CHAPTER NINE
T he next morning dawned, and the faint echoes of our night together lingered in the room. I woke up beside Amelia. The sheets on the second double bed were still perfectly tucked and pressed. The space between us was minimal, filled with the remnants of last night: crumpled bedsheets and discarded underwear.
The soft light filtered through the crack in the curtains announcing a new day. A very important day. However, I still had to contend with the bittersweet realisation from the night before.
There was a lingering warmth in my chest. Amelia had one hand pressed up against the side of her face and the other softly placed across my body. The intimacy we’d shared in the darkness of the night was about to become reality. I could feel her touch on my skin, the memory of her breath against my neck, and her whispered words.
Gulp.
The desire had been present; there was no doubt about that, but now the sensation of her words against my skin both comforted and haunted me. Beneath the surface was that shadow of uncertainty.
The moment my eyes opened I couldn’t shake the feeling that, perhaps, what we had shared was fleeting. I worried it had been a momentary spark of passion that would be impossible to sustain.
I feared rejection. I feared I would be alone with my feelings. I feared Amelia would wake up and act as though what we shared didn’t need to be discussed, or worse, she’d feel regret. I feared the look of regret in her eyes because I didn’t regret it.
I watched her stir beside me. Her features were soft and prominent in the morning light.
What did last night mean? Would Amelia want to pursue something more? Or was I just a temporary escape from what lay ahead, an easy distraction on an unpredictable road trip.
The weight of my own insecurities settled over me like the heavy duvet that currently buried my body. I knew one thing for certain; I couldn’t predict or force Amelia’s feelings. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I’d had enough time to process my own feelings.
I liked Amelia. I liked how she carried herself, what she stood for, her work ethic, her morals, her outlook on life, her kind heart, and her smart mind. There was a lot to like about Amelia Baker. I couldn’t be held accountable for the barrage of feelings that swirled throughout my body. Could I?
It seemed unfair to place a female with Amelia’s attributes in my life, have me get to know her, road trip with her, kiss her faultless lips, and then expect me to just be normal again afterwards.
She dragged her outstretched arm from my body, pulling it tightly against her torso, as she squeezed her entire body. It was a unique way to stretch. She was yet to turn and discover me beside her. She was still blissfully unaware of her feelings. Unlike me.
Would I be open to more than a road trip fling? The answer wasn’t a sharp no, but it wasn’t a solidified yes either. I categorised my current answer as “potential, but conditional”. The condition: she had to feel the same.
I sat in silence, bracing myself for the possibility of disappointment, but I was still optimistic. The lingering doubt wouldn’t deny the flicker of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more between us. With that thought in mind, I took a deep breath.
“Good morning,” I offered softly.
Amelia greeted me with a tentative smile.
“Morning.” She met my gaze. Her response was equally gentle.
We lay still, tension coiled in my chest. I could sense her hesitation. Was there a right thing to say in that moment? Anything other than, “last night was a mistake” would suffice.
We needed to address the situation. I cleared my throat and turned to face Amelia. Her gaze met mine. I knew I had to be honest.
“How are—” I began, but Amelia tried to speak at the same time.
“About last night,” she said. The words tumbled out in a rush.
“Sorry, you go first,” Amelia offered.
“No, it’s okay.”
We were in limbo now. The looming vulnerability caused me to close up.
“I wanted last night to happen,” she started, “but—”
Why did the word “but” exist? Who gave that word meaning and pushed it into existence? I didn’t like that person. I clenched my jaw, trying desperately to hold on to my fragile facade of composure. I expected her words to sting .
“I’m just a bit confused by it all, and I don’t want to hurt you.” The admission hung in the air like a heavy cloud.
“I need to figure some things out,” she continued. Her voice sounded tinged with regret.
“It’s okay.” I nodded, forcing a tight smile. The silence that followed was deafening. I felt the ache of longing, only overpowered by the sting of rejection.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said.
