have some orange juice there; perhaps you’re blood sugar is a bit low? Should I send for food?”
“No . . . no, I’m all right. Ian’s mother is still
alive
?” Francesca croaked, her brain fixated on that single piece of news.
A shadow passed across Anne’s face. “Yes. Today she is.”
“But Mrs. Hanson . . . she told me Ian’s mother had died years ago.”
Anne sighed. “Yes, that is what Eleanor believes.” It took Francesca a few seconds due to her bewilderment to realize Eleanor was Mrs. Hanson’s given name. “James and I made the decision once Helen was returned home to England that it would be perhaps . . . best? Easiest?” Anne mused, her expression heartbreakingly sad as she tried to find the right words for a decision made decades ago, during a time of stress and anxiety. “For those who had known and loved Helen before she became ill to remember her like she was rather than to see how this cursed disease had ravaged her, taking away her identity . . . her very soul. Perhaps it was wrong of us to do. Perhaps it wasn’t. Ian certainly didn’t agree with our decision.”
“Well . . . he was only ten years old when Helen was returned to England, isn’t that right?” Francesca asked.
“Nearly,” Anne replied. “But we didn’t tell Ian his mother was alive and being cared for in an institution in East Sussex until he was twenty—old enough to comprehend why we’d made the decision in order to protect him. Ian, like almost everyone else, thought his mother had died.”
The silence rang in Francesca’s ears.
“Ian must have been furious when he found out,” she said before she could edit herself.
“Oh, he was,” Anne said dryly, not taken aback in the slightest by Francesca’s bluntness. “It was not a good time for Ian, James, and me. Ian barely spoke to us for almost a year while he was in school in the states. But we did eventually come to terms, and our relationship was mended.” She waved her hand in a vague sense around the elegant entryway. “And then Ian had this facility built, and the three of us worked together to develop it, finding some common ground. The Institute has been a place of healing for our relationship with our grandson as well as for Helen,” she said, giving Dr. Epstein a grateful smile, even though her eyes remained sad.
Anne seemed to rally and tightened her hold on Francesca’s elbow, urging her to walk alongside her. “I can see that you’re shocked by this news. I think it’d be best if Ian was the one to talk with you further about the matter, given the . . . unusual circumstances.”
“Ian and Helen will arrive at the morning room following their walk,” Dr. Epstein mentioned to Anne.
“We’ll go there, then,” Anne told Francesca, suddenly brisk and purposeful, as they walked to a bank of elevators. “James is already there. I’ll be able to introduce you to Ian’s grandfather.”
Too stunned to argue, Francesca followed along, her brain seemingly vibrating with the news that Helen Noble was still alive and apparently being treated at this facility, her heart squeezing in anguish for Ian.
They took the elevator to a lower level. When the door opened, Dr. Epstein bid them good-bye, saying she must return to her lab.
“She’s a brilliant scientist,” Anne told Francesca confidentially as they made their way down a hallway that ended in a light-filled, many-windowed room. A few patients shuffled past them, casting curious glances at Francesca. “Now that the human genome has been decoded, Dr. Epstein and her colleagues have been using the information to come up with better medications for schizophrenia. Ian funds all of her work. It’s truly been groundbreaking. A medication that Dr. Epstein developed has been recently approved by the European Medicines Agency, and she recommended Helen be put on it. There have been some ups and downs with the treatment so far, but just this week, there have been some
“No . . . no, I’m all right. Ian’s mother is still
alive
?” Francesca croaked, her brain fixated on that single piece of news.
A shadow passed across Anne’s face. “Yes. Today she is.”
“But Mrs. Hanson . . . she told me Ian’s mother had died years ago.”
Anne sighed. “Yes, that is what Eleanor believes.” It took Francesca a few seconds due to her bewilderment to realize Eleanor was Mrs. Hanson’s given name. “James and I made the decision once Helen was returned home to England that it would be perhaps . . . best? Easiest?” Anne mused, her expression heartbreakingly sad as she tried to find the right words for a decision made decades ago, during a time of stress and anxiety. “For those who had known and loved Helen before she became ill to remember her like she was rather than to see how this cursed disease had ravaged her, taking away her identity . . . her very soul. Perhaps it was wrong of us to do. Perhaps it wasn’t. Ian certainly didn’t agree with our decision.”
“Well . . . he was only ten years old when Helen was returned to England, isn’t that right?” Francesca asked.
“Nearly,” Anne replied. “But we didn’t tell Ian his mother was alive and being cared for in an institution in East Sussex until he was twenty—old enough to comprehend why we’d made the decision in order to protect him. Ian, like almost everyone else, thought his mother had died.”
The silence rang in Francesca’s ears.
“Ian must have been furious when he found out,” she said before she could edit herself.
“Oh, he was,” Anne said dryly, not taken aback in the slightest by Francesca’s bluntness. “It was not a good time for Ian, James, and me. Ian barely spoke to us for almost a year while he was in school in the states. But we did eventually come to terms, and our relationship was mended.” She waved her hand in a vague sense around the elegant entryway. “And then Ian had this facility built, and the three of us worked together to develop it, finding some common ground. The Institute has been a place of healing for our relationship with our grandson as well as for Helen,” she said, giving Dr. Epstein a grateful smile, even though her eyes remained sad.
Anne seemed to rally and tightened her hold on Francesca’s elbow, urging her to walk alongside her. “I can see that you’re shocked by this news. I think it’d be best if Ian was the one to talk with you further about the matter, given the . . . unusual circumstances.”
“Ian and Helen will arrive at the morning room following their walk,” Dr. Epstein mentioned to Anne.
“We’ll go there, then,” Anne told Francesca, suddenly brisk and purposeful, as they walked to a bank of elevators. “James is already there. I’ll be able to introduce you to Ian’s grandfather.”
Too stunned to argue, Francesca followed along, her brain seemingly vibrating with the news that Helen Noble was still alive and apparently being treated at this facility, her heart squeezing in anguish for Ian.
They took the elevator to a lower level. When the door opened, Dr. Epstein bid them good-bye, saying she must return to her lab.
“She’s a brilliant scientist,” Anne told Francesca confidentially as they made their way down a hallway that ended in a light-filled, many-windowed room. A few patients shuffled past them, casting curious glances at Francesca. “Now that the human genome has been decoded, Dr. Epstein and her colleagues have been using the information to come up with better medications for schizophrenia. Ian funds all of her work. It’s truly been groundbreaking. A medication that Dr. Epstein developed has been recently approved by the European Medicines Agency, and she recommended Helen be put on it. There have been some ups and downs with the treatment so far, but just this week, there have been some
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