She took the pill and swallowed it, and I retrieved a photo from my purse and handed it to her.

“This is Christopher,” I said.  “He is six months old.”

She smiled and put her finger on his picture, touching his sweet face.  She made little gurgling sounds.

“He’s a good baby,” I said.  “And smart, too.  He’s already starting to crawl.”

She continued caressing the photo and smiling.  Although I had come on this trip determined to remain emotionally detached from whatever situations I might encounter, the sight of her holding that baby photo and staring at it as if she felt some sort of connection was almost too much for me to handle.

“Let’s get you ready for bed,” I said at last.

She went with me to the bedroom this time, still holding on to the photo.  I found her PJs in the drawer.  “I’ll help you get undressed,” I said.  But she pulled away from me and began tugging on her shirt with an I-can-do-it-myself look on her face.

“I’m sure you can do this without me,” I said, “so I’ll just wait in the other room.”

I returned to the dining room and sat down with Walter.  “She usually does dress herself,” he explained, “but it sometimes takes a while.  And who knows what she’ll put on.  Heaven knows I can’t tell!”

I heard a sobbing then, coming from the bedroom.  I raced in and found her sitting on the bed.  Obviously frustrated, she was half naked, with her PJ bottoms twisted around her ankles.

“It’s OK,” I said.  “We can do this.”  I stooped down and untangled the pants.  Then I held up one pant leg for her.

“Here you go,” I said.

She pushed her foot down, totally missing the hole.  She grunted angrily.

“One more time,” I said, holding the PJs up again.  “Give it the old college try.”  It was an expression I’d heard her use many times in her younger, more verbal years.  A glimmer of recognition crept across her face, and she stared at me with a slight smile for a moment.