Frances
by Beth Alexander Walsh
It was an unseasonably warm October day and I delighted in
the incongruence of falling leaves and flip flops as I ran my errands, while
keeping track of the time to beat the school bus. I made it home with time to
spare and pulled up in front of the garage to unload my groceries. As I juggled
the bags and reached for the door, I saw a man’s head pass by the window. At
least I thought it was a man’s head. I dropped my bags and stood back, unsure
if I had actually seen something and if I should call the police. I pulled my
cell phone out of my purse but instead of dialing I reached for the door. I
waited for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and then peered inside.
Towards the back of the garage was a sturdy figure, at least six feet tall. My
heart raced as I stepped through the doorway and I soon realized the tall
figure was a woman! She was wearing elastic waist jeans and a flowered
sweatshirt with a polo shirt underneath. Her hair was cropped short, the color
of dishwater with grey strands interspersed.
She was mumbling while rocking back and forth in sneakers.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She looked at me
in confusion and said “It’s not here.” I immediately recognized that confused
blank stare. My mother had passed away the previous year from Alzheimer’s and I had
been her primary caregiver for five years.
“What is your name?’
“Fran.”
“What is your last name?”
“Fran—Cess.”
“Where do you live Frances?”
Her
silence told me that my question was futile and I studied her face. Sweat was pouring
from her forehead and dripping into her eyes and I wondered how far she had
walked and how long she had been standing in my garage. I silently chastised
the person who not only let her wander off but also dressed her in far too many
layers for such a warm day. I told her to stay put and quickly went into the
kitchen to grab a bottle of water and some paper towels, and then went back into
the garage.
‘How about we step outside and sit on the porch in the
shade?”
I took her hand in mine, marveling at its
size while studying the bright shade of pink polish on her nails. I guided her
out the door and coaxed her into sitting on my front steps. After blotting her
face with the paper towels, I handed her the water, relieved that she knew what
to do with it. Then I called 911.
“Hello 911.”
“Hi, I have a woman that wandered into my garage with
dementia. She says her name is Frances but she can’t tell me her last…”
The operator
interrupted, confirmed my address and told me an officer would be there in less
than five minutes. Apparently, there was a search party for Frances. I asked
Frances if she was feeling better. The water was half gone and her cheeks were
less flushed. The cruiser pulled into the driveway seconds later, and the
officer jumped out.
“Her husband is frantic.” He
said.
I asked him where she lived and was comforted
to know it was less than a ten-minute walk away. The officer approached Frances
and she recoiled in fear, another emotion I had dealt with in the past.
“Frances, would you like to go
home to see your family?” I soothed.
She did not answer but I could
tell she was considering what I was saying.
“This nice man will give you a
ride home.”
I held out my hand and she took it,
pushing herself up from the porch step and following me to the cruiser while
the officer held open the back door. I helped her into the seat, and handed her
the water bottle.
“It was nice meeting you
Frances.”
The officer jumped in the driver’s seat
and they were both off without a goodbye.
Later when I told family and friends my
story, they all chastised me for opening that garage door and not dialing 911.
I don’t know what made me open that door, but I know that I was never afraid. Immediately
after Frances left my driveway I felt my mother’s presence. I knew she had
guided Frances to my garage knowing that she would be taken care of, while
simultaneously saying hello and thank you to me.
