Page 20 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Solid as a rock. Over the years Dad learned to do the same. This dance we both knew despite never being taught the choreography. Behave as expected. Don’t disagree. Keep your true feelings buried deep down, and everything will be all right.

We spent so much time avoiding her breakdowns that neither of us got to have any. I’ve only ever seen my dad cry once, that night on his knees as he begged forgiveness. I didn’t know what to do then, and I certainly don’t now.

Even as panic rises like a tide in my chest, Roberta remains peaceful, although her face is etched with grief. She continues rubbing my dad’s hand. His sobs dissolve into hiccups, then into deep, uneven breaths. Finally he tears his eyes away from that distant hill and looks at Roberta and then me, face turning a mottled red.

“I’ve got— I’ve got to…” He rubs his lips together. I lurch forward like I can tug the words out of him. This I can do, assisting with a problem. It’s the raw, unfixable emotions I don’t know how to handle.

But he stands, shaking his head, and walks toward his room. Once inside, he slams the door behind him, and quiet descends in his wake.

It feels like one. A wake. Like we’ve buried Lucy right here in this room.

Roberta’s gaze remains locked on his door. “Sometimes it’s like it happened yesterday, even for me.”

I plant my hands on the kitchen island, desperately needing to anchor myself to something. Anything.

Lucy Parker is dead. Truett’s mom is dead.

“Delilah, do you want to talk about it?”

Yeah, I want to talk about it. I turn to Roberta, blinking her into focus. Tears stream down my cheeks and pool in the hollow of my collarbones. I’d wipe them away, but I’m pretty sure my hands on the countertop are the only thing holding me upright.

“How could you do that?” The words spew out of me, but they lack any venom. I don’t have it in me. I’m barely standing as it is.

Roberta hardly reacts. Her gaze remains soft. She crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands, resting them on her knee. “Do what?”

“‘Do what?’ Do that!” I point to my dad’s door. “He clearly didn’t remember! When he and Truett—” My God, Truett. I press the heel of my hand against my chest. “You broke his heart all over again.”

Her head tilts, lips pressed into a frown. “He may not have remembered outright that she died, but he knew something was wrong. He cried when I first arrived, too, because he remembers how he felt around me last, even if he couldn’t put it into words right at that moment. Sometimes people with dementia benefit from avoiding the subject, but sometimes they know something is off and they need to be allowed to grieve just like we do. Since he asked me directly if she was gone, it would’ve upset him more to lie.”

“But Tru lied.” Every word is an effort. I focus on each syllable, forcing them out through the driest throat I’ve ever experienced. “Earlier, when they were talking, he said… he said she was on the hilltop, just enjoying the day. Why would he do that?”

Something flashes in her eyes. One of many stories I missed out on by being away. “He didn’t know any better. And maybe he needed to pretend for himself, too.”

“H-how do I know? How do I know what to do?” My face crumples. Roberta stands and crosses the room, offering her open arms to me. I collapse into her. My forehead rests against the soft skin of her neck. My tears soak into the rough fabric of her polo shirt. Her hand moves in steady, slow circles over my back. I suck in a breath, bracing myself to tell her a truth I haven’t even admitted to myself. “I’m so out of my depth, Roberta. I have no clue what I’m doing here.”

Somehow it’s easier giving it to a stranger. Someone who doesn’t know me well enough to hold it against me.

She pulls back and places a warm palm on each of my cheeks. “You’re here for your dad. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.” Her gaze levels with mine, two big, brown eyes brimming with empathy. “Have you ever been around someone with any form of dementia?”

I nod my head in her hands. “My nana had it. She died when I was a kid.” That fact feels too fragile, too close to home. It’s easier to think of Dad’s condition as a change in circumstances than the beginning of an ending. A semicolon rather than a period. Saying it aloud, even in reference to my grandmother, feels like I’m jinxing us all. “She didn’t remember any of us, though. Dad’s isn't that bad.”

Roberta’s lips flatten. I glance away as best I can so I don’t see the pity in her gaze.

“He’s been fine for the most part all weekend. I don’t know what’s wrong with him today. He’s not an angry person, I promise.” I open my mouth to continue but stop short. My gaze cuts to the pill organizer on the counter, and the heat drains from my face. “I forgot his meds. Oh my God, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“It’ll be all right.” She rubs my shoulder, then reaches for the pills. “These things happen. You’re only human, Delilah.”

I can’t afford to be.

“The meds will help. He also might just be having a bad day. That’s how things go with dementia. Things change by the day, by the hour even.” She wipes a tear from my cheek with her thumb. “I’ll be here with you every step, Delilah. I have some resources I’ll give you to study up on. Everything it means to have his diagnosis, to be a caretaker. And you can call or text me whenever you want.”

It all sounds so comforting. And so expensive. I choke on the knot rising in my throat. We’ve delved too far into our emotions; I’ve lost sight of what I came out here to say. I need to get back to stable ground. Back to the task at hand.

“How much are we paying you?”

She balks. It was probably the last thing she expected me to say, but I can’t help it. Her knowledge, her experience, the resources… all that comes at a cost. And Mom made it clear I was on my own coming here, for however long I stay.

“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be rude. But I don’t know if we—if I—can afford all this. Dad’s doing a few lessons here and there, but who knows how long that’ll last. I’ll need to help him apply for disability, and I make decent money but not stellar?—”

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