She held onto his left hand with both of hers as he led her from the car. She stood as bent as a tree clinging to a wind-battered cliff, her body folded forward, which prevented her from seeing more than a few feet ahead without craning her neck. She had been the president of their high school class, and he had been the school’s star athlete. The only way to tell that now was by looking at their yearbook. Some evenings, he would show her pictures of them when they were young, or of their daughters, who were grown, married, and had moved far away. He’d talk to her about the friends they’d played bridge with and of vacations they had taken over the years. He had hoped reminiscing would awaken memories. But, for her, such things had grown too distant. And the further away she drifted, the more alone he felt.

Sliding glass doors opened as the couple approached the building. She hesitated, startled, and clutched his hand more tightly. He smiled and told her that everything was okay; he often did these days. They walked into the lobby, his squeaky rubber-soled shoes announcing their arrival. The receptionist, a handsome, sturdy woman in her mid-forties, with skin the color of lightly toasted bread, looked up from her paperwork and removed her reading glasses.

“Good morning.” Her smile echoed in her tone of voice. “You must be the Riordans?” The man nodded. “I’m Marta Suarez. Nice to meet you.” She came out from behind her desk to join the couple. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

He mumbled something incomprehensible. The woman said nothing. “Won’t you follow me?” She led the two down a short hallway and into a room with a gas fireplace, chairs, and a beige sofa. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. Make yourselves comfortable.”

They sat together on the couch, his knees pressed against the laminated coffee table littered with outdated magazines. After a few minutes, he walked to a window that overlooked the parking lot and located their car. He turned to look at his wife, and wiped his nose with a wrinkled handkerchief. This was the woman who had given him children, taught him to enjoy listening to symphonies, and had embraced his love of fly fishing. Who used to boast of getting him to wear ties and jackets, and exchanging her dresses and heels for waders and rubber boots. Seeing her this diminished, and hearing her labored and shallow breathing pained him. He returned to the couch, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. She cocked her head, her dark eyes dull and barely contained by their sagging lower lids.

“Do you remember why we’re here?” he asked, his voice deep and wavering, his vocal cords as palsied as his hands. Though she nodded, he doubted that she did. The two faced one another. She placed her hand on top of his. Had he been wearing a sport coat and she a corsage, they might have been those high school kids in the yearbook, on their way to a prom.

“Good morning. Nice to see you again,” the doctor said, as she entered the room. A nurse hung back and stood in the doorway. The identification tag attached to the doctor’s starched white lapel read, “Dr. Deena Drummonds, Medical Supervisor.” While the alliteration of her name pleased him, he was of a generation that expected doctors to be men and women to be nurses. The doctor tucked the back of her white lab coat beneath her as she sat and scooted her chair forward. She looked at the woman with an earnest expression.

“We’re very glad to have you joining us.” She spoke energetically with a clipped Caribbean accent. The old woman returned the doctor’s gaze without expression or recognition. The doctor shifted her position and directed her words to the man. “Nurse Beatrice can show your wife to her room.”

The nurse walked over and gently took the old woman’s hand from atop her husband’s. The woman looked bewildered but offered no resistance. He leaned forward and kissed his wife’s forehead.

“Her suitcase is in the car,” he said. The nurse held out her hand to receive a key the old man struggled to slide off his key ring. “It’s the dark blue Ford in the first row.”

Once the nurse led the woman away, Dr. Drummonds returned her attention to the man. “I realize how difficult this is.”

He sighed. “Next month, we’ll have been married fifty-three years.” “Please know that you can visit whenever you’d like,” the doctor continued. “Be assured that your wife will receive excellent care here. She will have our full attention.” The doctor leaned forward. “This is a loving and compassionate thing that you are doing.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” The man issued a bitter laugh. “Feels like an abandonment.” He knew that he was no longer able to care for his wife safely. He struggled to get her in and out of the shower, having fallen with her several times, once hitting his head. She would wander off whenever a door was left unlocked. “These were supposed to be our golden years,” he said, his eyes downcast. “We’d talked about traveling. She wanted to visit museums, and go to concerts.” He shook his head. “I thought gold didn’t tarnish.”

“Would you like to go upstairs to see how she is settling in?”

The man nodded in resignation. He stood, working to straighten his aching back before shuffling into the hall.

He had been shown her room on their initial visit to the facility, but saw it now as if for the first time. The room had an institutional appearance but was not unpleasant. There was a single bed with side rails, an oak dresser, and a small desk with a mirror behind it. The sash window was covered by a frilled curtain, and the private bathroom had grab bars and adaptive equipment.

His wife sat in a turquoise reclining chair in the far corner, swallowed by its large cushions. An attendant wearing white pants and a jacket was talking with her in an animated manner.

“That’s Julio,” the doctor said. “Our residents adore him.”

Julio danced around the room as he unpacked the woman’s bag, hung her clothes in the closet, and placed her things in the dresser, singing a little song to her in Spanish. The woman looked toward her husband, who walked over and kissed her before leaving the room. He did not look back.

The doctor followed him into the hall, where he leaned against the wall alongside his wife’s door.

“What a nice man. Do I know him?” he heard his wife ask. The man’s shoulders slumped as he listened to Julio sing to his wife. When he heard her laughter, he began to cry.

The doctor reached over and gently placed her hand on his arm. The man shook his head, returning the doctor’s gaze with relief. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that laugh,” he said.