Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Bennett
D oc Whitlow sent the email less than an hour ago, but I still feel a growing sense of urgency as my motorcycle picks up speed. He said she’s talking, but we never know how long these spells will last.
A slight chill slides through my shirt and kisses my skin as I make a left and cut down a road that runs beside the beach. South Florida is the perfect place to hunker down for the winter and ride my bike. The poor girl has been in storage too often lately.
On two tires, I eat up the open road. Though many people overwinter here, most have grown bored with the beach, so traffic is light. A group of women turn to look and giggle as I rumble past. If I weren’t headed somewhere, I’d be inclined to stop and take one for a ride.
But I have somewhere to be, so I turn onto the main road that winds through the beach town’s center. My destination lies ahead, tucked deep inside an oasis of palm trees, koi ponds, and an antiseptic smell that spoils the illusion of paradise.
During the summer months, the shops and restaurants on this strip bustle with activity. It’s a great place to people watch, if you’re into that sort of thing, but not today. Aside from a group of elderly gentlemen hobbling into a small cafe for brunch, the sidewalks are unoccupied.
Past the main drag, the sign for Sanctuary comes into view, but only if you know where to look. Despite the amount of money these people hoard from their clients, they’ve allowed the foliage to overtake the entrance signage. Philodendrons and Petra plants crowd everything.
As I turn down the paved path, I feel crowded too.
It isn’t that I don’t want to visit her. I just wish she didn’t have to be here.
The foliage breaks apart, and white marble columns file into view. If a stranger happened upon this place, they’d think it was a mansion tucked inside a tiny jungle. The director did an excellent job of making this look like anything other than what it is.
Which is a place where people go to waste away.
I suppose there are worse places to spend your final years. The staff keeps everything clean, and the residents are well looked after. No one is cruel. Well, the nurses, doctors, and other staff aren’t. The residents can be a different beast altogether.
After easing my bike into a parking spot in the underground garage, I head toward the elevator that will deposit me inside the facility. Next up, the security check. The residents are housed under lock and key for their safety. If it weren’t for the meticulously crafted Michelin-worthy meals and the stunning grounds and accommodations, I’d call this a prison.
As the elevator doors ease open with a ding , a security desk comes into view. The guard behind the desk smiles and holds a red badge toward me.
“Doc is waiting in his office,” the man says. As I step closer, I’m wrapped in a cloud of garlic, onions, and olives. There’s no food in sight, so the pizza this man had for lunch is seeping through his pores.
I take the badge without breathing through my nose. “Thanks.”
He nods and buzzes me through the first airlock, and I take a deep breath as soon as the doors close behind me.
I enter a long hallway with windows lining one wall. Now that I’m inside the mansion, the facade falls away and I can see this place for what it really is. Gleaming white floors and windowed hallways are a hospital staple.
My mother sits in the courtyard just outside. A row of boxwood hedges stands just behind her chair, casting a shadow over her frail body. Beside her, on a small wrought-iron table, sits a dainty saucer and teacup. My mother always did love her afternoon tea.
But if she’s taking her afternoon tea, that may mean I’m too late. When she’s lucid, she won’t say things she shouldn’t.
I feel slightly guilty for looking forward to her bad days, but only slightly. When she received her diagnosis, it was her decision to be placed into immediate care, and I chose Sanctuary. Considering how much I pay this place every six months, the least I can do is get something out of it. I only wish my mother could get something out of it too.
But there is no cure. She’ll never leave this place, especially since the bad days have become more frequent.
I hurry past the windows and make a beeline for Doc’s office on the second floor. He requested I see him before speaking with my mother, and I already know why. I slide my hand into my pocket and finger the slip of paper.
My knuckles rap against the solid oak door, and a thready voice says I may enter. The doctor sits behind a massive mahogany desk, frantically clicking something on his computer as I take a seat in front of him. Soft moans dribble from the speakers, and I’ve never seen a man’s cheeks turn so red.
“Press alt and F4 at the same time,” I say. “That’ll close the active window.”
Doc searches for the keys, presses them, and the moans cease.
“Probably best not to sneak in a meat-beating sesh when you have a scheduled meeting, no?” I smirk and slide the cashier’s check across the desk. “I’m guessing this is why you wanted to see me?”
He clears his throat, straightens his white jacket, and grabs the piece of paper worth a sickening sum of cash. After studying the numbers, he looks at me for the first time since I entered the room. “Yes, this covers your past-due balance, plus the next six months.”
“Six months? That should cover the next fucking year!”
“Inflation has hit all of us especially hard, Mr. Carter. I can refer your mother to one of our less-expensive facilities, but you’ve chosen to house her at our premier location, and that comes with premier pricing.”
I shake my head. It’s bad enough that I have to keep my mom in one of these places. If she has to be looked after, I only want the best.
“You’ll need to come up with the remainder before the end of next week,” he adds. “Based on your lapse in payment, we won’t be able to handle a different arrangement.”
I grip the chair’s leather armrests for no other reason than to keep myself from launching across this desk and using his stupid blue tie as a garrote. Having nothing more to say to the piece of shit, I stand and turn for the door.
“Next week, Mr. Carter. Don’t forget.”
I turn to face him before I leave the room. “Alt and F4, Doctor Whitlow. Don’t you forget. I never will.” I give him a parting wink.
As I travel back downstairs, I work to keep my breathing level. No matter what state my mother is in when I see her, I don’t want to bring any negative energy. She worked her ass off to raise me on her own, and she never brought any of her stress to the dinner table each night. Now I strive to keep my stress away from her .