She subtly shifted her gaze. There was a flicker of avoidance in her eyes as she rolled to the edge of the bed and retrieved her shirt from the floor.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not like we discussed what this was,” I said, although I wished we had.
“Thank you for being so understanding.” Amelia had her back to me as she fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. She stood up, and the length of her slender legs was on full show, legs that had been tangled around my body hours earlier now seemed so foreign. I watched her make her way to the small hold-all in the corner. She hesitated for a moment; something on her mobile phone caught her attention. Her eyes flickered to the window.
“If you’re looking for an escape route, you can take the door. I won’t stop you,” I teased.
She chuckled softly, but there was a nervous edge to her laughter. “You’re funny.”
I found myself tiptoeing around the elephant in the room whilst we packed our things and prepared to leave. For the first time since I’d met Amelia our conversation became stilted. We filled the awkward pauses with surface-level topics about the motel’s cleaning schedule and what we might encounter at breakfast. We avoided the deeper consequences of the night before.
“So, erm, do you think we should call ahead to the care home?” I asked. The question felt forced .
“I think so. I don’t want to ambush anyone,” she replied, her tone guarded. “I’ll go do that now.”
She excused herself to make the phone call, which gave me an opportunity to get ready for the day ahead. The silence between us only grew louder.
What did this mean for the rest of our trip? We had a full day in Pearland, followed by another motel stop on our return to Magnolia. It was impossible to do the trip back without a stop, unless we wanted to risk serious injury by driving tired, and that was frowned upon in my line of work. I knew that navigating the rest of the trip would be challenging after the awkwardness of that morning. I feared we wouldn’t be able to move past it.
As I stepped out into the summer sun, the air was filled with the sweet fragrance of freshly cut grass, mixed with burnt rubber. It was an odd combination, but surprisingly nice. The sky above was a canvas of soft pastels, which instantly made me feel at home. We were seven hours away from home, but the Texas heat and the distant hum of bees going about their day brought a sense of comfort.
I hadn’t considered my outfit choice too much prior to our departure from Magnolia, however, things had changed significantly now. I felt underprepared. Suddenly, I felt the need to impress Amelia. The flowy white cotton shirt I’d chosen for one reason only: it allowed air to circulate, which was a necessity on a hot summer day. It wasn’t the most flattering shirt, but it was practical. When paired with the distressed denim shorts from the day before and espadrille sandals, a pair of oversized sunglasses to hide my discomfort. I had myself a classic laid-back look.
Thankfully, Amelia wore a more colourful version of the same thing, so I didn’t feel out of place.
How was I supposed to navigate our newfound dynamic? The tension as we embarked on the remaining ninety-minute drive to Pearland was heavy. Whatever excitement we shared the day before about meeting Frances had faded.
As we drove along the winding roads, the scenery passed by in a blur, and I struggled to keep my emotions buried beneath our forced smiles. Amelia seemed lost in her own thoughts. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead. The music played softly in the background filling the space between us, but it wasn’t enough to compensate for the lack of conversation.
I eventually mustered the courage to break the ice.
“So, do you think we should discuss how we move forward from last night? In all honesty, I don’t think I can cope with this awkwardness,” I said. The words hung in the air.
Amelia looked at me, her expression guarded. “You feel awkward?” Amelia asked.
“You don’t?” I chuckled.
Amelia took a deep breath. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.” She smiled.
“Do we just forget it even happened?” I suggested, reluctantly. I didn’t want to forget. Actually, forgetting would prove to be difficult for me considering Amelia’s name had passed through my brain about fifty-five thousand times in the last hour.
“I think that’s probably wise,” she confessed; her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Okay, it’s forgotten.” I smiled softly.
“Are you sure?” Amelia questioned.
“Sure, about what?” I teased.
Amelia hit my arm playfully, and I was filled with relief. Despite my lingering feelings, I was grateful for Amelia’s willingness to brush it aside. Sleeping with Amelia had been a huge mistake. Nothing good could come from it, which made me question my own motives. The human mind is trained to want what it can’t have.
