Chapter 2 – What Betty Was Afraid to Say

My mother looked at Vanessa as if she’d been struck.

“I asked you to keep things quiet,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask you to send us away.”

Vanessa’s expression tightened.

“Betty, that’s not how I remember our conversation.”

“Then you remember it wrong.”

I’d rarely heard my mother speak so firmly.

Dad looked between them.

“What conversation?”

Mom reached for his hand.

“Monday, sweetheart.”

He frowned.

“Was I here Monday?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the fireplace, trying to remember.

Then his expression changed.

Mom squeezed his fingers.

“You don’t have to explain anything.”

But Dad shook his head.

“I remember something.”

Nobody spoke.

“I was looking for the stairs.”

He swallowed.

“And I couldn’t remember why I’d come.”

Luca pulled out a chair and sat beside him.

“Robert, that’s all right.”

Dad looked embarrassed.

“I used to know this place better than my own house.”

My mother closed her eyes.

Then she told us what had happened.

On Monday afternoon, Dad had come to the restaurant to check the anniversary arrangements.

He wanted the cake brought out at exactly seven fifteen.

He wanted two white carnations on the table.

And he’d asked whether somebody could play the old song.

But while he was speaking to Vanessa, he’d become confused.

He couldn’t remember where he’d put his coat.

Then he forgot why he’d come.

For several frightening minutes, he thought it was 1984.

He asked whether his mother was waiting for him downstairs.

His mother had been dead for twenty-six years.

I looked at Dad.

He was staring at his watch.

My chest hurt.

He hadn’t told me any of that.

Neither had Mom.

“I brought him home,” she said quietly. “Vanessa called me when he got upset.”

Vanessa nodded.

“Exactly. I helped him.”

Mom looked toward her.

“And I thanked you.”

Luca leaned forward.

“What did you ask Vanessa to keep private?”

Mom hesitated.

“I didn’t want Robert making a speech in front of strangers if he became confused again.”

Dad raised his head.

“A speech?”

Mom nodded.

“You said you wanted to tell everyone how we met.”

He looked surprised.

“I did?”

“Yes, honey.”

He thought about that.

Then smiled faintly.

“I met you at a church picnic.”

Mom laughed through her tears.

“You spilled lemonade on my dress.”

“That’s right.”

He looked pleased.

Then his smile faded.

“Did I forget that Monday?”

Mom nodded.

“For a little while.”

Dad stared at the table.

Vanessa spoke gently, almost convincingly.

“Betty was worried about putting him under pressure. I suggested a quieter celebration.”

“Yes,” Mom said.

“A private dinner away from the crowd.”

“Yes.”

“And you agreed.”

Mom turned toward her.

“I agreed to keep the evening simple. I never agreed to cancel our reservation.”

Vanessa’s smile disappeared.

“That’s a matter of interpretation.”

“No,” Mom answered.

“It isn’t.”

The room went quiet.

I looked at my mother.

For fifty years, she’d been the gentlest person I knew.

She apologized when other people bumped into her.

She thanked grocery store cashiers by name.

And when Dad began forgetting things, she’d learned to answer the same question ten times without making him feel foolish.

But now she was looking directly at Vanessa.

“We weren’t asking for a party,” Mom continued. “We were asking for the dinner my husband arranged while he could still remember how to arrange it.”

Dad reached for her hand.

“Betty.”

She turned immediately.

“I’m here.”

“Did I make you upset?”

“No, sweetheart.”

He looked toward Vanessa.

“Did I say something rude?”

My mother began crying.

Luca’s expression hardened.

“Robert, nobody here is upset with you.”

Dad nodded uncertainly.

Then he whispered, “I don’t want to make things harder for Betty.”

I turned away.

I’d heard him say that before.

When he misplaced his wallet.

When he forgot an appointment.

When Mom reminded him to take his medication.

Every time something became difficult, Dad blamed himself.

As though being sick were a choice he’d made carelessly.

Luca looked at Vanessa.

“Why did you tell Melissa’s parents they couldn’t stay?”

“I didn’t think a room full of guests was appropriate.”

“For a married couple having dinner?”

“For a man who might become confused in front of thirty people.”

Luca’s voice changed.

“Then we help him if he needs help.”

“That’s easy to say when you’re not responsible for what happens.”

My mother lifted her head.

“I’m responsible for Robert.”

Vanessa looked uncomfortable.

“And I know what he needs better than you do.”

Dad suddenly stood.

Everyone looked at him.

He reached into his jacket and took out a small folded paper.

“I wrote it down.”

Mom frowned.

“What, honey?”

“The things I wanted tonight.”

He unfolded the paper carefully.

His handwriting was large and uneven.

November 3.

Betty’s favorite flowers.

Cake after dinner.

Dance by fireplace.

At the bottom he’d written:

Don’t make her worry about me.

I covered my mouth.

Dad looked at Luca.

“I know I get things mixed up.”

Luca nodded.

“But I wanted to do this properly.”

“You are doing it properly.”

Dad glanced toward Mom.

“She takes care of me every day.”

His voice trembled.

“I wanted one night where I could take care of her.”

My mother began crying again.

Dad looked frightened.

“Did I say something wrong?”

She stood and embraced him.

“No, darling.”

He held her tightly.

Then whispered, “I wish I could remember how to make you happy without needing a list.”

Mom pulled back.

“You make me happy when you hold my hand.”

He looked at their joined hands.

Then smiled.

“I can still do that.”

Vanessa looked away.

For a moment, I thought she’d finally understood.

But then she turned toward Luca.

“There’s something else Betty hasn’t told Melissa.”

My mother’s face changed.

“Vanessa, please.”

“It’s relevant.”

Luca frowned.

“What is?”

Vanessa looked directly at me.

“Betty has an appointment next week to discuss whether Robert can continue living safely at home.”

Dad stopped smiling.

He looked toward his wife.

“Betty?”

She went pale.

“Sweetheart, I was going to explain.”

He slowly pulled his hand away.

“Are you sending me somewhere?”

“No, Robert.”

He stepped backward.

“Did I do something bad?”

My mother reached for him.

He wouldn’t take her hand.

And then, in a voice I’d never heard from my father before, he asked:

“Betty, are you tired of being married to me?”