whose young husband had died six months ago, but so unlike Annie. He had always seen her as the confident one, the person who fixed things, not the person who needed things fixed for her.
Still, if she was looking for a shoulder to lean on, he’d be happy to provide one, acknowledging that the idea was far from selfless. If he played his cards right, she might even be willing to lean on him more than a little. A guy could always hope.
Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Right now he had a patient to see, so he made his way to the examining room, tapped lightly on the door, let himself in.
“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. How are you doing today?”
“Do I know you?” The elderly woman’s steady, blue-eyed gaze swept him back a couple of decades. The woman sitting next to her, probably in her late forties or early fifties, wasn’t familiar.
“Twelfth-grade English. You were one of my favorite teachers at Riverton High. It’s good to see you again.”
Mable beamed at that. “I had a lot of students over the years,” she said. “I wish I could remember all of them.”
“No one would expect that,” he said, extending his hand. “But they all remember you. I’m Dr. Woodward.”
She didn’t accept the handshake, shook her head instead. “No, you’re not. Don’t be making up stories, young man. I know Dr. Woodward, and you’re not him.”
The woman next to her placed a gentle hand on Mable’s arm. “Mother, this is Dr. Woodward’s son. He’s a doctor, too.”
“Are you?”
Paul nodded.
“Well, then. He must be proud.”
Mable’s daughter gave him a look that begged for understanding. “I’m Olivia Lawrence. I mean, Potter—I’m using my maiden name again. I’m Mable’s daughter. Everyone calls me Libby.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby.” He accepted her perfunctory handshake and returned his attention to her mother. “My father is an excellent doctor. I only hope I can live up to his standards.” The words were true enough. His father had been a great physician, just a lousy parent. “Now, how can I help you today, Mrs. Potter?”
“Well...” She glanced nervously at her daughter. “I don’t remember.”
Libby gently took her mother’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. We all forget things from time to time. Right?” She looked to Paul for affirmation.
“We sure do.” He sat on a wheeled stool. “The important thing to figure out is if you’re more forgetful than usual. Do you live alone, Mrs. Potter?”
“I did after my husband passed on, but now I have my daughter home with me.”
Libby smiled and nodded. “I’ve lived in St. Paul for many years—I’m a teacher like my mother—but I’ve had some recent, um, changes in my life and now I’m back in Riverton. I’ll be living with my mother and teaching second grade at Riverton Elementary starting next week.”
“Very good. You must be happy to have her with you.”
The elderly woman brightened. “I am. Especially since that good-for-nothing reprobate of a husband of hers didn’t come with her.”
Libby sighed. Paul suppressed a chuckle, trying to recall the last time he’d heard the word reprobate used in a sentence. Probably not since twelfth-grade English. “I remember you always were one to speak your mind, Mrs. Potter. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“You go right ahead,” she said. “As long as they’re not too personal.”
Libby closed her eyes, shook her head.
After all these years, still not pulling any punches, Paul thought. The poor woman probably knew things weren’t quite right and she was scared witless. Geriatrics weren’t his strong suit, but for now he would go easy on her, he decided. Depending on what he learned, he might refer them to a specialist in the city.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you feel any of the questions are too personal, then you don’t have to answer them.”
“That seems fair.” But she clung to her daughter’s hand like a lifeline.
“How long have you lived in Riverton, Mrs. Potter?”
“All my life.”
He looked to Libby, who confirmed the answer with a subtle nod.
“So you must know pretty well everyone in town.”
“I suppose I do. I’ve taught a lot of them, too. And their children and their children’s children.”
“She even taught me,” Libby added, her soft voice filled with affection.
“And you were a good student. A good girl, too. At least until you married that good-for-nothing...”
Reprobate. She seemed unable to recall the disparaging word that had come so quickly just moments ago, and since it didn’t bear repeating, Paul pressed on.
“Where do you live?”
“On Cottonwood Street.” He knew that was true, could even picture her cute little one-and-a-half-story home a few blocks from his father’s place.
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Thursday. I know that because on Thursdays I go to the Clip ’n’ Curl to have my hair done.”
Close, but it was actually Friday.
“We did that yesterday, Mom,” Libby gently reminded her.
“Humph. You don’t say.”
“Can you tell me what you had for breakfast this morning?” Paul asked.
“Why do you need to know that?” Mable asked. She looked confused and sounded defensive.
“I’m just checking to see if you remember.”
“Well, if you must know, I had tea. And...porridge. I have that every day.”
Again, Libby’s almost imperceptible headshake indicated that this wasn’t accurate. Since nothing would be gained by contradicting her, he continued with some casual conversation.
“When I was a boy,” he told her, “I remember my grandmother telling me to eat my porridge because it would stick to my ribs.”
Mable beamed, and most likely assumed she had answered the question correctly.
Libby patted her hand.
As he suspected, her long-term memory was intact. The short-term, not so much. Based on personal experience, these were symptoms he knew all too well.
“I’m going to refer you to a specialist in the city,” he said to Libby.
