The retirement home where Adem Turzic’s father lived sat on a narrow stretch of sunken land along the river. Matthew parked the rental car a block away and walked a full circle around the place, thinking it looked like a ruin slowly being swallowed by the earth. The building’s color split the difference between maroon and pale brown. Calming, if not exactly beautiful. Small balconies ran up both sides and Christmas lights hung from a few railings. Around back, he found a fenced courtyard with a garden arbor and outdoor fireplace. All of it lonely and abandoned in the freezing weather. In front, a gang of old men leaned on oxygen tanks. Their eyes followed him all the way through the sliding doors.
He hadn’t slept much the past two nights. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind started circling the conversation he’d had with Chris Dorne on campus. Dorne had come the closest to helping him figure out what had shattered his relationship with his dad, but Dorne hadn’t been able to give him everything. Now the gap in his knowledge felt like a worm working its way through his brain. He couldn’t remember what he might have done to make his dad lose faith in him, but he’d settled on the belief that it all must be connected: the newspaper clipping that had sparked his memory of the fire, his dream about running through the forest, and their estrangement. He needed to talk to someone about it, but right now there was no one. Georgie wasn’t an option, not until he figured out what she meant when she told Dorne it felt “different” being around him. “Disturbed” was the word Dorne had used.
He’d imagined the retirement home would feel like a hospital, with fluorescent lighting and linoleum floors. Instead, it looked more like a ski resort. A pair of rock pillars guarded a lobby done up in dark wood and terra-cotta tiles. The low popcorn ceiling spoiled some of the effect, but the carpet was thick and a glowing aromatherapy diffuser made the whole place smell like orange peel. Between the pillars, two women sat in leather recliners in parkas and snow boots. Maybe waiting for a ride somewhere. Maybe just passing time. They stopped talking when he got close to them. Everyone knew he didn’t belong there.
He almost turned and went right back out the door again, but at that moment a young woman stepped out from the reception desk and held out her hand to him. For some reason he thought there would be nurses in scrubs, but she wore jeans and a green fleece vest. The vest bore a tag that read: HELLO MY NAME IS JANET. They shook hands.
“I’d like to see Goran Turzic,” he said, and watched her eyebrows dart down in the middle.
“May I ask your relation to Mr. Turzic?” she asked.
“I know the family,” he said, which technically was true. “I just thought I’d stop in and say hello.”
She took his ID and put his name into a computer. “Unfortunately, Mr. Turzic has lost his telephone privileges,” she said, “so I can’t call ahead to see if he’s awake. He’s in room 4-J.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said. He turned, looking through a wide common area at two hallways headed in opposite directions. His hesitation was enough for Janet to reconsider letting him go alone.
“I’ll walk you,” she said.
They rode the elevator with an old man whose glasses turned his eyes to hand grenades. “This is your first time visiting Mr. Turzic?” Janet asked. Her voice was loaded with something more than curiosity.
“First time,” he said. “Why? Is anything the matter?”
She leaned back against the elevator wall. “He’s had a series of strokes since he’s been here,” she said. “At least one major one and then several mini-strokes over time. He’s not always completely lucid. It can throw people off the first time they meet him.”
She was a small person, with the harried, skin-and-bones look of a distance runner. From the matter-of-fact way she spoke to him and her insistence on looking him directly in the eye, he guessed she had some kind of medical training. She wore athletic sneakers and her hands stayed busy—holding the elevator door for him, punching the button, fiddling with her hair tie—like at any moment she might be required to take off at a sprint. He decided he liked her. She seemed like a person who would tell him the truth if he asked.
He gave it a try: “Why did Mr. Turzic lose his phone privileges?”
She pinched him with a squint. “How exactly do you know the family?”
The elevator was slow. Matthew heard cables straining above them. “His son is about my age,” he said. “Their family used to own a store in my neighborhood. I was hoping we could talk about old times.”
She sighed but tipped her head to one side like this was as good an explanation as any. It seemed like she had decided to trust him. “We got too many complaints about the phone,” she said. “Businesses said he wouldn’t stop calling, saying strange things, harassing them. Eventually the staff recommended we remove his telephone and the younger Mr. Turzic agreed. Maybe you’ll be in luck. I saw him this morning at the caf and he seemed like he was having one of his good days.”
The elevator dinged and he followed her out into the fourth-floor hallway. “Good-bye!” the man in the glasses called behind them. Matthew wondered if the guy rode the elevator all day.
The door to 4-J was ajar. Janet knocked before pushing it open all the way. Goran Turzic slept in a leather recliner that matched the ones from the lobby. The TV was on, playing loud, a program that looked like a reenactment show on the History Channel. The remote control had fallen from Turzic’s hand and Janet stooped to pluck it off the carpet.
“Mr. Turzic?” she said, muting the TV.
The old man didn’t stir. From Janet’s descriptions of him, Matthew had expected Goran Turzic to be frail and shrunken, but it was the opposite. Even sitting down, Matthew could tell, he was tall and had once been taller. Broad shoulders, with a stomach like a boulder stretching the buttons on his shirt. His face was wide and fleshy, his lips full and colorless.
