Stupid question.
“My dad’s physical therapist is over at my dad’s. It’s their usual appointment. But he just sent this.” She shoves her phone at me.
So much for privacy.
NOAH
Don’t freak out, but when I got here, your dad was in the front yard in his pajamas. Said something about pruning the roses? He was pretty disoriented, but he’s back to his usual self now. Inside and dressed. I just thought you'd want to know, since wandering is new for him.
Seriously. Don’t freak out. I’ll be with him for another hour.
“Don’t freak out,” I read out loud, then I hand back her phone. “That’s Noah’s best advice?”
“I need to go there. To my dad’s,” she says. “Now.” She taps at her screen, sends me an address. “Can you take me? Please?”
“Of course.”
As if I’d ever say no to her.
No matter what she asked.
As we make our way downtown, I try not to speed. My number one priority is keeping Loren safe. And according to Noah, her dad isn’t in immediate danger. Still, when I put in a call for food to be delivered, her legs are jittery, and she stares out the window, silent.
I want to say something comforting, but no words come. Meanwhile, the world rushes by in a total contrast to what’s probably happening inside her head.
In downtown Harvest Hollow white lights swing between the street lamps. Dogwood petals gather in the gutters. Most of the shops and cafes have their doors propped open, with sandwich boards welcoming evening visitors.
Eventually, we pass Stony Peak High, where fencing still surrounds the north end of campus. Renovations on the theater and gym are almost done. But from the road, you can see the scale of both projects.
Loren nods at a stretch of scaffolding, finally speaking. “You know, if it weren’t for your money, Sayla and Dex might still be arguing over whether the theater or the gym deserved to be rebuilt.”
“Nah.” I duck my head. “They’d already figured that out.”
“But only one of them was going to win the grant,” she insists. “Until you stepped in and saved the day, singlehandedly.” She tips her head. “Or would that be single-wallet-ly?”
“We don’t have to talk about this.”
She shifts to look at me. “I like the distraction.”
“All right.” I nod. “I can do distraction.”
She tucks a leg under her. Not jittery for now. “So tell me. Does it bother you that everyone still thinks the anonymous donation came from Lincoln James and Hadley Morgan?”
That’s an easy one. “Nope. Not at all.”
“They’ve denied it a bunch.”
“Yeah, but the theory makes sense,” I say. “And it makes for great gossip. Hollywood celebrity. Hometown girl.” I shrug. “Anyway, I wanted to be anonymous. I still do.”
“Hmmm.” Her gaze wanders back out the window, and she’s silent again for a stretch. Then she says, “My dad’s getting worse. So quickly.”
Distraction over, I guess.
But at least I don’t have to ask what’s going on with him. I’ve read every piece of research I could find on FTD. And none of what I learned is good. The progression’s unpredictable, for one thing. Which makes levels of care hard to nail down. And people tend to focus on the mental challenges, but behavioral changes are part of the deal, too. Disinhibition. Poor judgment. Wandering.
Gardening in your pajamas.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.