I lower Edith into the passenger seat. Her soiled nightgown feels cold and wet against my skin, the latest indignity suffered by her body’s failure.
She thinks we’re visiting her son. It was after his funeral that we’d sat in this garage and Edith admitted she felt her mind slipping. I promised to take care of her; soon I won’t be able to care for myself.
She watches me with empty eyes. I want to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay. I start the car. She touches my hand. “But the garage door.”
I tell her I opened it.