He got her seated and crouched in front of her, looking up into her face. The street lamp cast harsh shadows under her eyes, making her look even more exhausted and lost than she probably was. “Ma’am, what’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
She blinked at him, her lips moving soundlessly for a moment, then with visible effort, she focused on his face. “Margaret,” she whispered. “Margaret Reynolds.” “Okay, Margaret, that’s good. Do you know where you live? Can you tell me your address?”
But she was already drifting again, her eyes losing focus. She reached out and touched Caleb’s face with fingers that felt like ice. “You look so tired,” she said. “Have you been working too hard again? I tell you not to work so hard.”
Caleb didn’t correct her this time. He just took her freezing hands in his and tried to rub some warmth into them. Tried to think of what to do next. He couldn’t leave her here. That much was clear. But he couldn’t carry her to safety either. Not in his condition. He was already weak from hunger and exposure. Already operating on the last reserves of his strength.
And where would he even take her? He didn’t know where she lived. Didn’t have a phone to call for help. Didn’t have any resources at all, but he also couldn’t just sit here and watch her freeze to death. Margaret leaned into him, seeking his warmth, and Caleb made a choice.
He sat down beside her on the bench and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t save either of them if they stayed here too long, but maybe it would buy them some time. Keep her a little warmer while he figured out what to do.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, not sure if he was talking to her or to himself. “We’re going to figure this out. I promise.” Margaret sighed and closed her eyes. And Caleb felt the full weight of her life settling into his hands. A stranger who thought he was her son. A woman who needed help he wasn’t sure he could give.
But he couldn’t walk away. Despite everything, despite his own desperate situation, despite the voice in his head screaming that he needed to focus on his own survival, Caleb couldn’t leave her alone in the cold.
His mother’s voice echoed in his memory. Words she’d spoken in one of her last lucid moments before the Alzheimer’s took her completely. “Baby, listen to me. The world is going to be hard on you, harder than it should be. And when it gets hard, you’re going to want to become hard, too, to protect yourself. But don’t. Don’t let it take your kindness. That’s the only thing that really belongs to you. The only thing they can’t take unless you give it away. As long as you have that, you’re never truly empty.”
Caleb held Margaret Reynolds a little tighter and decided that tonight at least he’d hold on to his kindness, even if it killed him. The wind picked up, driving snow into their faces. Caleb pulled Margaret closer, trying to shield her with his body. She’d stopped shivering, which he knew was a bad sign.
When your body gave up trying to warm itself, when it started shutting down non-essential functions to protect the core, that meant you were in serious trouble. “Margaret,” Caleb said, patting her cheek gently. “Mrs. Reynolds, you need to stay awake. Can you hear me?”
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. “Richard,” she murmured. “Who’s Richard?” “My husband. He’ll be so worried. We just had dinner. I just—where am I?” Her face crumpled with confusion and fear, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
Caleb had seen this too with his mother. The way the present and past would blend together, creating a reality that only existed in the fractured landscape of a damaged mind. “You’re in the park,” Caleb said. “But we’re going to get you home soon. I promise.”
“Daniel should be home by now,” Margaret said, her voice getting stronger for a moment. “He works too much. I tell him all the time, you work too much. You need to rest. But he doesn’t listen. Never listens to his mother.” She patted Caleb’s hand with her frozen fingers, a maternal gesture that made his throat tight.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart? You look so thin. Are you eating enough?” The question hit Caleb like a physical blow. When was the last time someone had asked him that? When was the last time anyone had looked at him with concern instead of suspicion or pity or disgust?
“I’m okay,” he lied. “Don’t worry about me.” But Margaret was already fumbling with her purse, her numb fingers struggling with the clasp. After several attempts, she managed to get it open and pulled out a worn leather wallet. She opened it and removed all the cash inside. A thick fold of bills that Caleb couldn’t make himself count, couldn’t let himself think about.
“Here,” she said, pressing the money into his hands. “Take it, please, Daniel, take it.” Caleb stared down at the bills in his palm. In the dim light, he could see they were mostly twenties, maybe some fifties. Enough money to buy a hot meal, maybe two. Enough for a night in a cheap motel where he could sleep without fear of freezing or being robbed or worse. Enough to change everything, at least for a little while.
His stomach clenched with hunger so intense it was almost painful. His fingers, the ones that could still feel, curled around the bills automatically, his body making the decision before his mind could catch up. “I don’t need it,” Margaret continued, tears streaming down her face. “You need it more. Please, baby. Take it. Make your mother happy.”
Caleb looked at her face at the desperate love there. The maternal instinct that even Alzheimer’s couldn’t completely erase. She thought he was her son. She thought she was taking care of her boy. And Caleb thought about his own mother. About the last time she’d been lucid enough to recognize him.