Chapter 2 - The Good Days
George did not touch the document.
Philip pushed it gently across the desk.
“You’re making that face.”
“What face?”
“The judge face.”
“I am a judge.”
“You were a judge.”
George looked at him.
Philip raised both hands.
“Retired judge. Sorry.”
“What is this?”
“You know what it is.”
“I’m asking why it’s on my desk.”
Philip leaned back.
“Because everybody should have one.”
“I already have one.”
Philip’s expression shifted.
George noticed.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“I thought Margaret was listed.”
“She was.”
Margaret had died four years earlier.
George still sometimes woke with the instinct to tell her something.
A piece of news.
A ridiculous commercial.
A remark Mason made.
Then reality arrived.
Philip folded his hands.
“So yours needs updating.”
“Possibly.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t explain why you brought one already prepared.”
“It’s a draft.”
George looked at the page again.
“Who prepared it?”
“Rob Fields.”
George knew the name.
A local attorney.
Competent.
Expensive.
“Why is Rob Fields drafting my legal documents without speaking to me?”
Philip sighed.
“Nobody is trying to steal your house, George.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re acting like it.”
George sat down.
“Who would be appointed?”
Philip looked briefly at the document.
“Caroline.”
“Only Caroline?”
“And me as alternate.”
There it was.
George tapped the paper.
“How thoughtful.”
“Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“This.”
Philip gestured toward him.
“You’ve been forgetting things.”
George felt something cold move through his chest.
“Such as?”
“Appointments.”
“Everybody misses appointments.”
“You got lost driving home from your cardiologist.”
“I took the wrong exit.”
“You ended up near Petersburg.”
George went still.
He remembered that day.
Or portions of it.
He remembered leaving the medical building.
He remembered rain.
He remembered feeling strangely heavy.
Elaine had been with him that morning but left before his appointment because she had a family matter.
George drove himself.
Somehow, nearly an hour later, he realized he was twenty miles south of where he intended to be.
He had told Caroline he got distracted.
Caroline told Philip.
George looked toward the door.
Elaine was somewhere downstairs.
“What day was that?”
Philip blinked.
“What?”
“The cardiologist.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What day of the week?”
“I don’t know. Thursday?”
George opened the desk drawer.
His calendar was inside.
He found the appointment.
Thursday, August 6.
Next to it was a handwritten note.
New medication — morning.
George stared.
Philip leaned forward.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You see what you’re doing?”
George closed the calendar.
“What?”
“Trying to turn everything into evidence.”
“That used to be considered a useful habit.”
“This isn’t court.”
“No.”
George pushed the power of attorney back.
“It’s my life.”
Philip’s jaw tightened.
“You think I enjoy this conversation?”
“I have no idea.”
“Caroline is scared.”
“Then Caroline can speak to me.”
“She has.”
George looked up.
Philip’s voice lowered.
“You didn’t remember it.”
That hurt more than George expected.
A silence followed.
Philip softened.
“We’re not trying to take anything from you.”
“Then stop making decisions around me.”
“No decision has been made.”
“You hired an attorney.”
“I asked an attorney to prepare options.”
“For me.”
“For the family.”
“It’s my estate.”
Philip looked frustrated.
“George, this is exactly why people are worried.”
The words hung between them.
George stood.
“Take the papers.”
Philip hesitated.
“Fine.”
He gathered the folder.
At the door he stopped.
“I love you.”
George looked toward the window.
“Then trust me while I can still ask you to.”
Philip left.
An hour later, George found Elaine in the laundry room.
“Were you aware Philip had a power of attorney drafted?”
She folded a towel.
“No.”
He watched her carefully.
“You weren’t?”
“No.”
“Has he discussed my finances with you?”
“George.”
“It’s a question.”
“No.”
“Has Caroline?”
“She has asked me whether you seem more forgetful.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“What is the truth?”
Elaine set the towel down.
“That some days you’re perfectly yourself.”
“And others?”
“You repeat questions. You lose track of time. Once you forgot you’d eaten lunch.”
George looked at her.
“That happened once.”
