I put down my club soda and walked out to my car. I sat in the parking lot for twenty minutes with my hands on the wheel.
That was the night I decided to go see my grandfather.
Briar Glen looked like a nice hotel from the outside. White siding. Flower boxes. A little gazebo by a pond.
I’d called ahead. The woman at the front desk had sounded surprised.
“Arthur Whitfield? You’re family?”
“I’m his granddaughter.”
There was a pause. “Okay. It’s just… he doesn’t get a lot of visitors. His daughter has a note on his file. Family visits are supposed to be arranged through her.”
“I’m an adult. I’m his granddaughter. Is there a law against me visiting him?”
Another pause. “No, ma’am. There isn’t.”
So I drove up on a Saturday in April, three hours each way. I’d spent the whole drive getting ready for the worst. I’d read everything about dementia. I’d told myself he wouldn’t know me. I’d told myself to be gentle, not to cry, not to expect anything.
