I was walking to my apartment when I saw her coming slowly down the street in her wheelchair. She was wearing a long white nightgown, a thick brown cardigan, and green bedroom slippers. There were two towels folded neatly across the back of her chair. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and about 55 degrees.
She looked scared of me and didn’t answer.
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She ignored me and continued to push herself. Later I learned that she was fairly deaf and probably couldn’t understand anything I had said. But she understood what I was offering and finally said, “You might push too fast.” I promised I wouldn’t, but she said no. “My husband is coming to meet me. He’s walking from the other direction.”
I decided to go home, use the bathroom, and return. I figured she couldn’t get far in a few minutes, but when I came out she was gone. I started after her anyway with that confidence police develop: no one is ever really gone. They may be here or there, dead or alive, but they’re not gone.
“There’s one on Estes? Thanks.”
I shouted, but she still couldn’t catch it. Finally, I shouted “Same, same,” pointing at myself. She nodded.
“What’s the name of the nursing home,” I shouted.