“Mr. Turzic,” Janet said, louder. “Someone is here to see you.”
Turzic’s freckled head inched up off his chest, eyes blinking. He woke like a man who would rather stay wherever he’d been in his dreams. When he saw Janet, a smile appeared at one corner of his mouth, but it vanished as he noticed Matthew behind her.
“Not you,” he said, voice deep, accent thick. His blue eyes were cloudy and searching.
Janet looked back at him, worried. She hadn’t expected this reaction. Turzic shook his head like Matthew was holding him at gunpoint. “Not you,” he said again.
“Mr. Turzic,” he said, stepping forward to offer a shake. “I don’t think we’ve seen each other for a long time. My name is Matthew Rose. I’m from the old neighborhood, on the Northside? My friends and I used to go to your candy store all the time when we were kids. I was hoping I could speak with you about it.”
It felt stupid and blunt as an introduction, but Turzic looked momentarily pleased to hear it. His lopsided smile flashed again and he reached his left arm up for a clumsy, pawing shake. Matthew realized one half of his body was paralyzed.
Janet lingered. “Are you sure this is okay, Mr. Turzic?” she asked. “Would you like to talk with this man?”
Turzic hadn’t let go of his hand, squeezing it gently like they were old friends. His skin was warm and waxy, his hand enormous. “Okay,” he said, slurring on his half-working mouth. “Is okay.”
Matthew sat on a love seat next to the recliner. They both listened to the sound of Janet’s footsteps receding down the hall, then the ding of the elevator opening. On TV, a group of grim-faced men in 1940s suits stood at the lip of a rocky canyon looking down on the wreckage of a flying saucer. The desert sunset tracked low behind them, their suit coats flapping in the breeze. One man pointed, his face twisting into a shout as the withered skeleton body of an alien emerged from the crash and scrabbled down the hill away from them.
“I thought you were bullshit guy,” Turzic said quietly.
“What?” Matthew asked, not sure if Turzic was talking to him or the TV.
“I thought you were bullshit guy,” Turzic repeated, louder. “Bullshit guy who makes promises but does nothing.”
The old man hadn’t looked away from the screen. His chest went up and down, a soft wheeze coming from his lips.
“Could we maybe turn this off?” Matthew asked, pointing at the TV.
Janet had put the remote control on the kitchen counter on her way out. He had to cross the room to get it. The apartment was a little bit bigger than his motel room, and made of better stuff. The counters in the kitchen were granite and the carpet was the same color and thickness as the one in the lobby. The door to the balcony looked down on the corridor of frozen river. Now that they were alone, he noticed a musty smell lurking underneath the air freshener.
The TV died with a snap and Turzic’s head lolled up, focusing his one good eye. “You are not my son,” he said, like he wanted to see how Matthew reacted.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“You are from bank?”
“No,” Matthew said. “No, I’m just me.”
He could hear cars going by on the bridge below, the drone of an airplane cutting through the sky. He stepped back toward the love seat, but a series of photographs on the entryway wall caught his eye. He and Janet had passed the pictures coming in, but he had been too focused on the old man to notice. It was a series of black-and-white candids in cheap box-store frames, hanging in a line not exactly straight. The first one showed the candy store, and the moment he saw it, Matthew felt like he was twelve years old again, standing in the store’s big backyard with his mom and dad. The sudden burst of memory took him by surprise and he caught his breath. The next time he inhaled he could smell the sand of the volleyball court and hear the striped awnings rippling in the breeze over the wooden spool tables. He reached out to touch the photo but Turzic grunted, announcing some discomfort. He pulled his hand back and the memory—a second ago so full and real—flickered out.
The remaining pictures were of the store from other angles: There was one of the shop’s interior, showing a checkerboard-tile floor, wire racks of candy, and a few groceries. Next to it: an artistic shot of cars lining the block in front of the store. This one appeared to be taken from the candy store’s second floor, maybe through the window of an upstairs bedroom. The make of the cars along the curb told Matthew the photo was at least twenty years old. The last picture was of trains. It caught a locomotive mid-chug as it steamed through the Great Northern rail yard. In the blurred foreground, he recognized the odd corner where the greenway spilled into the street—the place where a few days earlier he and Georgie stood looking at the burned-out lot. He remembered the car that almost hit them, the spray of slush on his pants.
“Who took these?” he asked. “Did you take these?”
Turzic showed that slither of smile again. “Yes,” he said. “I take.” He held an imaginary camera in front of his face with his working hand and clicked the button.
Matthew’s bag was on the floor by the love seat. He took out his camera and saw Turzic’s face brighten as soon as the old man saw it. Turzic accepted it with his one working hand. He pressed the camera to his face and snapped two careful shots of Matthew on the love seat. Matthew felt awkward, smiling and staring at the wall behind Turzic’s head. When he was finished, the old man grinned at the picture that popped up on the camera’s rear screen. He leaned across the gap between them to show off his handiwork. Matthew saw himself sitting there, half washed out by the light from the balcony doors. It made him wince to see his flop of hair and tired eyes. He carefully took the camera from Turzic’s grasp. The old man slumped back in his chair, disinterested again.
