My chest contracted at her words. Would Mum leave home without shoes or a towel and walk into the water, clothes and all? Leave nothing on the riverbank? Right now, trying to translate the passing road signs, my nerves alive with fear, a deep nausea surging through my gut, I’d lost all sense of what was possible.
It was a long, bleak drive. I made intermittent calls to both the county police and Macy. The police had woken up the neighbors on our block, looking for Mum. I felt utterly helpless not being there. Should I call and tell Amy? I didn’t want to unnecessarily worry her, as it might be nothing. What could she do from London?
Two hours later, I was finally passing through our tiny town, conflicted over wanting to slow down and search as I drove, and desperate to get to the house as soon as possible. I flew into Mum’s driveway, braking next to Macy’s car. Inside, I hurriedly greeted Macy, and even though there was nowhere for Mum to hide, I raced through her flat, calling for her, looking under beds, in cupboards, on her tiny back patio.
Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. The empty flat wasn’t comforting—it drove home the fear of what could happen and that we could lose her.
“Where can she be? I’m so sorry, Tim,” Macy said as I came out of Mum’s bedroom.
Harshly, I held up a finger, because I needed to think. I knew from the clock I’d just checked in my truck that it wassix thirty, but Mum might have left the house at midnight when Macy went to bed. Where could she have gone? What could have gotten into her head last night? I sorted through what we’d last talked about, not that her memory or loss of it worked in any logical pattern. A couple of sentences of our conversation sparked in my brain.
“I’ve got an idea. Wait here,” I called to Macy as I dashed out of the house and sprinted down the street as fast as I’d ever run. My destination was only three blocks away. I suspected she’d try to get in the side gate, but it must have been locked. So why would she have stayed out so long?
I caught a glimpse of a gray bob and her stripey blue pajamas behind a bush near the school gates. I blasted across the road and dropped down to her. She was whimpering, the knees of her pajamas ripped and bloodied.
I put my arm gingerly around her. “Mum? Mum? What happened?”
Her eyes went wide, and I realized I was so frightened I was grasping at her shoulders and my voice was raised.
“I’m so sorry, Tim.” She burst into tears. “I’ve messed up again.”
God, what was I doing? My eyes welled with tears. I released the strength of my grip around her shoulders. “You haven’t messed up. I’m sorry for raising my voice, Mum. I’m not angry with you—I was just so scared.” I peered into her face to show my sincerity and felt her shoulders and arms for injuries.
“What are you doing behind here, Mum? Everyone’s been looking for you, and no one could find you.” I thought about where she was. “Were you hiding?”
“Y-yes. I tried to get over the gates and fell, and then I saw the police in the distance and crawled behind this bush because I thought I’d get in trouble.”
Oh God. “Why were you climbing the school gates?”
Mum shook her head tearfully. “I woke up and got all confused and thought I had to collect you and Tabitha from school, sweetheart.”
That was what I’d suspected. The other day, when I’d shown her photos and videos of Tabitha from the shoot, she’d reminisced about picking us up from school.
“Then I got here,” she went on, “and the gates were locked and the playground was empty. I panicked because I thought you two must be frightened and hiding somewhere. I tried to climb over the gates, and I tumbled off. I’m so sorry, Timmy. I’m always making trouble these days.”
I kicked myself internally that I’d made her feel this way. She had less and less control over her emotions and her decision-making. “You don’t need to say sorry, Mum. It’s not your fault. Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. My knees. My ankle feels sore.”
Because I’d had a lot of experience with my team’s injuries, I quickly but gently felt her ankle, pressing the skin and turning the joint. It didn’t feel broken, but it could be sprained. I felt her legs and arms. She had some bruising and soreness but no broken bones as far as I could tell. Then I called the police.
“Tim Langston here. I’ve found my mother. She’ll need an ambulance as she tried to climb a fence. I don’t know how far she fell, and I don’t know what her injuries are.” I gave them the name of the school and the street.
Relief washed over me that she was safe, but a sick feeling in my gut reminded me that finding her wasn’t any kind of resolution. The opposite, because this was a huge deterioration in her condition, that she’d taken keys and acted on a school pickup she’d done decades ago. We’d fallen into a whole other category of the stages the doctor had taken me through.
After the police and ambulance arrived, a young, red-haired policeman motioned me away. “Can we talk?”
Making sure Macy was with Mum, I joined him warily.
At the edge of the pavement, he faced me. “Sir, it seems like your mother only needs minor medical attention, and I think your mother’s carer can drop you home?” I nodded. “But I just wanted to ask, has your mother had an official diagnosis of any kind?”
“Yes, she has…memory issues.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Memoryissues?”
Yes, fuck. I could see his point. Mum had thought she had to pick up a five-year-old me and Tabitha from school. That was more than issues.
It was hard to say the word, hard to admit because I’d had to hide it so often. Even after all my discussions with doctors and specialists, I didn’t think I’d ever actually said the word until I’d told Tabitha. “Early dementia,” I told the cop. “We’ve got it under control. We have twenty-four-hour care in place for her at home.”
