1 WEEK AGO
"I am sorry about Kathy; she isn't well," he said as I helped him position a very limp Kathy into the bed. I guess having a friend who is a nurse paid off a little.
"No, it's fine really, Mr. umm..." I paused, soon realizing I didn't know his name.
"Abraham Boone, and please don't call me Mr.; it makes me feel old," he said with a half-crooked smile, and I returned a little smile of my own as well.
He rubbed his forehead, where wrinkles had formed as if trying to smooth them out; he had eye bags like he hadn't slept in days. He somehow managed to catch me looking at him, and his crooked smile widened into a sadder one.
"I haven't been getting much sleep, you know. Kathy hasn't been doing so well," his gaze returning to the sleeping woman. "She was so vibrant, full of life," he said, walking to the end of the room in small, deliberate steps and sitting on the red sofa backed up to the side of the room.
"It's crazy what it does to you—dementia," Abraham said.
"Are you guys married?" I found myself asking. I couldn't help it; his presence was so warm and fatherly. He reminded me of my grandpa, who is a complete opposite of my dad.
The image of my dad's rings in that shootout flashed in my subconscious. Francis Backlay may or may not have had something to do with that shooting.
No, he definitely did, but he wasn't in that car that day; I am sure of it. He didn't do dumb things like that. I am also sure that if Damien truly saw him that day and he is truly back, it means he wants me dead. My own father wants to kill me.
I found my eyes moving on their own to stare into the hallway of green, fading wallpaper, in search of Damien. He was somewhere in the hallway, trying to get someone through the landline.
"Yes, we are," Abraham's voice said, snapping me back to reality.
"What?" I said, blinking rapidly in confusion.
"We have been married for forty-nine years now."
Oh, my question about the marriage.
"I am going to do something elaborate for her next year to mark our 50th," he said, his smile widening.
"Would you like to see some pictures?" he asked. I noticed his country accent deepening.
I opened my mouth to object; I really didn't care about the pictures or anything. But when I glanced at Kathy and then back at his weary eyes, I found myself smiling and saying, "Sure, why not?"
"Stay here; I will be right back," he said, standing up excitedly and hurriedly leaving the room.
When he left, I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, staring at Kathy; she almost looked lifeless, the satin white bedsheets enhancing her pale skin.
I found the words before she passed out playing in my head: "There is a demon among us, Abraham; there is a demon among us all."
It felt silly, regarding the words of a sick woman with dementia, but that didn't mean the thoughts stopped.
Could it be that I was hallucinating? After all, I had been shot at yesterday, the trauma of it all maybe manifesting into an image—a figment of my emotions created by my brain in order to process the events of that day, or so my therapist would say.
It felt too real—too real. If I inhaled long enough, it was as if I could still make out that distinct scent.
I noticed some of the yellow paint from the wall had fallen on Kathy's face, and I inched my hand toward her face to clean it, but the door suddenly opened, and I quickly retracted my hand to my side.
"It took me some time, but I found it," he said, walking back to the red sofa and inviting me to come sit with him.
He gave the book a few harsh taps to shake off the dust from the photo album. The first page had a younger version of Abraham and Kathy in black and white; they looked really happy. I noticed that the gown she was wearing was couture—fancy.
"Kathy liked to show this to all the guests; she loved this gown so much. She liked to show it off," he said.
"It's really pretty," I said, tracing my fingers over the picture.
"We used to go skiing every winter," Abraham said, pointing to another picture in the album.
We moved past many pictures; Kathy looked so full of life—vibrant, nothing like the woman who just attacked us a few minutes ago. This woman looked different.
Abraham was looking in the direction of Kathy's bed, and I found myself doing the same.
"When did it start?" I asked.
"A few years ago, she started forgetting things that happened recently; then the hallucinations started, and she hasn't been the same since," he said.
"Do you believe what she says sometimes?" I said, and it made him frown, his brows furrowing deeply.
"I mean, I try not to. The doctors warned against it; plus, it's pointless. Kathy has really bad hallucinations; sometimes it makes her really violent, like today, for instance," he said.
"That thing she said today? Does she say it often?" I asked, and he seemed to think about it for a while.
"The thing about the demons?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"No, this is new. She also mentioned it in her episode that kept me up all night," he said.
So I might be right, after all.
"I am sorry if she rattled you this morning, but I wouldn't take anything Kathy says to heart. She isn't well, and we haven't had people over here in a long time, so she's reacting to it pretty badly."
I glanced back at Kathy's limp frame. Maybe I was being ridiculous about this whole thing. It would be pretty dumb to believe someone who had dementia.
"Where's that handsome husband of yours?" he asked.