Page 12 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Typical small-town mindset. I’ll bet the locking mechanism is rusted over from lack of use. “I figured as much,” I say, chuckling. Even without looking, the image of his mangled car flits across my mind. I shake my head, slip into my shoes, and follow my dad.

Chapter Four

Delilah

At first things are awkward between Dad and me. Stilted. I know this house but not his life in it. Not since I went away, at least. The floorboard still creaks, but we don’t talk about my nine-year-long absence. The pots are still in the same place, but I don’t know how to ask if Lucy’s going to drop by any minute. Don’t know if I even have the right to. Instead I glean little pieces of information as he drops them, hoping soon they’ll add up to something resembling the truth.

I gather that he no longer works outside the home, whether by choice or by necessity, I’m not sure. On Saturday he gives a makeshift piano lesson using the keyboard in his study. The poor kid has an Alfalfa-style cowlick and can't play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” for the life of him. Nevertheless, each time I pass the cracked-open door, I find my dad smiling ear to ear.

The kid’s mom waits in our kitchen, smiling at me piteously each time we make eye contact. “Such a shame,” she murmurs. Enough times to make my blood boil, but I try to ignore it. It’s only when she shifts to questions about me, saying she didn’t realize Henry had a daughter, that I retreat to my room permanently.

That afternoon Dad stands at the door, watching the woman drive away with her son.

“I’m going back,” he says, shaking his head. “Lessons at home work for now, but when I’m better, I’m going back.”

Neither of us point out the obvious. That there is no getting better from dementia. As Truett so kindly pointed out, it’s only going to get worse. But if Dad is willing to ignore that fact, then so am I. For now.

It’s hard to believe he’s sick. Not just because I don’t want it to be true, though I’m sure that’s part of it, but also because so much of him seems the same. Same dry sense of humor. Same long, rambling stories about students’ antics. It’s only when I’m going over his pill bottles, learning each med and the times when he has to take them, that the severity really slips in. Truett’s familiar scrawl blurs when a tear falls from my cheek onto his written instructions, meant to help Dad keep track of his medications. Dad stood over the instructions, squinting at them for several slow minutes, before finally glancing up at me with fear in his eyes and asking for help.

I see the cracks in his facade in the way he trails off midsentence and then forgets the topic entirely. Or trips over words like they taste foreign on his tongue. Last night he stood in front of the bathroom door for so long that I passed him on my way to my room to change and again ten minutes later when I emerged to watch TV in the living room. The second time, I touched his shoulder to ask if he needed help, and he sucked in a breath. When he glanced at me, his blue eyes were frantic.

Then he flushed, muttered something unintelligible, and retreated to his bedroom.

I turned on an episode of Schitt’s Creek and cried softly into the scratchy burlap throw pillow Mom bought sophomore year, with black lettering on the front declaring us the Ridgefield Family.

Some family.

Sunday night I find him sitting in the driver’s seat of his mangled car, staring blankly through the windshield at the house. Panic lances through me, but I force in small breaths, climbing into the passenger side but leaving the door open to let cool evening air in.

“I came out of the bathroom and couldn’t find you.” I tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear and frown. “You had me worried there for a second.”

“I thought I had a concert to get to, but now I’m not so sure.”

I’m ashamed to say I glance toward Truett’s house, momentarily wishing I could ask him what to do. It’s a weakness, depending on him. One I thought I kicked long ago.

Dad tears his gaze from the windshield, landing on me with a spark of clarity that I sense more than see. “I’m so glad you’re here, sweet pea.”

I don’t know what it is about sitting in the cab of a car with another person that makes confessing your fears seem so much less daunting, but in the dull twilight of the late summer evening I find myself whispering, “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

His brow furrows. “Why not?”

Because I left. Because of my letter. Because I wasn’t here when you needed me to be.

All the anger at him has leaked out of me in the face of his illness, and it turns out sadness was the layer beneath, with guilt not far behind.

“It’s been nine years,” I say instead, unable to give voice to those other vulnerabilities, yet summing them up in four short words all the same.

“It’s never too late.” His voice grows thick, swelling with emotion.

I feel a responding thud in my heart, where no beat should exist, and rub a hand against my chest to dull it. “What happens now?”

He blinks. Runs his teeth across his bottom lip. In the evening light, the silver strands in his hair glimmer brightly, reflecting the shimmer of the moon. He looks so young still, and so otherworldly, that I can hardly believe he’s sick.

“Nana remembered us for a very long time.” His speech slips on some words. Drags out others. But it’s subtle. For now. “Talking… that was hard for her. More so at the end.” He laughs softly at a memory playing out in his mind even as a tear pricks the corner of his eye. “She thought we were all stealing from her. Constantly accusing us of taking things she misplaced.”

“So I need to maintain a good alibi, is what you’re saying?”

He snorts. The light catches on his crooked front tooth. “Exactly.”

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