The page gives the date. It lists the time of entrance and exit. The name of the person visiting, and the person they are visiting.

I’m looking at Friday. The day before I last visited my mother.

I’m looking at a signature that shouldn’t be there.

Signed by someone who has no reason to visit my mother.

A signature that looks a lot like Katie Collins.

Chapter Twelve

Oakridge is a lot calmer than I imagined the middle of the night in a hellhole to be. I thought it would be a chorus of snores and roars, tears and fears. Old people calling out to the shadows, missing the people they love, crying to go home to them. Hurting on the inside, hurting on the outside.

But I’m wrong, and I’m glad to be wrong. Everything is peaceful, everyone is sleeping happily. Everyone is drugged.

Barry insists on taking me to Mom’s room. When I get to see her, my world slows down. I won’t wake her, I just need to see for myself she is okay. As okay as my failing mother can be. Comfortable, that’s how high our bar is raised. What we settle for now. ‘Your mother was comfortable today.’ Wow, isn’t she the lucky woman?

I move over to her bedside and sit on the chair. Tears fall down my face and I let them. I’m sick of hiding them. I want to cry.

Mom’s hair, brushed back from her face, is in need of a wash. That’s what Friday’s are for here. Having your hair blow-dried. A young girl comes in from one of the local salons and makes a fuss of her, asking questions, getting no answers, but treating Mom like she is a regular client. On Thursday someone comes in and massages her feet; Wednesdays, her nails get painted. Monday and Tuesday, I don’t know, but I’m sure something gets groomed. Of course Mom never remembers any of it. She is far too young for this. Some of the other ‘clients’ are almost twice her age, wonderful strong people who once ruled the world but are now unable to do anything for themselves. Playing with their memory might just be nature’s greatest gift to them.

I lean in close to feel her breath on my face. Her eyelids twitch, making me wonder if she’s dreaming. Is she dreaming of me? Does she recognize me in her dreams? Does she remember the things we did and the places we went to, the things we liked? Mint ice cream. Ketchup on my omelet, and not just a little bit, loads. ‘The biggest squirt ever,’ I’d say when she asked. Does she remember that? Or socks with no lace trimmings; if they had lace trimmings I would refuse to wear them. I kicked up such a fuss once, refusing to wear the socks my grandma bought.