THE WOMAN BEFORE

Chapter 11

I S L A

     FOLLOWING EMMA’S DIRECTION from earlier, I pull up into a narrow drive that leads to a big suburban house, the headlights illuminating the porch with a swing bed. I cut off the engine and turn my eyes to Emma who is slumped in the passenger seat and dozing. I tap her gently on the lap to no avail. I’m glad I brought her to her house. She’d have slept off in the middle of her ride home.

     “Emma,” I whisper. No response.

     “Emma?”

     Her eyes flicker open and she stares blankly at me, her face heavy with sleep. “We’re here,” she says, looking outside her house, as though to make sure we’re at the right place. She unfastens the seat belt.

     “I parked your car safely at Brown’s. The bartender let me use their parking space for the night. You can get it tomorrow morning,” I say.

     She bobs her head and tucks her purse under her armpit. “Thanks.”

     “Don’t mention it.”

     Smiling warmly at me, she goes for the door and opens it. She almost stumbles over the floorboard.

     “Careful,” I caution. “Should I escort you to the porch?”

     “Thanks, Isla. I’ve got it. See you later.”

     I watch her stagger to her brick staircase, holding the short banister and finally landing on the porch. She rummages her purse and snatches the keys, losing grip. They fall to the floor with a jingle. She huffs, then bends down and picks them up. She shoves one into the lock and engages the deadbolt, stepping inside the dark room when the door creaks open. It’s only when she’s inside her house safe and sound that I pull out from the drive, and then I head home.

*  *  *

     Thirty minutes later, I’m locking the front door of my house. Uncle Sam is back from the retirement home. I thought he’d stay for the night. I hear the television from the living room. Ever since he moved in with me, not once has he gone to bed without making sure I’m home first.

     Stepping away from the foyer, I walk across the short hallway and hang my overcoat across the hook on the wall. An ominous sound from the TV plays loudly in the background. He’s watching one of his horror movies again. What is it this time? Deliver Us? The Conjuring? When I near the sitting room, Uncle Sam is sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to the screen.

     “Jane, you’re back,” he says, “I was beginning to get worried.”

     He pivots his head in my direction, looking solemnly at me. His eyes are heavy with sleep, and he looks thinner each day.

     “I’m not Jane. It’s me. Isla.”

     I’ve never thought of this day. A day when my favorite uncle would confuse me for my Mom. Ever since my parents passed away when I was eight, it’s been me and Uncle Sam. He’s the only relative of my mother that I know in this world. It’s been only a couple of days since he was diagnosed with dementia, and he’s already calling me by my mother’s name. Sometimes, I feel I should forget about Evans and focus on taking care of him. He needs me—the more reason why I shouldn’t do anything stupid.

     “I know,” he says, his voice husky.

     “You called me Jane.”

     His face puckers. “I did not.”