Three nights later, her grandson knocked on my door looking panicked, and the first thing he said was,
“She thinks somebody’s stealing from her.”
I just stared at him.
He kept apologizing over and over while standing there in my driveway in pajama pants and a sweatshirt like he’d rushed over without even thinking. Said his grandmother had been acting strange for about a month, but things got worse after her daughter moved back into town.
Apparently she’d started accusing random people of taking things. Mail. Jewelry. Cash she forgot she already spent.
But then he quietly admitted something else.
“She keeps forgetting who called the police.”
That hit me like a punch.
He said some days she remembered me perfectly. Asked whether I’d brought soup. Asked if my son was still coaching baseball. Then other days she became terrified and convinced people were trying to get into the house.
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or sick.
Then he handed me something folded in half.
One of my old Christmas cards.
The one my family sent her three years ago with the picture of all of us in matching sweaters.
My blood ran cold when I opened it.
Written shakily across the inside in fresh blue ink were the words:
“Please don’t be angry with me. They keep telling me you’re dangerous.”
They.
I looked up at him immediately.
That’s when he finally admitted his mother — her daughter — had been telling the neighbors I was “too involved” with an elderly widow and making comments about me “hanging around the property.”
Apparently she was already talking about assisted living facilities and trying to get power of attorney signed before her grandmother got worse.
Then her grandson swallowed hard and quietly said,
“She hid something before Mom got there today.”
I asked what.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a house key.
“My grandma said if anything happens to her, you’re the only person she trusts to find it first.”