“Yes.”
“And when are those bad days?”
She frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Is there a pattern?”
Elaine laughed softly.
“I’m not a neurologist.”
“No. You’re the person with me most often.”
She seemed to consider that.
“Afternoons are usually worse.”
“After lunch?”
“Sometimes.”
“After medication?”
Elaine’s expression changed.
“You think your medicine is causing this?”
George did not answer.
Elaine stepped closer.
“If you’re worried, call Dr. Benton.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
She sounded almost relieved.
That bothered him.
George called the doctor’s office the next morning.
The receptionist told him Dr. Benton was out until Monday.
George asked for a copy of his current medication list.
She emailed it.
He printed the document in his study.
There were six medications.
Three daily.
One nightly.
One as needed.
One new prescription, taken every other morning.
George read the list twice.
Then he looked at the note Elaine had left on the kitchen counter.
Morning meds completed.
He went to the cabinet.
The pill organizer was gone.
“Elaine?”
No answer.
He checked the bathroom.
Living room.
Her tote bag sat by the back door, but she was outside speaking on the phone near the garden.
George returned to the kitchen.
He opened three cabinet doors.
Nothing.
Then he found the organizer inside a drawer beneath the coffee filters.
That was odd.
It was usually near the medicine bottles.
He opened it.
Monday morning: empty.
Tuesday morning: pills.
Wednesday morning: pills.
Thursday morning: pills.
George compared them with the printed list.
That proved nothing.
He had no idea which pill was which.
He picked up his phone and photographed each compartment.
A shadow crossed the counter.
“What are you doing?”
George turned.
Elaine stood behind him.
He almost dropped the organizer.
“Looking.”
“At your medicine?”
“Yes.”
She stepped inside and closed the back door.
“You could have asked.”
“I didn’t know permission was required.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
George handed her the paper.
“I want you to show me which pill corresponds to which prescription.”
Elaine took the page.
For the first time since George had known her, she looked annoyed.
Not angry.
Annoyed.
Then it vanished.
“All right.”
She opened Tuesday.
“This is the statin.”
She pointed.
“This is your pressure medication.”
Another.
“Vitamin.”
“What about the blue pill?”
Elaine looked at him.
“There is no blue pill today.”
“Mason said there was.”
“Mason is six.”
George’s voice sharpened.
“So?”
“So he may have seen something and misunderstood it.”
“Did you give me a blue pill Sunday?”
“No.”
“In my coffee?”
“No.”
“He saw you put something in it.”
“Your regular medication.”
“You just said there’s no blue pill.”
“There wasn’t.”
George stared at her.
Elaine stared back.
Neither spoke.
Then the front door opened.
Philip’s voice floated through the house.
“George?”
Elaine stepped back.
George looked toward the hallway.
“You didn’t tell me he was coming.”
“I didn’t know.”
Philip entered the kitchen carrying two coffees.
He smiled.
“Peace offering.”
George looked at the drinks.
“No thanks.”
Philip held one up.
“You’ve loved this place for twenty years.”
“I said no.”
Philip frowned.
Elaine began gathering the medicine bottles.
George looked from one to the other.
A strange thought appeared.
Not an accusation.
Not yet.
A question.
“How often do you two talk?”
Elaine stopped.
Philip looked confused.
“What?”
“You and Elaine.”
Philip laughed.
“Why would I talk to Elaine?”
George said nothing.
Philip’s smile faded.
“What are you implying?”
“I asked a question.”
Elaine zipped her medical pouch closed.
“I should go.”
“No,” Philip said.
He looked at George.
“This has gone far enough.”
“What has?”
“The suspicion. The paranoia.”
George felt the word hit him like a slap.
Paranoia.
Something an unreasonable man had.
A confused man.
A declining man.
Philip placed the coffees on the counter.
“Caroline told me about Sunday.”
“She told you quickly.”
“She was worried.”
“About Mason?”
“About you.”
George smiled without humor.
“Of course.”
Philip lowered his voice.
“You’ve been questioning Elaine all morning, haven’t you?”
George glanced at her.
