The Marriage Lie(43)

His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “No way.”

I latch onto his arm and drag him to the door. “Fine. We’ll both go.”

Mr. Griffith is gearing up for his third round of eerie oms when we stumble into the hall and right into a nurse in pale pink scrubs.

“Oh, thank God,” I say. “There’s something wrong with Mr. Griffith.”

“He’s fine. He’s just agitated again.” She pushes past us and continues down the hall, her crocs squeaking on the dingy linoleum. “Happens all the time.”

Again? Dave frowns, and so do I.

“Aren’t you going to help him?” I call out after her.

The nurse stops, hauls a full-body sigh and trudges back. She tosses us a dirty look, then disappears into the room. As soon as she’s gone, Dave and I exchange glances and make a beeline for the stairs.

“Yeesh, I’m not going to lie,” Dave says as soon as we’re in the stairwell. “I’m glad to be on my way out of here. This place gives me the creeps. How depressing was that?”

“So is my father-in-law.” I hear my words and amend. “Or rather, his illness is depressing.”

Dave’s expression softens. “His life is depressing, too, sweetie.”

I sigh, rounding the landing to the next level. “I know.” When it comes to my father-in-law, there are so many depressing things, too many to count.

“We can try him again tomorrow. Maybe bring along some pictures or newspaper clippings that would spark a memory, but for now...”

“The police department, I guess. After that—”

“No, I meant with your father-in-law. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, do something?”

“Like what? I just found out he existed yesterday, and it’s not like he and Will ever had much of a relationship. I feel sorry for the man, but it seems like he’s provided for here.”

“Oh, is that what you call it? Do me a favor. Make sure I never end up in a place that smells of canned peas and dirty diapers, will you?”

A niggle of guilt rises in me at my brother’s words, along with a flash of irritation he would imply I’m neglecting the father-in-law I didn’t know I had. “What do you want me to do?” I say, pushing from the stairwell into the lobby. “Move him into my guest room?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. But there’s got to be a better place for him than this.”

“Mrs. Griffith?” The nurse at the front desk says, thwarting our argument before it can escalate further. She slaps a clipboard to the counter and holds up a pen. “If you don’t mind, I have some paperwork for you to fill out.”

“Oh. Okay.” I frown. “What kind of paperwork?”

“We just want to make sure we have all the information for Mr. Griffith’s next of kin, and that you are aware of all of Mr. Griffith’s options.”

I pick up the pen and flip through the pages—a contact form, Medicaid forms, privacy and disclosure forms. Pretty standard fare, though I’m not sure why she wants me to fill out any of it. “What’s all this for?”

“Providence House is a nursing home, which means we provide generalized care for seniors with all sorts of issues. Our nurses can handle dementia, but we’re not specialized in it.”

“Then why is Mr. Griffith here?”

“Because the facilities that cater to memory care either don’t have Medicaid-funded spots available or long waiting lists for those spots.”

“I see.” I don’t see. Also? I don’t like this woman, or what she’s implying. “Are you kicking Mr. Griffith out?”

“As long as Mr. Griffith qualifies for Medicaid, he’s welcome to stay as long as necessary. I’m only suggesting that should you have a budget for his care, he may be happier in a larger room or even at another facility, one that’s better suited to the particular needs of an Alzheimer’s patient. I assume, as his daughter-in-law, you would want to make his last months as comfortable as possible.”

It all falls together then, and I put the pen on the top of the paper pile. “Are you asking me for money?”

“Of course not. Though we do accept donations.”

“Let me guess. Cash only?”

Her lips curl up in a saccharine smile. “A little goes a long way in this place.”

*

By the time we get to the car, I’m shaking with fury. Literally shaking. Full-body tremors that chatter my bones and rattle me from head to toe. “I cannot believe that nurse just squeezed me for money.”

Dave hits the remote for the doors and gives me a look over the roof of the car, one that says I can.

I fall onto the passenger’s seat, pitch my bag onto the floor and slam the door behind me. “And you saw the way that nurse acted upstairs, like calming down a confused, agitated old man was a chore. I don’t want to even think about how they are when no one’s watching. They’re probably too busy watching the Housewives in the break room to pay attention to any of the patients. They certainly can’t be bothered to mop the floors or spray around some air freshener.”

“You’re probably not far from the truth.” Dave pops the gear into Reverse and swings a long arm over my seat, his gaze bouncing over mine on the way to the back window. “Which is why I’m really glad you paid that bitch.”