffened. Why would Bill Warren ban me from seeing his mother? Had he learned that my last visit had upset her, or was he still hiding something? “Can you tell me if all visitors are limited, or is it just me?”
“Yep. Looks like just you,” he said. “Sorry about that, but you can’t see her.”
He didn’t seem very sorry at all, but I thanked him. I got back to my van and sat there, still in some disbelief, staring at the redbrick facility with its darkened windows accented by forest-green valances. It seemed like an impenetrable fortress now. I needed to get inside. But how?
A woman crossed in front of the van on her way into the facility. She looked vaguely familiar. It took me a minute to place her. It was Bernice, the lady who’d manned the reception desk the first time I visited Martha Martins.
I sat in the van for another half hour, contemplating ways to see Mrs. Martins. Knocking on one of her windows could work—if I could find the right one. But then I imagined someone calling the police to report a peeper at the old folks’ home.
While I thought about other ways to sneak into the facility, Surfer Dude emerged from the front sliding doors. I watched him climb into a beat-up Chevy and drive away. I considered my options. Maybe having Bernice at the front desk would improve my chances of getting in. I didn’t have any better ideas.
Taking a deep breath, I exited my van and walked back into the Meadows with my heart beating in my ears. I immediately spotted Bernice alone behind the reception desk. I exhaled. Maybe things were finally going my way.
“Why hello there,” Bernice greeted as I approached.
“Do you remember me?” I asked.
“I never forget a face,” she said with a warm smile. “I suppose you’re here to see Mrs. Martins?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I’m really looking forward to visiting with her again today.”
“Great. Let’s check you in.” My heart sank as her fingers tapped the keyboard. She read the screen and then gave me an assessing look. “I am terrible with names. Tell me your name again?”
I made a split-second decision. “Grace Mansour.” It wasn’t a complete lie. The name on my birth certificate was Amira Grace Mansour. I even had a Social Security card in my wallet to prove it. My parents opted to give me a more Americanized middle name in case the adult me decided to utilize it for professional purposes. I had never used it before now.
“Grace.” The way she studied my face made me sure Bernice could see right through my pathetic attempt at subterfuge. Pasting a smile on my face, I held her gaze and tried not to squirm. I’d read somewhere that liars always look away. My armpits were getting damp.
“That’s a pretty name,” she finally said.
Relief whooshed through me. “Thank you.”
She reached for a red marker to write the name down on a visitor’s tag. “Don’t stay too long. Mrs. Martins needs her rest.”
“I promise not to tire her out.”
“Have a nice visit.” She handed me the name tag. “You remember the way?”
I assured her that I did and got out of the reception area as fast as I could without looking like a prison inmate making her escape. I went down the corridor, passing an older gentleman scuffing along with awalker and a couple of staffers. I finally reached Mrs. Martins’s room and tapped on the door.
Silence. I shifted my weight from foot to foot.Come on. Answer. Please be here.
Finally a trembling voice sounded from inside. “Coming.”
The doorknob jiggled and Mrs. Martins appeared, looking gaunter than before, her sunken eyes lined with dark smudges. It had been barely two weeks since my last visit. I was stunned by the visible physical deterioration.
“Hello, my dear?” She stared blankly at me. “Do I know you?”