My sudden surge of feelings for Amelia could’ve been based purely on the fact that she was off limits. All I had to do was train my mind to stop wanting the unattainable.
Easy.
The assisted living facility in Pearland, Texas, specialised in memory care. The facility was very clear when we called ahead about the challenges they faced on a daily basis. Despite their goal of providing a safe and comfortable living environment for the guests, every day was a different challenge, and we had to be prepared for that.
The facility had a warm and welcoming atmosphere; the website described it as feeling home-like. We were accompanied by a wonderful woman named Lorraine; she explained her job. She worked a variance of shifts around the clock to provide personalised care to the residents, which included Frances.
“We like to build personal relationships with our residents that way they feel more comfortable,” she explained.
The lobby was tastefully decorated with cosy armchairs, elegant floral arrangements, and soft lighting. Lorraine gave us a tour of the common areas; residents were gathered around the large TV to watch a movie, and she showed us the outdoor space where Frances would sometimes beat the other residents at ring toss .
“Frances is a lucky lady; she’s already had a visitor this morning.”
“Oh really, can I ask who?” Amelia enquired.
“Her daughter. She comes two to three times a week. Unfortunately, Frances rarely remembers now.”
“That’s really sad.”
“It’s a heartbreaking disease.” Lorraine ushered us through a set of double doors on to another long corridor.
“Who did you say you were again, sweetheart?” Lorraine asked.
“I’m the granddaughter of an old friend of Frances. My grandma isn’t with us anymore, but she would’ve wanted us to come.”
“I understand. Well, it’s kind of you to visit.”
“How long has she been here?” I asked.
“Three years. Her daughter tried to care for her at first, but it becomes very difficult to manage when the disease takes over. When you’ve got small children and a job it’s damn near impossible.”
“And she doesn’t remember anything?” Amelia asked.
“On a really good day she might remember her childhood pet or her favourite movie, but I urge you to lower your expectations because we haven’t had a breakthrough in a long time.”
Frances was located in the section of the home with private rooms.
“She’s just finished her morning arts and crafts session, so she might have a little bit of paint on her until we clean her up later,” Lorraine pointed out.
“What else does she like to do?” Amelia asked.
“You can ask her yourself. She’s just in here.”
Lorraine propped open the door to what looked like a large studio apartment .
Frances’s walls were adorned with beautiful artwork and family photos, which gave the wood-heavy space a personal touch.
The room was cosy. There was a king-sized bed covered in various textured cushions on the left and a small sitting area with two armchairs positioned to the right beside the window, so the warm Texan sunlight could stream in.
“Frances, you have a visitor,” Lorraine announced.
She was a petite woman with silver hair and a gentle smile. She sat in her armchair by the window. Her eyes sparkled with recognition as she saw Lorraine enter.
“Is it Richard?” Frances called out.
“No, dear.” Lorraine turned to us. “Richard is her husband. He’s no longer with us.”
I nodded, understood.
“I told you this morning, do you remember? It’s your old friend’s granddaughter.”
“Oh, of course,” Frances acknowledged.
She greeted me with a warm smile, before turning her attention to Amelia. Her face instantly shifted from forced acknowledgement to pure joy like she saw a familiar face.
“Caroline,” she said softly.
Amelia turned to me. Shock spread across her face.
“This is Amelia, sweetie,” Lorraine corrected.
“Caroline, you came.” Frances beamed. She ignored Lorraine’s attempt to correct her. Her eyes conveyed a sense of comfort and familiarity.
“I’m sorry,” Lorraine interjected. “I’m unsure who Caroline is.”
“Caroline was my grandma,” Amelia whispered.
“Oh,” Lorraine seemed surprised .
Frances patted the arm of the second chair. “Please, sit with me.”
Amelia sat beside Frances, holding her hand gently. I stood back with Lorraine watching the interaction unfold.
“How long has it been?” Frances spoke softly. “It must be a year since we saw each other last?”
“Something like that,” Amelia sympathised. She didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t Caroline, and I couldn’t blame her.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Frances said.
