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.