A Dollhouse to Die For(138)

            Ruth’s husband had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years ago. Before his illness, Joe and I used to join the Bornsteins occasionally for dinner during the summers when we vacationed in Millbury. Stanley Bornstein had been a successful chemist for one of the large pharmaceutical corporations based in Montgomery County. He’d made a fortune for the company, and for himself, and had retired about seven years ago in his early fifties.

            I’d always thought of him as a highly intelligent, fascinating man. Brilliant, in fact.

            And now he barely knew his own name.

            Ruth took a deep breath before we headed upstairs. “Daisy, you haven’t seen Stanley in a while. I don’t want you to be upset, but he—well, he’s gotten much worse lately. He probably won’t recognize you.”

            “That’s okay,” I said, and smiled up at her in reassurance. I’d never seen the tall, elegant Ruth not perfectly coiffed, and tonight was no exception. She wore an ecru flowing sweater coat over a silk top and dress pants, together with a necklace of intertwined gold rings. Her bobbed hair was dyed a rich chocolate brown and her dark eyes were enhanced with eyeliner of the same shade.

            She’d always looked years younger than her husband, even before he got sick, but in the light cast by the chandelier in the foyer there were fine lines of exhaustion drawn around her eyes and mouth that even the most expensive night creams couldn’t erase.

            We passed a guest bedroom on our way, and I caught a glimpse of some of Ruth’s things. When we walked into the master bedroom, I could see why. The imposing cherry four poster bed was gone. It must have been dismantled and stored somewhere else and was now replaced by a metal hospital bed.

            I’d steeled myself to be prepared, but I had to press my lips together to hide my shock at Stanley’s wasted appearance. He’d always been a slim guy, but now he was incredibly thin, his cheeks sunken and gray hair standing up in wisps on top of his head.

            His hands looked like little bird claws resting on the starched white sheets.

            “Stanley, Daisy’s here to see you,” Ruth said.

            He didn’t turn his head.

            It must have been six months since I’d last seen him. At that time he seemed to know who I was, although he couldn’t quite follow the thread of the conversation. He kept asking Ruth about someone named Charlie. Turns out that Charlie was the cocker spaniel he’d had as a kid.

            There were sheets covering the mirrors on the dressing table and also draped over the closet doors. Ruth followed my gaze. “Sometimes we see imposters in the room,” she said softly.

            I bit my lip and nodded.

            An array of medicines stood on the bedside table, and a nurse was sitting in an armchair next to the bed, knitting a pink and orange scarf. She got to her feet with a grunt.

            “He wouldn’t let me change him, Miz Bornstein,” she said, pursing her full lips together.

            “I’ll do it, Jo Ellen,” Ruth said gently. “You were right not to push matters. Evenings are always the worst time.”

            Stanley coughed, a painful dry wheeze.

            “His cold is getting real bad again, too,” the nurse said, shaking her head. “Doctor was here earlier to do his blood work and said he’s probably gonna need another course of antibiotics.”

            “I’ll pick up the prescription tomorrow.” Ruth walked over to the table and trailed a graceful hand over the bottles. “Did you give him his meds?”

            “Yes, Miz Bornstein.”

            “And did you sign off on the chart?”