Matthew swallowed down the bubble of anxiety at what he had to say next. He wasn’t sure how much of his story Turzic was going to be able to follow, so he stuck to telling him the bullet points: The military. The explosion and his ruined memory. His trip back home. “I don’t remember much,” he said, “but a couple of days ago, I found this clipping at my dad’s house.”
From the inside pocket of his jacket he withdrew the piece of newsprint and passed it over. He watched recognition flare in Turzic’s eyes when he saw the charred remains of his store. Turzic took a deep breath—one that seemed to lift his whole body—and let it out, deflating himself. “You are from bank?” he asked.
“No,” he said. “No, you asked me that already.”
“You bring me something?” Turzic asked. “Sweets? The girl brings me sweets.”
“Nothing like that,” he said. “I just remember your store. I grew up right near there.”
Turzic sighed. “All gone,” he said.
“I know this sounds strange, but do you remember me? Do you remember my dad? David Rose? Or my mom, Carol? We used to be in there all the time.”
Turzic searched for an answer in the darkness of the TV screen. “You turn off my program,” he said.
“The thing is, there must be some reason why that day came back to me like it did when I saw this newspaper,” he said. “Do you have any idea? Do you know who started that fire? I saw your son, Adem, and he said it wasn’t you. He said it didn’t happen like everyone thought.”
Turzic fluttered his hand as if clearing the air. “Adem,” he said. “He takes their side.”
“Whose side?” Matthew asked.
“Bank,” Turzic said. “Doctors. Insurance. Doctors say put me here, he puts me here. He never comes. You know him? You see him? Tell him come see his papa.”
The old man rocked forward and hauled himself out of his chair. It was a slow process, Matthew clutching his elbow to keep him from falling. There was a cane standing by the wall, sliced tennis balls slipped over each of its four feet. Turzic reached for it like a drunk going for his first drink of the day. He made slow progress to the kitchen with Matthew following him, resting his hands on the cool stone of the counter. Turzic took a rag from the sink and used it to wipe the top of the stove.
“Are there more of these pictures?” Matthew asked. “Like the ones on the wall? I’d like to see them if there are.”
“In Bosnia I was good photographer,” Turzic said. “Wedding, advertisement, once even big art show. Now? All gone. Burned up. Poof—like that.”
“Can you help me? Do you know what happened?” Matthew asked. He took a breath and asked: “Do you think I might have had anything to do with the fire at your store?”
Turzic made a sound in his throat, a click or a sigh, half between sadness and disgust. “Nobody listens to old man,” he said.
A spark there. An opening. “I’ll listen.”
Turzic eyed him from his big Saint Bernard face. “You listen,” he said, “but you do nothing. You are bullshit guy.” For a moment they stood in silence and then the old man extended a trembling hand. “You have phone?”
Matthew’s cell was in his pocket. “Why?” he asked.
Turzic did his limp half shrug again. “Call bank,” he said. “Find money.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Matthew said.
Turzic bumped past him as he headed back to his chair. The TV came on, as loud as before. “You go now,” he said. “Next time bring me something sweet to eat. Like girl.”
Matthew was back in the elevator before he wondered: What girl? In the lobby, he found Janet at her post behind the front desk.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“When I got here, you checked my ID and put my name in there,” Matthew said, pointing at her computer monitor. “You do that for everyone?”
“Company policy,” she said. “I can’t erase you, if that’s what you mean.”
“It keeps a record?” he asked.
She frowned. He was beginning to think of it as her distinctive look. “Of course.”
“Is it possible you could tell me who else has been to see Mr. Turzic?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you that,” she said. “I told you, he doesn’t get many visitors. Just his son every now and then.”
“He said a girl came to see him,” he said. “She brought him candy. Do you know who that might have been?”
Janet shook her head. “He’s not allowed to have sugar. He’s probably just making up stories. He does that sometimes. Like I said, he’s not always lucid.”
“I really need to know,” Matthew said. “Please. It might be important.”
“I can’t release Mr. Turzic’s personal information to anyone but his son,” she said.
“I get the feeling his son’s not all that interested. I’d like to help the old guy if I can.”
She stared at him, deciding. Her eyes were cold, but her hand was on the mouse.
He smiled at her. “It’s just you and me standing here,” he said.
Her hand darted to the right. She clicked. Her eyes dropped and scanned. “Nothing,” she said. Her free hand was propped on the desk, a runner’s watch on her wrist. “Wait,” she said. “Here’s one visit, about three months ago.” She clicked the mouse again. “Somebody named”—her eyes tracked across the screen and then she found it—“Abigail Green. Do you know her?”
Matthew kept his hands flat and still on the counter even as the skin of his scalp tightened and his breath caught in his throat. “That’s it?” he asked, making a point to keep his voice level. “No one else?”
“Hold on,” she said, and clicked something else on the screen. “Before that, it’s just Mr. Turzic’s son coming and going dating back to—oh, wait—here’s one from about five years ago.” She knotted the corner of her mouth like she was seeing something she didn’t understand, then her eyes flashed back up to his face. They were pale green, flecked with black. “It’s you.”