Chapter Forty-One
I drove straight to the Meadows to see Mrs. Martins again.
There was one thing I couldn’t get out of my mind: how agitated Ali had been on the surveillance tape.
In twenty-three years of marriage, I’d never seen him appear so disturbed.
His demeanor unsettled me. He’d almost looked distraught.
Lizzie’s explanation, that they argued over telling me the truth, didn’t sit right with me.
Mrs. Martins talked to Ali on his last day.
Maybe she could fill in some of the blanks.
Once I arrived, I parked and went inside, approaching a shaggy-haired young man who looked like he belonged on a surfboard rather than behind a reception desk.
“Sorry,” he said after I told him my name, “but you are not authorized to see Mrs. Martins.”
I frowned, surprised by this unexpected stumbling block. “What kind of authorization do I need?”
He looked perplexed. “Huh?”
“There must be a mistake.” My car keys jingled as I fidgeted with them. “I visited Mrs. Martins two weeks ago. She was very happy to see me.” Until, of course, she became so upset that medical personnel had needed to rush in and tend to her.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, but there’s a note on Mrs. Martins’s file that you can’t visit her. You did say your name is Amira Abadi, right?”
“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Did the doctors make the decision? Can I speak to one of them?” I needed to speak with Martha Martins, and I wasn’t going to let Surfer Dude deter me.
“Nope. The doctors have nothing to do with it. The family makes the no-visit list.”
“The family?” I stopped jingling my keys. “Are you saying that Mrs. Martins’s son or daughter specifically asked that I not be allowed to visit her?”
He squinted at the computer. “It says here that the son, Bill Warren, made the request.”
I stiffened. Why would Bill Warren ban me from seeing his mother? Had he learned that my last visit had upset her, or was he still hiding something? “Can you tell me if all visitors are limited, or is it just me?”
“Yep. Looks like just you,” he said. “Sorry about that, but you can’t see her.”
He didn’t seem very sorry at all, but I thanked him. I got back to my van and sat there, still in some disbelief, staring at the redbrick facility with its darkened windows accented by forest-green valances. It seemed like an impenetrable fortress now. I needed to get inside. But how?
A woman crossed in front of the van on her way into the facility. She looked vaguely familiar. It took me a minute to place her. It was Bernice, the lady who’d manned the reception desk the first time I visited Martha Martins.
I sat in the van for another half hour, contemplating ways to see Mrs. Martins. Knocking on one of her windows could work—if I could find the right one. But then I imagined someone calling the police to report a peeper at the old folks’ home.
While I thought about other ways to sneak into the facility, Surfer Dude emerged from the front sliding doors.
I watched him climb into a beat-up Chevy and drive away.
I considered my options. Maybe having Bernice at the front desk would improve my chances of getting in. I didn’t have any better ideas.
Taking a deep breath, I exited my van and walked back into the Meadows with my heart beating in my ears. I immediately spotted Bernice alone behind the reception desk. I exhaled. Maybe things were finally going my way.
“Why hello there,” Bernice greeted as I approached.
“Do you remember me?” I asked.
“I never forget a face,” she said with a warm smile. “I suppose you’re here to see Mrs. Martins?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I’m really looking forward to visiting with her again today.”
“Great. Let’s check you in.” My heart sank as her fingers tapped the keyboard. She read the screen and then gave me an assessing look. “I am terrible with names. Tell me your name again?”
I made a split-second decision. “Grace Mansour.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
The name on my birth certificate was Amira Grace Mansour.
I even had a Social Security card in my wallet to prove it.
My parents opted to give me a more Americanized middle name in case the adult me decided to utilize it for professional purposes. I had never used it before now.
“Grace.” The way she studied my face made me sure Bernice could see right through my pathetic attempt at subterfuge. Pasting a smile on my face, I held her gaze and tried not to squirm. I’d read somewhere that liars always look away. My armpits were getting damp.
“That’s a pretty name,” she finally said.
Relief whooshed through me. “Thank you.”
She reached for a red marker to write the name down on a visitor’s tag. “Don’t stay too long. Mrs. Martins needs her rest.”
“I promise not to tire her out.”
“Have a nice visit.” She handed me the name tag. “You remember the way?”
I assured her that I did and got out of the reception area as fast as I could without looking like a prison inmate making her escape.
