39
By the time Pauline finally left the house, still refusing to be calmed down by either her daughters or her baffled husband, it was gone two and Libby was ravenous. Rebecca and Tom still had all their luggage to unpack, so Libby decided to give them some space and headed out to her favorite café. As she was eating a sandwich, she checked her phone. Still no word from Dylan, and it didn’t look as if he’d checked his messages since last night either. Where the hell could he be? Had he made it to Frank’s assessment? At the thought of her friend, Libby flicked to his number and pressedcall, but there was no answer. Perhaps he was still doing the assessment, although it should have been finished by now. How would Frank have got on without Dylan there? Libby wondered with a lurch. She ate the last two mouthfuls of her sandwich, ordered some cakes to go, and then set off toward Frank’s.
When she reached his house, Libby rang the doorbell and stood back to wait for him to answer. She knew he was usually slow to get to the door, but within seconds she heard the sound of footsteps, long, fast strides that couldn’t possibly have belonged to Frank. Was it Dylan? Libby felt a flush of relief as the door opened.
The person on the other side wasn’t Dylan, but a middle-aged woman with an exhausted expression. Libby tried to conceal her disappointment.
“Can I help you?” the woman said in a clipped tone with a faint Scottish accent. This must be Clara, Frank’s daughter.
“Hi, is Frank in? I brought him éclairs.” Libby thrust the cake box toward Clara, but the woman ignored it, running a hand through her graying hair.
“Sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m Libby, a friend of Frank’s.”
“Well, I’m afraid now’s not a good time. My dad’s had a long day and he’s tired.”
“Could I quickly pop in and say hi? I won’t be long, but I promised him I’d come round and see how today went.”
The woman scrunched up her nose. “Okay, but keep it quick.”
“Of course.” Libby followed her inside.
As they approached the living room, Clara turned to her again. “Please don’t upset him.”
“Of course not,” Libby whispered back. What an odd request.
“Dad, you’ve got a visitor,” Clara said in a loud voice as she stepped into the living room. Libby followed her through, then stopped in her tracks.
Frank was sitting in his usual armchair, staring at the muted TV screen. He was wearing a dressing gown that reached down to his knees, revealing knobbly, varicose-vein-lined legs underneath. His shoulders were hunched forward and his hair was even more unkempt than usual. He was resting his right arm in his lap in a strange way, and when Libby looked closer, she saw his hand was wrapped in a white bandage.
“Frank, what happened?” she said, hurrying toward him, but if Frank heard her, he didn’t respond. He was watching some nature documentary on TV, but his eyes were glassy, as if he was looking at but not seeing the images on the screen.
“Dad burned himself this morning,” Clara said, walking to stand behind him and rest her hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, no!” The bandage was thick, with only the tips of his fingers poking out. “How did it happen?”
“He was making himself breakfast and the toast caught on fire,” Clara said. “And rather than leave it, Dad decided to grab the toast with his bare hand and gave himself second-degree burns.”
Libby drew breath. “Is it going to be okay?”
“The doctor said it should heal all right, but his hand is going to be out of action for a while.”
Frank was still staring at the TV, apparently oblivious to their conversation.
“He says something distracted him halfway through making breakfast, which is why he forgot about the toast, but he can’t remember what it was,” Clara continued. “Between you and me, I think he had one of his funny spells, when he zones out. It’s a common symptom of his type of dementia.”
At the word “dementia,” Frank’s head snapped round. “There was smoke,” he said. “Smoke and a strange smell.”
“Yes, Dad, that was because the toast was burning,” Clara said, enunciating the words.
“Oh, shit!” Libby said as a thought dawned on her. “I’m so sorry, but I think it was me.”
“What was you?” Clara said.
“I think I was the one who distracted Frank. I phoned him this morning and he said there was a funny smell, but it didn’toccur to me he was burning something. My phone call must have been the thing that distracted him.”
“I see,” Clara said slowly. “Well, that clears that up, at least.”
