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lies).
    Her make-up was dramatic—dark eyes, arched brows and fresh lipstick—and her skirt was snug, almost tight.
    “This is the first floor dining room.” It was large with lots of windows looking out on a garden. The morning sun would make it a cheery place. She showed me the physical and occupational therapy rooms and then took me to a room that would soon become available—half of it, that is.
    “Hello, Irene,” Jane said to the shape beneath the coverlet on the bed next to the window. The gray-haired thatch poking above the green duvet turned and a sharp-nosed woman squinted in our direction, her mouth drawn inward over her gums.
    “Who’s that?” Irene groped for her glasses on the laminated table next to the bed.
    “It’s just Jane,” Jane said, bending over Irene and giving her shoulder a pat. “You go back to sleep.”
    Irene’s mouth twitched in annoyance, and her little head turned away.
    “She’s a dear,” Jane said to me, keeping her voice down.
    “Is she the one who’s leaving?”
    “No. That would be Phyllis who’s checking out.”
    And before I had to ask why, Jane added, “Her family is moving out east. Vermont.”
    A hospital-type curtain hung between the two beds, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before Irene checked out and my mother got a bed with a view.
    The accommodations weren’t awful, but they weren’t nearly as nice as Dryden. Her living space would, once again, grow smaller. I couldn’t imagine a queen living here. Then I asked the question I dreaded.
    “If my mother’s dementia worsens, will she have to be moved from this area?”
    Jane barely hesitated. “The second floor is our special care unit. Would you like me to show you that area?”
    “Yes.”
    We walked down the hall to an elevator where Jane had to punch a code into a keypad before the doors would open. She gave me a quick, nervous smile before pressing the button for the second floor.
    We rose one floor to the special care unit. The moment the doors opened, the smell hit me. It wasn’t overpowering, but no amount of disinfectant will mask the smell of urine, feces and decay. But the walls were painted with murals of meadows and waterfalls, and near the nurses’ station was a large cage containing a dozen finches in varying colors.
    We passed a common area where about ten residents were seated in a circle in their institutional blue plastic padded chairs. A woman who I assumed was the physical therapist tossed a large beach ball to each resident. Some caught it, others let it bounce off their laps and onto the floor.
    Jane showed me a room similar to the one downstairs, only without any personal touches.
    “But my mother is very aware of what’s going on around her. She’s sharp. These people don’t seem to be... really sharp.”
    “She is feisty,” Jane allowed. “As I said, we evaluate and make decisions based on what is best for her.”
    “Who would she talk to?”
    “These people talk to each other.” She seemed surprised that I’d asked.
    “I don’t see anyone talking.” Another lump was rising in my throat, and it hurt to swallow. “My mother loves to visit with people.”
    “Your mother isn’t ready for this floor, Robyn.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “In many cases a patient with encroaching dementia never has to move up here.”
    I nodded. What she didn’t have to say was that they died before their dementia got bad enough, which might have been preferable.
    As we approached the elevator, I looked back and noticed a man strapped into a pale blue vinyl armchair, his chin on his chest and his hands twitching as if they were the only part of him still alive.
    If she lived long enough, this was where she would wind up. That was the sad, sad thing about dementia and ageing. No one got better.

    When I got home I took Bix for short walk and tried not to think about my mother’s living situation. But it was like trying to ignore a big spider on the