There were twelve photographs in all. Nora on the couch. Nora at the kitchen table with her head resting on her arm. Nora in the hallway in her robe, her eyes half-open, looking at nothing. Each one had a date and a time printed in the corner, and every one of them was in the middle of the night.
Beneath the photographs was a three-ring binder with a white label on the front, written in Lorraine's careful, looping hand.
N. — Observations.
I opened it, and I read the first page standing on my knees.
Oct. 10, 2:40 a.m. — N. found in kitchen. Stove burner on, no memory of turning it on. Confused about the date. D. calmed her and walked her back to bed.
Oct. 12, 3:05 a.m. — N. wandering in hallway. Did not recognize D. for several minutes. Repeated the same question four times.
Oct. 15 — N. forgot to pick up Eli from school. Front office called. E. was upset.
The entries went on and on. Dates. Times. Tidy little paragraphs.
I sat on the guest room floor and I read about a woman who left stoves on, and wandered halls, and forgot her own child at school.
She sounded terrifying. She sounded ill.
And I was almost certain, in the part of me that was still standing on solid ground, that not one of those things had ever happened.
I had not left a stove on. I had not forgotten Eli. I remembered that Thursday in the school lobby, holding a paper cup of terrible coffee, waiting for the bell.
But I couldn't be sure about the nights. That was the horror of it. I couldn't be sure of anything that happened after nine p.m., because for three weeks, every night after nine p.m. had been a blank.
My hands were shaking so badly that the binder rattled.
I turned the page.
Behind the last entry was a folded letter on cream-colored stationery. The letterhead read Lakeshore Wellness Associates, and it was addressed to the Summit County Probate Court.
To the Honorable Judge: I write regarding my patient, Nora E. Bennett. Over the past several weeks I have received consistent reports of memory loss, disorientation, and unsafe behavior. It is my professional opinion that Ms. Bennett poses a risk to herself and to the minor child in her care, and that she requires immediate psychiatric evaluation and the protection of a court-appointed guardian...
At the bottom was a signature. Alan R. Voss, M.D.
I had met Alan Voss exactly once, at a college reunion barbecue in 2019. He'd shaken my hand and complimented my potato salad.
I was not his patient. I had never been in his office. I had never seen him for so much as a cough.
There was a pharmacy bottle, too, tucked into a sock. The label said BENNETT, NORA E. and Take one tablet at bedtime, and it listed a sleeping medication I had never in my life been prescribed. The prescriber was Dr. Voss. The fill date was October 6th, the day after Lorraine moved into my house.
Twenty-one of the thirty tablets were gone.
Under the bottle was a manila folder stuffed with court forms, half of them already filled out in blue ink. An affidavit asking a judge to order me held for a psychiatric evaluation. A petition to appoint someone as guardian over my finances and my property. My name was typed neatly on every page.