Something Didn't Add Up

On the drive home, I asked about Mom.

Melissa's smile faded slightly.

"She's okay," she said.

The answer sounded rehearsed.

I glanced at her.

"What does that mean?"

She sighed.

"It's been difficult."

My stomach tightened.

"Difficult how?"

Melissa gripped the steering wheel.

"The doctors think she has dementia."

I stared at her.

"What?"

"Early stages. Maybe progressing faster than expected."

The words hit me like a punch.

Mom was seventy-two.

But during every phone call while I was deployed, she'd sounded perfectly normal.

Sharp.

Funny.

Opinionated.

Exactly like herself.

"When was she diagnosed?"

Melissa hesitated.

"A few months ago."

A few months?

Why hadn't anyone told me?

Melissa quickly explained.

"You had enough stress already. The doctors didn't want you distracted overseas."

That explanation seemed reasonable.

Yet something felt off.

Very off.

The Neighbors' Sympathy

As we unloaded my bags from the car, our next-door neighbor, Carol, approached.

Her expression immediately turned sympathetic.

"Oh, thank goodness you're home."

I smiled politely.

"Good to be back."

Carol lowered her voice.

"I'm sorry about your mother."

I nodded.

"Melissa told me."

Carol sighed dramatically.

"Such a shame. The poor woman keeps hurting herself."

I froze.

"What do you mean?"

Carol looked surprised.

"Melissa didn't tell you?"

"No."

Carol shook her head.

"Bruises everywhere. Falls constantly. Sometimes scratches herself. Very sad."

Melissa suddenly appeared beside us.

"Carol."

The warning in her voice was unmistakable.

Carol immediately changed the subject.

A few minutes later she walked away.

I turned toward my wife.

"Mom keeps hurting herself?"

Melissa folded her arms.

"That's what dementia patients do sometimes."

Maybe.

But the explanation didn't sit right.

Not at all.

Looking for Mom

After unpacking, I decided to surprise my mother.

She had been living with us for nearly two years after my father's death.

I headed upstairs.

"Mom?"

No answer.

I checked her usual sitting room.

Empty.

Kitchen.

Empty.

Back patio.

Nothing.

Finally, I reached the guest bedroom at the end of the hallway.

The door was locked.

I frowned.

"Mom?"

A voice immediately answered.

"Daniel?"

I froze.

Her voice sounded clear.

Strong.

Not confused.

Not frightened.

Just surprised.

"Mom, why is the door locked?"

A long silence followed.

Then:

"I don't know."

The words chilled me.

I looked around.

The key wasn't in the lock.

I tried the handle again.

Still locked.

Melissa suddenly appeared behind me.

"She's resting."

I turned slowly.

"Why is she locked inside?"

Melissa laughed nervously.

"She wanders."

"She said she doesn't know why it's locked."

"Daniel, you're tired."

I wasn't tired.

I was alarmed.

The Dark Room

Melissa fetched a key.

When the door opened, my heart nearly stopped.

The room was dark.

The curtains were fully closed.

The air smelled stale.

Mom sat quietly on the bed.

She looked thinner.

Much thinner.

And there were bruises on both arms.

Large ones.

Yellowing around the edges.

I rushed toward her.

"Mom."

She hugged me tightly.

Too tightly.

Like someone desperate not to let go.

I pulled back and examined her face.

"Are you okay?"

She smiled.

"I'm wonderful now."

That answer hurt more than if she'd cried.

Then I noticed something else.

Her phone was gone.

Her tablet was gone.

Even the television had been removed.

The room looked less like a bedroom and more like a prison.

Questions Without Answers

That night I sat beside Mom while Melissa prepared dinner.

"Do you know what day it is?" I asked.

Mom rolled her eyes.

"It's Tuesday."

Correct.

"Who's the president?"

Correct again.

"What's my middle name?"

She laughed.

"Michael. The same middle name you've complained about for forty years."

Perfect.

No confusion.

No memory loss.

Nothing.

I wasn't a doctor.

But this wasn't severe dementia.

Maybe not dementia at all.

Then I gently touched a bruise on her arm.

She flinched.

"Mom, what happened?"

Her smile disappeared.

"It's nothing."

"Did you fall?"

Silence.

"Mom?"

She looked toward the kitchen.

Toward Melissa.

Then lowered her eyes.

That was all the answer I needed.