Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ariana
The scent of lavender and antiseptic always hit me first. It clung to the polished floors and filtered air of Serenity Grove like a false promise. Something soothing to hide the slow unraveling happening behind every door.
I signed in at the front desk, gave the receptionist a brittle smile, and walked the familiar path toward the back garden.
Mama always loved the garden, even in January. Especially in January.
She used to say that winter in the tropics was the best time to breathe. The air didn’t cling so tightly. The humidity eased. And the flowers didn’t have to fight so hard to bloom against the unrelenting sun and high temperatures.
It made me wonder when my life would bloom again.
Or was I stuck in an eternal summer that only looked like paradise on the outside?
As I stepped onto the flagstone path, sunlight filtered through swaying palms and bougainvillea vines clinging to their trellises, casting bright splashes of fuchsia and coral against the pale stucco walls.
The air was thick with the scent of hibiscus and the distant trace of sea salt carried on a soft breeze.
Mama was right where I expected her to be — sitting near the fountain, wrapped in a light blanket the color of faded sunflowers.
Her eyes were closed, face tipped to the warm morning sun like she needed it to breathe.
Her once-golden hair was more white now, neatly twisted at the nape of her neck.
Her hands rested on her lap, fingers twitching like they were remembering the feel of soil, clippers, and rose thorns.
“Hey, Mama,” I said softly, careful not to startle her.
Her eyes opened and locked on mine. For one precious moment, they were the eyes I recalled from my childhood. Clear, bright, and full of love.
“Ari?” she replied, reaching for me, as if unsure I was real. When her hands landed on my face, she blew out a relieved breath. “My girl.”
I sat beside her on the bench and took her hands in mine. Her skin was cool. Fragile, like paper kept too long in the sun.
“I missed you.”
“You came yesterday,” she murmured, frowning. “Didn’t you?”
“No, Mama. It’s been a few days.”
More like weeks.
“Are you sure? I—” Her lips pressed together, and I saw the panic rising.
“You must be happy to be outside,” I interjected, gently redirecting her.
She relaxed a little and nodded. “It’s only a matter of time until spring returns and I can work in my garden again. I don’t even want to think about how much pruning those rose bushes are going to need.”
I didn’t tell her she didn’t have a garden anymore.
That my childhood home in New Jersey had been bulldozed, replaced by a big box store and a parking lot.
I didn’t tell her about the acres upon acres of concrete.
I didn’t tell her anything that might shatter the peace she found in remembering what used to be when things were simpler.
Before a handsome man in an expensive suit walked into our family’s struggling flower shop.
“You’ll help me, of course. Won’t you?”
I gritted a smile. “Of course, Mama.”
She brushed my cheek with trembling fingers. “I’ve always loved our time in the garden. Do you remember the tomatoes? How you used to eat them straight off the vine?”
I nodded. “I remember. The spaghetti sauce you made with them was always the best.”
Those years were some of my happiest memories. No fancy dinners. No designer shoes. No monsters in tailored suits.
What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and warn that na?ve girl not to trade her soul for a miracle. Not to fall for a man with a smile that promised salvation.
Victor gave me everything I asked for, especially when it came to Mama.
I didn’t realize until it was too late that her care came at a price.
Everything came at a price.
Most people knew about Alzheimer’s. They understood the slow forgetting.
But Lewy Body Dementia was different. It wasn’t just memory loss.
It was a thief in the night, one that didn’t just take her memories, but replaced them with illusions.
Hallucinations. Confusion. One moment she was herself.
The next, she was in a different world entirely.
She’d been diagnosed years ago, after months of doctors telling me nothing was wrong. It wasn’t until Victor pulled strings and paid for specialists that we finally got an answer. It had felt like a blessing. A lifeline.
In reality, it was another link in the chain binding me to him.
Suddenly, my mother’s grip on my hand tightened, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her body becoming rigid.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“Don’t turn around,” she whispered in a strained hiss. Her gaze flicked left and right, scanning shadows. “He’s watching again. The man in the suit.”
I glanced over my shoulder. There was no man in a suit. Just an orderly pushing an older woman in a wheelchair.
“He works here,” I assured her, although I didn’t remember seeing him before. Then again, I was only allowed to visit on Sundays, and only if Victor didn’t have other plans for us.
Lately, he always seemed to make other plans, explaining it couldn’t be helped.
I knew enough not to question him.
“Don’t let his disguise fool you,” my mother continued. “That’s him. He was here a few days ago. Has a tattoo of a raven on his chest.” She dropped her voice again. “You do know what a raven symbolizes, don’t you?”
“Mom, I don’t?—”
“Death, Ari,” she stated, her words sharp, unwavering. “He’s the Grim Reaper. Mark my words. You need to be careful, Ari. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I’m okay,” I whispered through the knot in my throat.
I hated seeing her like this. Worse, I hated knowing there was nothing I could do. Hated knowing every day, her lucid moments would become fewer. The hallucinations would increase. And my mother, the only person in the world I loved, would soon become nothing but an empty shell.
Kind of like I already was.
“I’m safe. You’re safe.”
“I’m not safe. And neither are you. Something’s coming. Something bad.” She yanked her hands away, her eyes darting wildly around the garden.
I jumped to my feet and waved down one of her nurses lingering nearby. “She’s getting agitated.”
The woman moved quickly, her expression calm but focused as she knelt in front of my mother. “It’s alright, Daphne. Let’s go inside and listen to your music. Your favorite. Debussy, remember?”
“Music won’t fix anything!” my mother cried, her voice rising. “He’s not who he says he is. A hunter. An assassin!” Her stare locked on me, wild and glassy. “He’s here for you, Ari. Run, baby. Don’t let him take you!”
Two more nurses ran up to her, one with a syringe already in hand.
I stood frozen as they gently restrained her. Her cries faded, head lolling to the side as the sedative took hold.
“I’m sorry,” one of them said, offering me a kind smile. “It’s nothing you did. You never know what might trigger these hallucinations. Maybe try again tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I managed to say through the tightness in my throat.
As I watched them wheel my mother back inside the building that looked more like a luxury villa than a memory care facility, I was unable to shake the unsettled feeling forming in my stomach.
The hallucinations always came and went like waves, each one leaving her a little more adrift. I’d learned not to let them unsettle me too much. They were just a part of her disease.
But as the sun disappeared behind a passing cloud and the warmth on my skin was replaced by a sudden shiver, I couldn’t help the unease trickling down my spine.
Because something in her voice, in her eyes, didn’t feel like a hallucination.
It felt like a warning.