Ezoic
Then, three weeks ago, she called Mark at two in the morning.
“Joe,” she said. “Joe, when are you coming home? It’s late. I made pot roast. It’s getting cold.”
Mark’s father has been dead for eleven years.
Mark sat on the edge of our bed in the dark holding the phone.
Ezoic
“Mom,” he said. “It’s Mark. Your son.”
There was a long silence.
“I don’t have a son named Mark,” Frances said politely. “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.”
She hung up.
Mark’s sister, Diane, lives twenty minutes from Frances. She’d been doing everything. Checking on her every day. Taking her to doctor’s appointments. Paying her bills.
She called Mark the next morning.
“Mark, I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “She can’t live alone. It’s not safe. I found a place. A memory care home in Webster Groves. It’s nice. It’s really nice. They have a garden and a piano and the nurses are kind. But I need you to come. I need you to help me move her. And I need you to be there when we tell her.”
