Chapter 9 - THE SUNSHINE ON THE DRAWING
The young aide jumped, dropping the syringe. It shattered on the linoleum floor.
She spun around, terrified, as I sprinted down the hallway.
“Don't touch anyone!” I shouted, placing myself between the cart and the sleeping residents. “The prescriptions are forged! They’re lethal!”
The aide backed away, raising her hands in surrender. She had no idea she had been seconds away from committing murder.
Three minutes later, the wail of police sirens finally cut through the rainy evening. Red and blue lights flooded the windows of the second floor.
The nightmare was officially over.
Three Days Later.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the large bay window of my living room.
The house smelled like fresh coffee and the lemon cookies I had baked that morning.
I sat on the couch, watching the local news on the television. The volume was turned down low.
The screen showed a mugshot of Richard Coleman. The headline read: NURSING HOME ADMINISTRATOR INDICTED ON 42 COUNTS OF FRAUD, ELDER ABUSE, AND ATTEMPTED MURDER.
Carolyn Price had turned state's evidence. She handed over all the dispensary logs and the safe deposit key, securing her own lengthy prison sentence but ensuring Richard would never see the outside of a cell again.
The state ombudsman had taken emergency control of Maple Ridge.
But I didn't care about the facility anymore.
I turned my head and looked toward the dining room.
My mother, Dorothy, was sitting at the head of our long oak table. Her walker was parked safely beside her chair. The bruises on her arms were fading, and the color had finally returned to her cheeks.
She was wearing her favorite blue knitted cardigan.
Sitting right beside her was Mrs. Alvarez.
When the police arrived, they discovered Mrs. Alvarez’s son had been desperately trying to contact her for weeks, but Richard had been blocking his calls. Until he could fly in from California, my mother insisted Mrs. Alvarez stay in our guest room.
Mrs. Alvarez smiled softly, gently running her thumb over the cracked glass of her late husband’s silver pocket-watch. It had been returned to her by the police the day before.
Her dignity, and her history, had been restored.
“Look, Nana!” a bright, cheerful voice rang out.
My seven-year-old granddaughter, Maya, came running into the dining room. Her pigtails bounced as she practically tackled my mother with a hug.
My mother laughed—a bright, beautiful sound I hadn't heard in months. She wrapped her arms tightly around the little girl, kissing the top of her head.
“What do you have there, sweetie?” my mother asked.
Maya proudly held up a brand-new piece of construction paper.
It was another crayon drawing. But this one didn't just have our family in front of the house. It had Mrs. Alvarez, too, holding a big yellow flower.
At the top, the clumsy handwriting read: WE ARE ALL SAFE NOW.
My mother’s eyes filled with tears, but this time, they were tears of absolute joy.
“It’s beautiful, Maya,” my mother whispered, pulling the little girl onto her lap. “I’m going to put it right on the refrigerator. So I can see it every single day.”
I stood up from the couch and walked into the dining room.
I placed a hand on my mother’s shoulder. She reached up and squeezed my hand tightly.
“Thank you, Danny,” she whispered, looking up at me. “For not being too busy.”
“I will never be too busy for you, Mom,” I promised, kissing her cheek. “Never again.”
May you like
I looked around the table. At my mother, resilient and strong. At Mrs. Alvarez, finally at peace. And at Maya, completely safe and oblivious to the darkness we had conquered.
We had brought them home. And no one would ever take them from us again.