She’s still seated in the chair by the boxwoods when I step into the Florida sunshine. Beyond the hedges, a few patients totter around the edge of the koi pond. A fence prevents them from falling in, but I’ve seen my fair share of gown-wearing deviants hop it in one leap to go for a swim.
My mother hasn’t noticed me yet, but I’ll know her mental state as soon as she does. Her eyes tell me everything. Despite her diagnosis, the dementia only rears its head on rare occasions. The doc says that will change. Her illness will progress as her brain deteriorates.
It feels wrong to hope that she’s having a bad day, but it’s the only way I can learn more about any siblings we may have. Before her mind started to go, she’d begun delving into my father’s past. She wanted to destroy him for no other reason than leaving me fatherless. She never made it far enough to uncover proof of his many misdeeds, but she did uncover siblings.
Plural.
She hears my footsteps on the cobblestones. As she turns toward me, the distant, foggy look in her eyes is unmistakable. The neurons aren’t firing as they should.
“Could you be a dear and fetch a cup of tea for my friend here?” she asks me. She thinks I’m an orderly, and I won’t correct her. The medical team taught me it’s best for her if I don’t confuse her.
“Sure, Mrs. Tierney. Do you mind if I sit with you for just a bit first? It’s mighty warm today, and my legs are tired.”
She offers a sly smile. “I won’t tell if you won’t, but it’s Miss Tierney, I’m afraid. I never married.”
Again, guilt eats away a little more of my soul. I’ve learned that calling her Mrs. instead of Miss will grant an opening, so I use it to my advantage. I’m not perfect.
“A pretty thing like you? I’m shocked no one scooped you up.” I study the two chairs beside the table. I want to sit, but I’m not sure which chair holds her imagined friend.
She motions to the chair closest to her. “You can sit there, beside Ronnie. She doesn’t bite.”
Ronnie. That was my mother’s sister—an aunt I never met because she drowned at the tender age of nineteen, three years before I was born.
I turn to the empty chair and nod. “Nice to meet you, Ronnie. It isn’t often that I meet a redhead.”
“Don’t try flirting with her,” my mother says with a chuckle. “She’s wise to the ways of men.” Her voice lowers to a scandalous whisper. “You don’t have the right equipment, if you catch my meaning.”
I learn all sorts of things on her bad days.
My mother stretches her hand across the table, reaching out for someone I can’t see. “Take care, Ronnie. I’ll see you as soon as I’m back from vacation.”
Her eyes follow the departing apparition, then turn to me. These interactions aren’t my favorite. It’s easier when I can eavesdrop on a conversation rather than participate.
“No need for the tea, I guess,” she says. “You and I can have a little chat, though. As long as the boss doesn’t come around.”
“I’m due for a break, so they won’t mind.” I force a smile. “I’m still shocked you never married. Surely someone stole your heart at some point.”
She turns her teacup and shakes her head. “Stole is certainly a good word for it. The man was a cad. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left a woman with child in all fifty states, and that’s just America.”
“How many children does he have?”
“I only know of three for sure. My son, Bennett—such a good boy—Ezra, a boy in the UK, and Luisa, a girl in Texas.”
I’ve searched for a Luisa Carter in Texas, but she doesn’t exist. My mother and Ezra’s mother gave us our father’s last name, but I’m not surprised that the third woman chose to leave off the asshole’s claim to her daughter.
“Do they all share the last name?” I’ve asked this question twice before, and both times I received a knowing look, like she was just a tad too lucid to spill those beans. She might be far enough gone to tip the cup now.
“The boys do,” she says. “I guess the British woman and I were a little too fond of the fellow who cut us so deeply. The woman from Texas passed down her maiden name.”
I sit on the edge of my seat. This is the closest I’ve come, and I’m mere seconds from getting enough information to find our sister.
My mother places her dainty fingers to her forehead. “Oh goodness. What was it? It wasn’t Gonzalez, but it started with a G and was Hispanic in origin.”
“Garcia?”
“No.”
“Gomez?”
“No, no. I can’t remember. Would you like some tea, young man?”
She’s already forgotten I’m supposed to be an orderly. But it doesn’t matter. She’s given me enough for today, and I don’t want to push her any further.
“I’m not very thirsty right now, but I’d love to sit and visit with you for a bit.”
She smiles. “I’d like that.”
For the next hour, I talk to her about other things and steer clear of the topics surrounding my father. I listen to her tell the same stories I’ve heard a million times, and I smile and nod in all the right places. For her.
I’m a bit of a mama’s boy. Fucking sue me.
Then her eyes begin to fog a bit more, and the ugly side of her disease rears its head. She shifts from confusion to rage in the span of minutes, moving so gradually between each phase that it’s hard to realize what’s happening. Especially for her son.
“Leave me alone. I’m tired,” she finally says. “This shirt is uncomfortable.”
Before I can stop her, she begins ripping off her clothes. I call for one of the nurses. I’d drape my jacket over her shoulders to preserve her dignity if I thought it would help, but she’ll just fight me. Dementia is an asshole like that.
The orderlies arrive in their white outfits, and, after a bit of gentle prodding, they convince her to retreat to her room where she might be more comfortable. She’ll be safe with them.
Once they disappear inside, I head back toward my bike. When I get home, I need to get in touch with Ezra. If anyone can figure out who this elusive Luisa G. is, it’s him.