PART 2 — THE WOMAN IN ROOM 14
My mother smiled.
Then she saw my face.
The smile disappeared.
“What?”
I couldn’t say it immediately.
I walked back into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
She followed me.
“What is it?”
I looked at her hands.
The same hands that had packed my lunches.
The same hands that had worked double shifts.
The same hands that were now trembling slightly.
“Mum, Warren is married.”
She stared at me.
“No.”
“I’ve seen his wife.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I have.”
She shook her head.
“You’re mistaken.”
“I wish I was.”
She pulled out the chair opposite me.
“How could you possibly know that?”
I took a breath.
“I work at Rosewood.”
She nodded.
“I know where you work.”
“Warren’s wife lives there.”
Silence.
My mother looked toward the front window.
“He told me his wife died.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
I closed my eyes.
“Her name?”
She told me.
I already knew it.
“She’s alive.”
My mother stopped breathing for a second.
Then she laughed.
It was a small, frightened laugh.
“That isn’t possible.”
“I’ve made her tea.”
She looked at me.
“What?”
“I’ve made her tea for four years.”
She pushed the chair back.
“No.”
“Mum—”
“No.”
She stood up.
“You’re wrong.”
“I’ve seen him every Tuesday and Friday.”
“Maybe someone looks like him.”
“He knows me.”
“He knows you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He asks me how my mother’s doing.”
She went completely still.
“He knew about me?”
“Yes.”
That hurt her more than anything I’d said.
I could see it.
Not the fact that he was married.
The fact that he had known exactly who she was.
She sat down again.
“How long?”
“Four years.”
“And he comes every week?”
“Every Tuesday and Friday.”
“Why?”
“To see his wife.”
My mother covered her mouth.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
“What’s her name?”
I told her.
She stared at the table.
“Does she know about me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she know he has a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she know he’s dating me?”
“I don’t know.”
She suddenly stood up.
“I’m calling him.”
I reached for her phone.
“No.”
She pulled it away.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know what he’s going to say.”
“I deserve an explanation.”
“You do.”
She looked at me.
“So why shouldn’t I ask him?”
“Because I want you to hear the truth before he has time to prepare a lie.”
She stared at me.
Then slowly lowered the phone.
“What do you suggest?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You’ll come to work with me.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“You don’t have to meet his wife.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You don’t have to.”
I reached across the table.
“I just want you to see him.”
She shook her head.
“I’ve already seen him.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Not the man he pretends to be.”
The next morning, she came.
She wore the blue coat she saved for special occasions.
She hadn’t slept.
Neither had I.
We parked across the road from the unit.
For almost twenty minutes, neither of us moved.
Then a silver car pulled into the staff entrance.
Warren got out.
My mother inhaled sharply.
He was carrying flowers.
The same flowers he’d brought her the night before.
He walked through the entrance.
My mother turned toward me.
“He said those were for me.”
“I know.”
We followed him inside.
He walked down the corridor without looking around.
Past the nurses’ station.
Past the lounge.
Straight to Room 14.
His wife was sitting by the window.
Eighty-one years old.
Grey hair.
A knitted cardigan.
A photograph album on her lap.
Warren kissed her forehead.
“Morning, love.”
My mother made a sound beside me.
Almost a gasp.
I put my hand on her arm.
His wife smiled.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
He sat beside her.
Then she reached for his hand.
And something happened that I hadn’t expected.
She didn’t look confused.
She looked sad.
Very sad.
She said quietly:
“Did you see her?”
Warren froze.
My mother gripped my arm.
“See who?” he asked.
His wife looked directly toward the doorway.
Toward us.
“I think you know.”
Warren turned.
He saw my mother.
The color drained from his face.
My mother didn’t move.
His wife looked at her.
Then back at Warren.
“You told her, didn’t you?”
He couldn’t speak.
My mother finally found her voice.
“You told me your wife was dead.”
His wife smiled.
Not happily.
Almost apologetically.
“He’s been telling people that for years.”
My mother looked at me.
“What does she mean?”
The wife closed her photograph album.
“Warren doesn’t like being the husband of a woman with dementia.”
My mother whispered:
“But you’re his wife.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would he tell people you’re dead?”
The woman looked down at her hands.
“Because when people hear the word dementia, they stop seeing the person.”
My mother didn’t answer.
The woman continued.
“He wanted a normal life.”
My mother took a step backward.
“So I wasn’t supposed to know about you.”
“No.”
She looked at Warren.
“He told me you were a widow.”
My mother looked at him.
“Why?”
He finally spoke.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
He said nothing.
“When?” she repeated.
“Soon.”
My mother laughed bitterly.
“Soon.”
She looked at me.
Then at his wife.
Then back at Warren.
“You knew my daughter worked here.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she knew your wife.”
“Yes.”
“And you still came into my house?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I love you.”
My mother shook her head.
“No.”
He looked up.
“I do.”
“No,” she said again.
“You loved the version of me you could lie to.”
He stepped toward her.
She stepped back.
And then his wife said something that made all three of us stop.
“There’s something else.”
Warren turned.
“Please don’t.”
She looked at him.
“You’ve already lied enough.”
Then she looked at my mother.
“He isn’t just hiding his wife.”
My mother frowned.
“What else is there?”
His wife pointed toward the folder Warren had been carrying.
“Ask him about the house.”
My mother stared at him.
“What house?”
Warren said nothing.
The wife smiled sadly.
“The house he told you he owned.”
My mother went pale.
“He said it was his.”
“It isn’t.”
“Whose is it?”
The woman looked at me.
Then at my mother.
“Mine.”
I felt the room change.
My mother whispered:
“Why would he tell me he owned your house?”
The woman’s expression hardened.
“Because he has been trying to sell it.”
Warren suddenly stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
But his wife didn’t stop.
“For two years.”
My mother looked at him.
“You’ve been trying to sell your wife’s house?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
He couldn’t.
And then I noticed the folder in his hand.
The same kind of folder I’d seen him carry into the unit dozens of times.
I pointed at it.
“What’s inside?”
Warren held it tighter.
His wife answered.
“Divorce papers.”
My mother looked at him.
“You were going to divorce her?”
“No.”
His wife laughed softly.
“He’s been trying to get me declared incapable of managing my own affairs.”
The room went silent.
My mother stared at Warren.
“You weren’t looking for a girlfriend.”
He said nothing.
“You were looking for someone to help you get control of her money.”
Warren finally snapped.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
His wife looked at me.
“Tell your mother to check the name on his dating profile.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Warren isn’t my husband’s name.”
My mother turned toward me.
I took out my phone.
I searched the dating profile he’d shown her.
The photograph was Warren.
The smile was Warren.
But underneath it was a completely different name.
And then I saw the second photograph.
A photograph of him standing beside another woman.
Another woman wearing a wedding ring.
My mother whispered:
“How many?”
His wife answered before I could.
“Four that I know of.”
Warren’s face went white.
And my mother, who had