“Ready?” Thomas asks.

“I have to be.”

FORTY-FOUR

Sylvie

The three of us make a dash through the downpour to the glass front doors of the building and step inside the entryway. “What if Heidi’s here?” I ask as we shake water from our jackets and Moose does a shimmy, head to tail, to get rid of the cold drops.

Thomas’s eyes glint. “I’ll threaten to publish a story about her shredding your file.”

I open the facility’s interior door. The warm air inside carries the scent of disinfectant and stale air freshened by flower-scented deodorizers. The walls are painted a sunny orange and the floor carpeted with gray squares shot through with streaks of reds, blues, and yellows. At the front desk I inform the receptionist that I’ve brought my service dog to visit Gabriella Bryant at her sister Heidi’s request. He asks for my ID but is so distracted by Moose that he doesn’t bother checking for my name on his list of approved visitors.

The receptionist reaches over the counter to pat Moose’s head. “Wow, he’s giant! Gabriella’s room is I-117. Follow the red arrows past skilled nursing. When you reach the double doors, use code 2929 to open them, and you’ll enter the memory care wing. Please make sure you don’t allow any residents out of that wing. They tend to wander and get lost. Enjoy your visit!”

On our way to memory care, we pass two women in rocking chairs. They gape at Moose. One beckons and we pause for a quick pet. When we turn the corner, a man hobbles toward us with two canes, eyes trained on the floor. He’s surprised by Moose and almost falls. Thomas grabs his arm, steadies him.

“I used to have Danes,” the old guy shouts. He giggles when Moose kisses the back of an arthritis-gnarled hand.

“He likes you,” I say.

“I’m a great guy!” He pets Moose again then moves on.

We pause a handful more times for residents to greet Moose. Smiles light up their scoured faces, and each time I see the flicker of their inner child. Moose eats up the attention, prancing like a prize horse, head held high. He gives even more kisses than he gets.

When we reach the double doors at the end of the hallway, I put in the code, the doors unlock, and we enter the memory care wing. Here people drift in various states of dress—some in slouchy robes and furry slippers, others mismatched clothing, but a good number are well put together, the women’s hair dyed, combed, and set; nails painted; men in V-neck sweaters, slacks, and shiny shoes. Some chat with employees who wear name tags, others drift, occasionally redirected by the staff like go-carts momentarily stuck in a corner.

Gabriella’s door is open. We pause on the threshold—the room has a kitchen sink, a counter, and a half-fridge on one wall, a twin bed covered in a sky blue quilt on another. A rectangular table for two and a leather couch fill the rest of the space along with a large-screen TV. The walls are off-white and undecorated, but framed pictures are scattered around the room. I’ve seen the photograph on the bedside table—Heidi and Briella on the dock. Better days. Beside it is a photo of Gabriella posed on the bench in her black judge’s robe with gavel in hand, a look of calm authority on her face. For a woman used to mental acuity, success, authority, Alzheimer’s seems especially cruel. She wiped out six years of my life with a signature. Isn’t her disease poetic justice? Still, I wouldn’t wish her fate on my worst enemy.