She may have forgotten details of her life, but she hadn’t forgotten the love of her life, Caroline.
Amelia looked to Lorraine for some guidance, but Lorraine simply watched in awe. Was it wrong to go ahead with a lie? Or was it noble to give Frances a sense of peace and happiness, even if it was short-lived. I couldn’t decide, but it felt right to allow her the joy of seeing “Caroline” again.
“I’ve missed you too,” Amelia said, tears started to form.
“I have never seen her this content,” Lorraine whispered.
“I don’t understand how she can remember Caroline. You said she doesn’t remember her own daughter?” I whispered. We were stood far enough away from Amelia and Frances that our conversation wasn’t overheard.
“I see this horrible disease take a person one piece at a time until there’s nothing left, and as much as I think I know what to expect, this disease is still a mystery to us. Sometimes it surprises us, and it returns that little jigsaw piece to its rightful place for a short while,” Lorraine explained.
“But it takes it back eventually? ”
“Oh, yes. That I know for certain.”
Amelia brought a certain sense of familiarity and connection to Frances that seemed to transcend the limitations of her dementia. The deep history she shared with Caroline was a bond that stood the test of time. That in itself was utterly heartbreaking.
“How’s Pamela? She must be nearly five now?” Frances asked.
“She’s great, she erm . . .” Amelia choked up.
“What is it sweetheart?” Frances asked.
“Sorry, I’m feeling a little emotional today,” Amelia said softly, wiping at the corners of her eyes.
“You always were an emotional soul.” Frances carefully lifted her fingers, prominent age spots scattered across the back of her wrinkled hand. She reached forward, and her fingers trembled slightly as she wiped underneath Amelia’s eyes.
I watched, utterly captivated as they reminisced about the moments they’d shared together. The laughter, the tears, the challenging separations. Frances spoke fondly of their many mischievous escapades as high school students when causing trouble was the only fun thing to do. Her eyes lit up as she recounted the time her and Caroline climbed the trees on the school grounds. They would hide amongst the giant branches and watch their friends scout the grounds in search of them. Her head rolled back at the memory. The infectious laughter was a melody of warmth.
“My parents disliked you because you had this hold over me. They thought you were a bad influence.” Frances chuckled.
“Maybe I was.” Amelia smiled .
“No.” Frances shook her head defiantly. “I knew better than that. You were the best influence. You always have been.”
Despite the gaps in Frances’s memory, she spoke with a sense of clarity.
“Do you remember the silly jokes you used to tell me?” she asked, excitedly.
Amelia nodded her head.
“Tell me one now, please.” Frances turned to Lorraine. “Wait until you hear her jokes. They’re the best.”
“Erm... I can’t remember off the top of my head,”
Amelia stalled for time. I gestured towards my hand in reference to the only joke I could think of. It was terrible.
“Sure you can. Any time I would get anxious after my parents had a fight, or when I had to take a test, you’d always tell me a joke.”
“I . . . Erm . . .”
“What about the one you told me the other day?” I interrupted, “About the hand?”
Amelia looked at me completely lost.
“What has five fingers, but isn’t your hand?” I asked.
Frances looked from Amelia to me, and her eyes clouded with confusion.
“My hand.” I laughed. Lorraine sympathetically laughed along, so did Amelia, but Frances was hesitant to engage. Suddenly, she looked so fragile.
“That’s not funny,” she said with a straight face.
Frances looked at Amelia intently now, searching for something familiar in her face. After a moment of silence, she pulled her hand away forcefully .
“Who are you?” Her voice was sharp and filled with emotion. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced quickly by a furrowed brow.
Amelia looked to Lorraine, who nodded reassuringly. A signal to now tell the truth.
“I’m Amelia... I’m the granddaughter of Caroline Baker.”
Frances froze. Her whole body went rigid. She slowly pulled herself to a standing position, pushing away Lorraine’s hand for assistance.
“Caroline,” she whispered. “Is she okay?”
“Wait, you remember her?” Amelia questioned.