Elaine looked down.
That answered him.
Philip continued.
“This woman has taken care of you for months.”
“I’m aware.”
“She drives you to appointments. Organizes your medications. Cooks. Keeps track of everything.”
“Yes.”
“And now a six-year-old says something strange, and suddenly you’re interrogating her?”
George looked toward the organizer.
“I asked her to identify pills.”
“That’s not what she said.”
George turned slowly toward Elaine.
She looked uncomfortable.
“I said you seemed upset.”
Philip crossed his arms.
“There. You see?”
George’s hands tightened against the counter.
Something inside him whispered that Philip was right.
That was the worst part.
Maybe he was becoming paranoid.
Maybe the missing hours, the confusion, the forgotten conversations were changing him.
Maybe Mason’s accusation had given his frightened mind something to grab.
George looked down.
“I need some air.”
He walked out through the back door.
For nearly twenty minutes, he stood in the garden Margaret had planted.
Hydrangeas.
Roses.
A stubborn rosemary bush she had insisted would survive anything.
George touched one of the leaves.
His hand shook.
He closed his fist.
Inside, voices carried faintly through the kitchen window.
Philip.
Elaine.
He could not hear the words.
Then the window slid closed.
George looked up.
Three days later, Caroline brought Mason over after school.
The boy ran into the study.
“Grandpa.”
George smiled.
“Counselor.”
Mason liked that nickname.
He climbed onto the leather chair.
George handed him a small box of animal crackers.
Mason opened it immediately.
For several minutes, they talked about kindergarten.
Then George asked casually, “You remember Sunday?”
Mason stopped chewing.
“Yes.”
“I’m not mad.”
Mason nodded.
“What did you mean when you said Elaine used the wrong pills again?”
Mason stared at the crackers.
“I told Mom.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t believe me.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
Mason looked at him.
“You believe me?”
George hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
Mason looked down again.
George leaned forward.
“I believe you saw something.”
“That’s not the same.”
The words were simple.
They hurt.
George moved beside him.
“You’re right.”
Mason picked at the cardboard box.
“Sometimes she takes yours out.”
“Out of what?”
“The days.”
“The pill organizer?”
Mason nodded.
“And then what?”
“She puts other ones.”
“Which ones?”
“The blue ones.”
“From where?”
Mason pointed toward the kitchen.
George followed his gaze.
“The medicine cabinet?”
“No.”
“Her bag?”
Mason frowned.
Then he whispered, “The little zipper.”
George’s stomach tightened.
Elaine carried a black zippered medical pouch.
“What happens after I take the blue ones?”
“You get tired.”
“How tired?”
“You talk funny.”
George forced himself to stay calm.
“What do I say?”
“You ask where Grandma is.”
The room became very quiet.
Margaret had been dead four years.
George turned toward the window.
“Did I ask that?”
Mason nodded.
“When?”
“The day you dropped your plate.”
George remembered breaking a plate.
He did not remember asking for Margaret.
Mason leaned closer.
“And Uncle Philip came.”
George looked back at him.
“Philip?”
“He told Miss Elaine you were worse.”
“When did he say that?”
Mason shrugged.
“After you slept.”
George felt his pulse quicken.
“Was I there?”
“You were in the chair.”
“Asleep?”
Mason nodded.
George stood.
He walked toward his desk and opened the calendar.
He searched backward.
There.
A note in Caroline’s handwriting.
Philip visited — estate papers.
Same day.
George looked at Mason.
“What else did Uncle Philip say?”
Mason thought.
“He said almost ready.”
George did not move.
“Almost ready for what?”
“I don’t know.”
The front door opened.
Elaine’s voice carried through the hallway.
“George?”
Mason stiffened.
George looked toward the study door.
Elaine stepped into view.
She smiled.
“Caroline said Mason was here.”
Then she noticed the open calendar.
The smile faded.
On George’s desk, beneath his hand, was the date of Philip’s visit.
May you like
And beside it, written in George’s own handwriting, were three words he had no memory of writing.
DON’T SIGN ANYTHING.
