So where were we? 

Oh yes. The Upper Moreland police found Willie standing on the corner of Byberry and Davisville Roads on a blustery night in early December. 

The police officer took Willie back to the Temple of Doom. That was when he called me. 

“Is she OK?” I asked.  

The officer said Willie was cold but fine. Gently, he explained where he found her. 

“Can I talk to her?” I asked. 

The officer put me on speaker. I asked Willie what happened. 

Once, when I was about five or six, I asked Willie if I was adopted. 

Willie patiently walked me through the absurdity of my question. How I have her distinctive nose and Indy’s caterpillar eyebrows. How my love of a good book traveled straight through the mitochondrial DNA from her mother to Willie to me. 

This was how Willie spoke to me on the phone that night as I shed leg warmers, sweats, and thick socks for dress jeans, heels, and blush so the officer wouldn’t think I was a total degenerate who let her demented mom fend for herself. 

Willie had a nail appointment in Hatboro, she explained. She used a ridesharing app to get there. 

Once her nails were a shimmery copper for the weeks of holiday celebrations ahead, Willie didn’t want to wait for another rideshare. 

“They take forever,” Willie lamented. 

Like she’s a Gen Y-er who’s never experienced the interminability of finding a pay phone, looking up a cab company in the phone book, calling the cab, then waiting for it. 

So Willie walked, figuring a rideshare driver would see her, know she was in need of a ride, and pick her up. 

Because that’s how ridesharing apps work.  

Thus began Willie’s trek. Up Route 263 to Byberry Road. Down Byberry to Davisville. Over the train tracks and past the apartment where that stupid boyfriend with the Color Me Badd jacket lived when we dated. 

Past rush hour commuters hurrying home amid the falling flurries. Past the fire department and, bizarrely, a retirement community. Past a tavern and the diner where Indy and I used to have breakfast.  

Later, we’d find out Willie walked nearly a mile over two hours. 

“I was almost home,” Willie said. “I was fine.” 

“I don’t want to leave her alone,” the police officer said. 

I was kind of hoping that was his overture to adopting Willie. Making Willie his responsibility.  

“I have my coat on,” I told the officer. My dress coat, of course. “I’m 10 minutes away.” 
 
“Take your time,” the officer said, kindly. “We’re watching TV!” 

“I’m going with you,” my husband said, brooking no argument. 

He — he rarely does that. He’s usually content for me to run amok. 

Indy was the same way with Willie. 

Huh. 

Let’s not explore that any further. We can just leave it behind like Willie did with that nail salon. 

Arriving at the Temple of Doom, I instructed my husband to park in the spot for prospective residents. 

It’s the closest visitor parking spot to the front doors. 

But — but someone was already parked there.  

“Hey!” I said. “Maybe the police picked up that guy’s mom too!” 

In Willie’s apartment, I greeted the officer with a firm handshake and solid eye contact. Not a degenerate. Not a degenerate!  

The officer explained how he almost missed Willie, dressed in black on a dark corner. How she was cold when he put her in his car. How she was headed for County Line Road, away from the Temple of Doom. 

“She has Alzheimer’s — ” I began. 

“Who has Alzheimer’s?!” Willie said. 

Oh man. This was burgeoning into a great conversation. 

I laid out the situation for the officer. Willie’s diagnosis. Her refusal to move. Our powerlessness. 

He left. 

I would too, if I was him. I’m me. And I want to leave. Like, all the time. 

“This is bad, Willie,” I said. “This might be out of our hands.” 

And it was.  

When I notified the Temple of Doom the day after Willie’s escapade, they booted her like she was Puck on The Real World. 

I mean, they were very nice. Incredibly nice. They love Willie. 

But for her own safety, Willie had to go. 

My brother told her. We all agree he’s the favorite, able to withstand the blow to his standing. 

As evidenced by Willie’s immediately blaming me for her impending move to assisted living. 

Except everyone agreed Willie should leapfrog right into the dementia care unit at the Temple of Doom. 

And so, one week shy of the two-year anniversary of Indy’s death, I walked Willie to the locked dementia unit. 

I still don’t know how I got her in there. 

But I do know I immediately recognized I’d made a huge mistake. 

Fortunately, Willie is always on top of my mistakes. 

So are her friends. 

Stay tuned.