“Sure I do. I could never forget Caroline. That would be like forgetting to breathe,” Frances whispered.
“How?” I mumbled.
Lorraine shrugged. “Miracles do happen.”
“Why didn’t she come to visit? Did she send you?” Frances asked.
Amelia bowed her head.
“It’s hard, but you need to be honest,” Lorraine urged.
“Not exactly,” Amelia said.
I walked over to Amelia and placed my hand on her shoulder. All I could offer was comfort, as she slumped in the armchair opposite a standing Frances.
“Oh, come on child. Spit it out,” Frances challenged.
“She erm . . . she passed away,” Amelia confessed.
Frances’s breath caught in her throat.
“She’s gone,” she whispered, the words a hollow echo. “It can’t be true.” Her hands started to tremble.
“When?” Frances asked.
“Eight years ago.”
“That can’t be right. Caroline was so much younger than me. You must have the wrong person. Caroline Baker can’t be dead.” Frances pressed her thin, paint-covered fingers to her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia consoled.
A faint sob escaped Frances’s lips as she reached for a nearby photograph. She traced the outline of Caroline’s face with trembling fingers before placing the photograph on the table in front of her. They were seated side by side on a blanket, heads inclined towards each other in an intimate gesture. Caroline’s hand rested lightly on Frances’s shoulder. I wondered who they entrusted to take such a picture. The image clearly highlighted a connection beyond friendship.
The grief was raw. Frances became a portrait of sorrow. The weight of love lost was a visible burden on her frail shoulders. She sat and sobbed silently, attempting to keep the anguish to herself. Decades of hiding her true feelings for Caroline were still an ingrained way of life.
“I remember that smile,” Frances said. “She had this way of making me feel alive whenever she looked at me. She made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.”
“You were,” Amelia smiled softly.
“I miss her,” Frances whispered. Her gaze remained fixed on the photograph, as if she was somehow trying to summon her presence.
“She’s always with you,” Amelia reassured.
It was in that moment I discovered a newfound respect for Amelia. She gracefully put her own emotions aside to be whatever Frances needed her to be. She had no obligation to do so, but every day since she found the letters I’d seen the determination she possessed grow stronger. I still didn’t fully understand the why, but something within Amelia Baker made her relentless in her pursuit of understanding. I gently placed my hand on Amelia’s back, a silent reminder I was there for support should she need it. She didn’t want Frances to be alone in her grief. I didn’t want her to feel the burden of that grief alone.
“Who are you?” Frances snapped.
Amelia recoiled. The fear in Frances’s face was surprising.
“It’s me, Frances. Caroline Baker’s granddaughter,” Amelia said.
“Who?” she murmured.
“Caroline Baker, she’s right there in the picture,” Amelia pointed out.
“I don’t know anyone called Caroline,” Frances said, adamantly.
As quickly as the memories of Caroline had surfaced, they slipped away. We went through three stages in one. Memories of a much younger Caroline, the harsh reality of Caroline’s death, and now, nothing. The memory of Caroline no longer existed. Frances would wake up the next day with no recollection of me or Amelia. She wouldn’t remember the conversations we had or the photographs she shared.
“I don’t know you. I... can’t remember,” she murmured. Her voice was laced with sadness. She looked to Lorraine who simply smiled and helped guide her towards the bed.
“I think we should leave it here, ladies,” Lorraine said.
I understood it now, the reason family members, friends, and caregivers chose to let the person with the illness believe what they wanted to believe. Experiencing the death of a loved one was one of the most devastating things we experience as humans. Why would you make someone relive it day in and day out if they had a chance to forget? It was cruel.
There was a fleeting moment of remembrance followed by the tragedy of Frances’s condition. It showed the fragility of memory. It showed the toll dementia took on the mind. It painted a portrait of resilience, as Frances continued to steer the ship of her own mind through dark stormy waters. She navigated shifting memories and constant confusion. She felt so much joy followed by unimaginable sorrow. To even remember Caroline in any capacity was a miracle, and it was a testament to their love.