I went down the corridor, passing an older gentleman scuffing along with a walker and a couple of staffers.
I finally reached Mrs. Martins’s room and tapped on the door.
Silence. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Come on. Answer. Please be here.
Finally a trembling voice sounded from inside. “Coming.”
The doorknob jiggled and Mrs. Martins appeared, looking gaunter than before, her sunken eyes lined with dark smudges. It had been barely two weeks since my last visit. I was stunned by the visible physical deterioration.
“Hello, my dear?” She stared blankly at me. “Do I know you?”
Was this some sort of dementia? “How are you?” I asked gently. “We met earlier this month. I’m Ali Abadi’s wife. Remember?”
She studied me with cloudy eyes. Then she smiled. “Of course. How are you?”
I exhaled. At least she knew who I was. “May I come in?”
“Yes, yes.” She moved aside to allow me to enter. “I’m forgetting my manners along with many other things.”
We settled in the same seats as we had at our previous visit. “How are you?” I began, eager to get to the point before someone discovered that Mrs. Martins had a forbidden visitor.
“Billy said you moved to another state and would no longer be coming to see me.”
“Excuse me?” It took a moment to process her words. “Your son told you that I moved away?”
“But I’m so happy you’re here,” she continued. “I’ve been asking to see you.”
“You have? No one told me.” What was Bill Warren up to? Why take steps to ban me from seeing his mother and then lie to her about me relocating? “If I had known you wanted to see me, I would have come right away.”
Confusion filled her gaze. “But Billy promised to tell you.”
“I guess he forgot,” I said as kindly as I could, determined to avoid upsetting her like last time. “But I’m here now. What did you want to talk with me about?”
Her gaze wandered over to the window. “That’s why I called Ali at work the day he came to see me. I didn’t want Billy to know.”
My skin prickled. “Why not?”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “I knew Ali worked where my Billy worked, so Bernice helped me find Ali’s work number.”
“That was nice of Bernice. Why did you call Ali?”
“I wanted him to come and see me.” She sighed heavily, as if releasing years of suppressed emotions. “It was wrong what I did to him after my Lawrence died.”
“Did you ask Ali to come and see you so you could apologize?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t deserve his forgiveness. What I did to that young man was far worse than he could imagine. Ali had no idea what really happened the night Lawrence died.”
“I don’t understand.” Had the woman become confused again? “Ali saw what happened because he was there the night your husband died.”
“He was there before my husband died,” she corrected me.
What did she mean? “Do you remember Ali pushing your husband, causing him to stumble and hit his head on the fireplace?”
“Yes.” She teared up. “I remember. I’ll never forget.”
“What did you tell Ali the day he came to see you?”
“Do you know that I’m dying?”
I sucked in a breath. “No. I had no idea.”
“It’s cancer. Slow moving, the doctors tell me, but it will eventually get me.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“That’s why I need to talk to you before it’s too late.”
“I’m here,” I prodded, hoping she’d get to the point before we were interrupted. “And I’m listening. Please go ahead.”
“After Lawrence hit his head, he lost consciousness, and I told Ali to go home. I thought everything would be all right . . .” Her voice wandered off. She turned her head to stare out the window again.
“But everything didn’t turn out OK—” I prompted.
She looked at me. “That’s right. As soon as her father fell, I told Elizabeth to call 911.
While she was on the phone with them, giving them our address and such, I convinced Ali to go home so that my husband wouldn’t wake up and find him there.
” She paused, blinking, like a computer that was short-circuiting.
“What happened after Ali left?” I asked, eager to keep her on track.
“Oh.” She seemed to come back to herself. “I wondered what was taking the ambulance so long, so I went to the kitchen to call them again. I told Elizabeth to get her father a pillow for under his head so that he’d be more comfortable.”
“And then?” I prodded.
“When I called 911, they said no one from our address had called for an ambulance. I was annoyed by the mix-up and told them to please send an ambulance as quickly as possible because my husband stumbled and fell and hit his head on the hearth.” A tear slipped down her cheek.
“When I went back to the family room—” Her face crumpled with emotion.
“That’s when I saw what Elizabeth had done. ”
The hair on the back of my neck tingled. “What had she done?”
“She had the pillow over her father’s face.” She began openly crying. “She smothered the life out of him.”
I blinked. “What?” Did the old lady know what she was saying? “Are you sure?”