“I’m fine, Mom. Just tired. I planned on going into the city this afternoon and start looking for a place to live, but I really don’t think I’m up to it.”

“Chrissy, you don’t want to do too much yet. You’ll make yourself ill. Take a nap today.”

“I don’t sleep well during the day. I lie down and think I hear Ethan or Rosie crying and then I have to get up and see-”

“Look, you have a baby nurse. Let Shannon worry about the babies and at least lie down for a bit. You really look pale.”

Chrissy took a deep breath and sat up straight. She had never enjoyed being fussed over and Susan recognized the stubborn expression on her daughter’s face. “I’m fine.”

Susan knew it was time to stifle her concern. “Then you might want to start opening the pile of packages in the living room.”

“Packages? Oh, I sent baby announcements last week and gave this address. Do you think they’re presents for the babies?”

“I’d be surprised if they were anything else. I noticed more than one from Tiffany’s.”

Chrissy cheered up. “Really? Maybe I’ll just take a peek.”

Susan left her daughter to check out the goodies and went upstairs to get ready for her trip to the nursing home.

The Perry Island Care Center looked a bit less elegant than the photos on their Web site had led Susan to expect. A large brick building with an excessive amount of white wood trim, a new paint job and some tuck-pointing would have improved its appearance immensely. In the publicity photos, the building had been surrounded by blazing red azalea bushes. But today only a few crocuses, so close to the sidewalk that they had been trampled repeatedly, were blooming. Susan pulled her purse up on her shoulder and entered through the wide handicapped accessible doors.

The interior was cheerful and well maintained. There was a wicker desk in the foyer and the young woman sitting behind it looked up from her Vogue magazine when Susan entered. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Astrid Marlow,” Susan explained.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes. For noon.” Susan looked at the clock hanging on the wall behind the desk. “I’m a bit early.”

“You must have come over on the ten-thirty ferry.”

“Yes, I did.”

“There isn’t a lot of traffic off-season so it doesn’t take any time to unload. During the summer, our noon appointments are always late. Astrid’s office is right down the hallway on the left. I think she’s in.”

“Thank you.” Susan started off in the direction indicated. An elderly man slowly making his way toward her leaned on his walker with an expression of intense concentration. Susan smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging manner, but as he got closer, a loud bell startled her and caused her to jump back. “What was that?”

A short heavyset woman popped out of the doorway Susan was making for and gently took hold of the man’s arm. “Mr. O’Neill, you know you’re not supposed to be off the ward alone.” She glanced over at Susan. “If you’re Mrs. Henshaw, why don’t you go on into my office? You don’t mind waiting while I sort out Mr. O’Neill, do you?”

“Of course not.” In fact, she would welcome the opportunity to look around a bit. Susan walked in the doorway.

Astrid Marlow’s office was large and well organized. One wall was dedicated to photographs taken at the care center. Birthday parties, Christmas parties, anniversaries… all were apparently celebrated with enthusiasm by staff and residents alike. Susan looked carefully, hoping to identify Shannon in the pictures. It was impossible to date the events; the residents, mostly women, had apparently preferred wash-and-wear clothing in floral prints for many decades. The staff, dressed in brightly printed scrubs, was always smiling. Failing to pick out a familiar face, Susan turned her attention to the rest of the room.

Two chairs faced a large walnut desk, where a multipaged application form was laid out. There were also piles of slick brochures. Susan picked one up and was perusing it when Astrid Marlow returned.

“I’m sorry about that. We must keep careful track of some of our memory-impaired residents. They do tend to wander. Mr. O’Neill has been with us for some time but, unfortunately, he has become more and more confused in the past six months or so.

“So, tell me about your mother,” Astrid Marlow continued.

Susan was unprepared for the change of topic. She had assumed that this woman would start out by telling her about the nursing home, not ask questions about her mother, who was, thankfully, healthy and vital and would almost certainly be angered by the idea that her daughter thought she was ready for this particular change of residence. “Ah…”

“Perhaps I misunderstood you on the phone. Is it your mother-in-law whom you’re looking to place somewhere?”

“Oh, no… I… It’s my mother. She’s getting old, you see.” Susan realized the inadequacy of her explanation.

“Is she mobile?”

Susan thought of the large, silver Lexus sedan her mother used to zip around town and nodded yes. “But she doesn’t get out as much as she used to,” Susan lied. As she spoke, her mother and father were on a monthlong walking tour of the British Isles.

“Does she have memory issues?”

Susan’s mother was unfortunately inclined to mention things she considered mistakes in Susan’s life that dated back over forty years. “No, her memory is just fine. She just needs help. You know, she’s getting old,” Susan repeated.

“Well, you understand that we can’t accept new residents without medical records.”

“Of course, I understand. Tell me about the Perry Island Care Center,” Susan said. “This is such an unusual location for a nursing home, isn’t it?”

Astrid passed a pile of papers across the desk to Susan. “We have an interesting history. We’re a full-care nursing facility, one of the oldest in the state. We’ve been around since the turn of the century. Of course, things were quite different then. The care center was started by the Perrys, descendants of the family the island was named after. They were an unusual couple. Childless and wealthy enough not to have to earn a living. Mary Perry had some limited training as a nurse and her husband, a Methodist minister, felt a need to be of service in the community on days other than Sunday. They owned much of the island as well as the largest house. They took in some of the older residents on the island, or relatives of residents, and cared for them as best as they could. Of course, the new addition hadn’t been built then and they could only accommodate about twelve people. But they did an excellent job. When they retired, a distant relative inherited the care center and everyone was relieved that they would continue the center and its services.”

“It was lucky that there was someone available who wanted to do this sort of thing.” Susan felt obliged to say something. Astrid Martin had obviously repeated this story many times.

“Well, there is a black spot in the story of the care center,” Astrid Martin admitted, but smiling to show that it wasn’t very important. “The young man who inherited was, perhaps, more interested in the land included in the inheritance than in running a nursing facility-or ‘old folks home’ as some people called them in those days. He moved here from New York City, bringing along a wife and infant son. They cared for the residents for a while, but then, discovering that terms of the will mandated that the inheritance had to be kept intact and he couldn’t sell off any of the land, that young man left for an extended visit to Europe, planning to write the Great American Novel. He didn’t write it nor did he ever return. His wife picked up the reins and added residents by the simple expedient of putting ads on the walls of nearby Connecticut hospitals.