THE SHADOWS OF MAPLE RIDGE

The massive paramedic stepped heavily into the dining room, unfolding the thick canvas restraint jacket.

My mother scrambled backward, her rubber-soled slippers squeaking against the wet tiles. She hit the edge of the dining table, knocking over a tray of silverware.

“No!” she screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror that tore right through my chest.

I didn’t think. I reacted.

I grabbed the heavy metal clipboard off the table and hurled it like a discus straight at the paramedic’s chest.

The heavy metal corner struck him hard in the collarbone. He grunted, stumbling backward and dropping the canvas jacket.

“Daniel!” my mother cried out.

“Get behind me, Mom!” I yelled, picking up a heavy wooden dining chair by the backrest. I held it in front of me like a shield.

Richard backed away, pulling out his cell phone. He was dialing security.

Carolyn rushed forward, trying to grab my mother’s walker to pull her away.

“Let go of it!” my mother snapped, surprising everyone in the room.

She didn't cower. Instead, my seventy-nine-year-old mother lifted her good leg and kicked Carolyn squarely in the shin.

Carolyn yelped in pain, stumbling back into a serving cart.

“Emily!” I shouted over the blaring fire alarm. “The kitchen! Is there a service elevator?”

Emily was pressed against the wall, paralyzed by fear.

“Emily, please!” my mother begged. “They’re going to kill me!”

That broke the young girl’s paralysis.

“Yes!” Emily shouted, pointing toward the swinging doors. “Through the kitchen! By the walk-in freezer!”

I threw the wooden chair directly into the path of the recovering paramedic, tripping him up as he lunged forward.

I grabbed my mother’s arm, supporting her weight as she abandoned her walker. We hobbled as fast as we could through the swinging doors into the stainless-steel kitchen.

Emily grabbed Mrs. Alvarez’s hand and pulled the frail woman right behind us.

The kitchen was empty. The kitchen staff must have evacuated when the fire alarm started blaring.

“This way!” Emily yelled, guiding us past the massive steel ovens.

We reached a heavy metal door near the loading dock. Emily swiped her badge. A green light flashed, and she pushed it open.

It was a narrow, concrete stairwell. The service elevator was broken, a bright yellow OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the doors.

“We have to take the stairs down to the basement,” Emily panted. “There’s an old delivery tunnel that leads out to the parking lot.”

I looked at my mother. Taking a flight of concrete stairs with a healing broken hip was incredibly dangerous. But staying on this floor was a death sentence.

“I can do it, Danny,” my mother whispered, reading my mind. Her face was pale, lined with pain, but her eyes were fiercely determined.

I wrapped my arm tightly around her waist, taking almost all of her weight as we began the slow, agonizing descent down the concrete steps.

Halfway down, I noticed a heavy black industrial trash bag shoved into the corner of the landing.

It was slightly torn, and something bright blue was sticking out of it.

I stopped.

I reached down and pulled the blue fabric.

It was my mother’s missing cardigan. The one she had knitted herself three winters ago.

Answer One. Carolyn hadn't lost the cardigan. She had hidden it here to throw it away.

But as I pulled the sweater out, something fell from the folds of the yarn and fluttered onto the concrete floor.

I picked it up.

It was a piece of white construction paper, covered in messy, colorful crayon drawings.

My heart seized.

It was a drawing my seven-year-old granddaughter, Maya, had made for my mother. It was a picture of our family standing in front of my mother's house, with a big yellow sun in the corner. Across the top, written in clumsy child’s handwriting, were the words: WE LOVE YOU NANA.

My mother had kept this drawing taped to her bedside table. It was her anchor. Her reminder of the family waiting for her.

Reversal. They weren't just stealing valuables like watches and jewelry to sell. They were actively destroying items of deep emotional significance. They were trying to break the patients' spirits, making them feel abandoned and alone, so they would succumb to the dementia diagnosis faster.

I carefully folded the drawing and slipped it into my shirt pocket.

Then, the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs banged open.

“They’re in the stairwell!” Carolyn’s voice echoed down the concrete shaft.

She had found a massive, heavy fire extinguisher in the hallway.