Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED WOODEN DOOR
Andrew demanded the key again.
Natalie folded her arms.
“If you open that door while she is agitated, you will make everything worse.”
Andrew looked through the glass.
His mother was not agitated.
She was exhausted.
Her wheelchair stood less than three feet from the door.
One wheel was trapped against a broken floorboard.
“Mom, move away from the door.”
Margaret tried.
Her thin arms pushed against the wheels.
The chair barely moved.
Andrew took a brass statue from a hallway table.
He struck the lock.
Natalie stepped forward.
“Stop!”
He struck it again.
The metal plate tore from the old wood.
The door opened inward.
A smell of dust and damp fabric escaped from the room.
Andrew entered.
Margaret raised one trembling hand.
He knelt beside her.
“I’m here.”
Her fingers touched his cheek.
“You came home.”
“I should never have left you like this.”
Natalie stood in the doorway.
“No one left her. She has been receiving professional care.”
Andrew looked around.
There was no medical equipment.
No clean water.
No call button.
Only an old lamp, a small table and boxes covered in dust.
“How long has she been in this room?”
“An hour.”
Margaret’s eyes lowered.
Andrew noticed the blanket over her knees.
It was cold and slightly damp.
He removed his suit jacket and placed it around her shoulders.
“Mom, how long?”
Margaret looked toward Natalie again.
The fear was unmistakable.
Andrew followed her gaze.
“You will not look at my wife before answering me.”
Natalie’s face tightened.
“She is frightened because she does not understand what is happening.”
Margaret whispered something.
Andrew leaned closer.
“What did you say?”
“Three nights.”
The room became silent.
Natalie gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“That is not true.”
Margaret gripped Andrew’s sleeve.
“She opens the door when someone comes.”
Andrew stared at his wife.
Natalie shook her head.
“Your mother has dementia.”
“Who diagnosed her?”
“Dr. Simon Keats. I sent you the reports.”
Andrew remembered the documents.
He had read them between business meetings in London.
Confusion.
Paranoia.
Possible aggression.
He had trusted Natalie to manage the appointments.
He had never spoken directly to the doctor.
Margaret’s hand moved toward the family photograph.
“He knows,” she whispered.
“Who knows?”
She tapped the image of Andrew’s late father, Thomas Wilson.
Then her strength failed.
Her body leaned sideways.
Andrew caught her.
“Mom?”
Margaret’s eyes closed.
Andrew felt for her pulse.
It was weak.
He looked at Natalie.
“Call an ambulance.”
“She only needs rest.”
Andrew lifted his phone.
“No.”
May you like
His voice became cold.
“She needs someone you do not control.”
