rounded, but his smile and the dimple in his chin were exactly as she’d pictured them.
For a few moments she sat there saying nothing, allowing the image to be forever ingrained in her mind. With a grin that stretched the full width of her face, she gave a yelp and told Tom she’d found what they’d been looking for.
The article spoke of how Dewey Hobbs, injured at the battle of Argonne, had served as a medical aide in France then returned to America, obtained his medical degree from Johns Hopkins University, and interned under the tutelage of Dr. Robert Somme. The article gave no home address but said the newly-established offices of Dr. Dewey Hobbs would be located on Winchester Avenue.
Margaret looked up at Tom hopefully. “Don’t you think this means Oliver Hobbs has to be my brother’s son?”
Tom smiled. “It certainly seems so.”
Margaret glanced at her watch: 1:30. “Maybe if we go back early…”
Tom shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
They found a luncheonette at the far end of Central Avenue and settled into a booth.
There were times in Margaret’s life when she’d wanted time to slow down, when she’d wanted a moment to last longer or a special day to go on forever. Now when she wanted it to hurry along, the minutes crept by like an old man with a heavy sack on his back.
After what seemed like an almost endless wait it was 3:30, and they were back in Dr. Hobbs’s reception room. A man who Margaret could have easily mistaken for Dewey was waiting for them.
“I understand you’re my dad’s sister,” he said and smiled. “Maggie, isn’t it?”
Maggie. No one but Dewey called her that. He’d remembered, remembered and told his son.
Oliver was older than Dewey had been when she’d last seen him, but the look she remembered was there. The crooked smile, the lock of hair falling carelessly onto his forehead, the dimpled chin. Her heart swelled, and the tears she’d held back for so many years filled her eyes. Reaching out, she took his hand in hers.
“You look a lot like your dad.”
He laughed. “So I’ve been told.”
Tom stepped forward, introduced himself, and explained how they’d been searching for Margaret’s siblings. They shook hands, and Oliver invited them back into his office. As they walked back, Oliver asked if she’d seen Aunt Nell or Uncle Edward.
“Not yet,” Margaret said. “Dewey and I were the closest. I thought once I found him, he could help me locate the others.”
“I’m not sure how much help Dad will be, but I can give you the addresses for Aunt Nell and Uncle Edward. They live not far from here in Huntington. Uncle Edward is a lawyer, happily married, no children. Aunt Nell married Kevin Fisher and they have four girls, each lovelier than the other…”
Oliver’s office was small, but it had a welcoming feel. The high-backed chair had worn spots on the arms, and on the mahogany desk sat a pile of folders and an assortment of family pictures. Bookcases lined the wall behind him, and in front of the desk were two plush leather chairs.
“Have a seat.” He motioned to the chairs and asked if they would like a cold drink.
“I can’t wait to see your dad,” Margaret said. “How is he doing?”
Oliver picked up one of the framed photographs on the desk and handed it to her. “This one was taken three years ago. It’s Mom and Dad with my sister, Maggie, and me.”
“Maggie?”
“Named after you,” Oliver said and smiled.
Margaret took the photograph from him and studied it. At first glance, Dewey looked as she might have expected: the dimple and his hair turned silver. Yet something was different. His smile was flat without mischief or happiness in it. She set the picture back on the desk.
“Your sister is beautiful, and it’s a lovely photograph,” she said, “but your dad doesn’t seem to be smiling. Is he sick?”
“Not sick in the traditional sense.” Oliver took a deep breath and leaned forward with his hands folded in front of him. “Dad’s health is good, but his memory is failing. Sometimes he remembers things, and other times he doesn’t. He often speaks of the past, so I’m hopeful he’ll remember who you are.”
Margaret sat stunned for a moment. “Everybody forgets things; isn’t that just part of getting older? Last week I forgot where I put my car keys and—”
“It’s worse than that. Sometimes Dad forgets what year it is or who Aunt Nell is or where he lives.” Oliver’s