Page 140 of The Cost of Forgetting You

It’s not at home with me, but it’s good enough.

I reach for Dad’s hand and squeeze. “Ready.”

A gentle smile crinkles the softest parts of his face. “Okay.”

The foyer is lined with black-and-white tiles that remind me of an old manor house from the British drama television Dad and I have taken to watching when he can’t fall asleep. His newest meds are supposed to help with that, but they either haven’t kicked in yet or he’s immune. Our shoes scuff and squeak as we make our way to the front desk. A young lady with tightly coiled hair and skin as dark as umber glances up at us and offers a bright smile from behind the desk.

“You two here for the tour?”

Her voice has a soft twang to it, the kind that embraces you from the inside out. I find myself leaning in close, elbows braced on the smooth wooden countertop, while Dad glances around with his mouth popped open.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re the Ridgefields.”

The corner of Dad’s mouth twitches. A smile that matches my own. We’re the Ridgefield family. The two of us. And no matter what Mom has tried to make me believe, there’s nothing sad about that.

“Perfect. My name is Kesha. I’m one of the care coordinators here, and I’ll be showing you around today.” She steps out from behind the counter and offers her hand to me and my father in turn. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”

The way she smiles, the soft grip in her hand. It reminds me so much of Roberta. I text her to tell her so, and my heart warms when she responds that she’s proud of me for doing what’s right even when it’s hard.

I still don’t know about right, but it makes me feel like everything might at the very least be okay.

We tour the memory care facility first. I imagine it’s so we don’t end on such a sad note. It’s clean, well-appointed, and the staff seem nice, but it’s still depressing. I’m glad it’s brief.

We take the wisteria-lined path back to the main building, and there we see a small movie theater, salon, and a room they’ve decorated to look like a soda shop. You can tell the intended resident is a lot older than my father by the choice of decor and movies on the roster, which only adds to the unfairness of it all. But Dad takes it all in stride, even asking for a photo with a cutout of a woman sporting big breasts and a tray of milkshakes in hand that they keep propped behind the counter of the soda shop. I snap the shot with tears in my eyes.

The residents’ rooms are more like apartments, with small kitchenettes that host mini fridges and countertops but nothing that can catch fire, and a lounge area that leads into the bedroom and bath. Dad sprawls on the couch and props his feet up. “I could get used to this,” he says, grinning.

Kesha laughs good-naturedly. I bury my hands in my jean pockets and force a chuckle.

“We’ll check out the dining room last. Lunch will be served soon, so you can meet a few of the residents while you’re there!” Kesha tosses this over her shoulder as we stride down the hall, past framed images of beaches and faded florals and one of a dog and a cat snuggling close. It reminds me of the doctor’s office, and I can’t help but grimace.

The place is nice for what it is. I understand that. But I can’t possibly imagine driving off and leaving my dad here alone. That is, until we step into the dining room.

The chairs and tables where they serve food are offset from the main room in an atrium, with light pouring in from all sides. An older woman and gentleman sit at a white-clothed table, chatting animatedly. There’s a family in the farthest table. They have a little boy, about six years old, who plays checkers with the resident they must be visiting. The kid skips his checker an absurd number of times, then collects everything in its path. His laughter is maniacal. The man who plays opposite him grabs a white napkin from the table and waves it in the air in defeat, which only makes the little boy laugh harder.

My gaze skirts past all of it, taking in the joy and normalcy and life that thrums in the atrium, before settling on a sleek baby grand piano standing sentinel in the main room.

Dad notices it at the same time as me. His lips audibly pop as they part, his jaw slackened. I try to meet his gaze, but he turns to Kesha, who’s watching his reaction with a raised brow.

“Can I…?” His words drop off, though I don’t know if he’s forgotten or is simply too thrilled to bother saying play.

“Go right ahead, Mr. Ridgefield.”

“Henry,” he corrects in a soft voice. Then he meets my gaze. “Will you…?”

So he has forgotten. Sometimes certain words slip through the cracks in his mind, and it can take days for him to find them again. If he ever does.

“You want me to play with you?” My voice wavers, tripping over the emotions left behind from our tour. “I haven’t since I was a kid.”

“That’s okay.” He offers me his hand. “I can teach you.”

The bench creaks beneath our weight. My hands tremble, awareness of how many eyes are turning toward us making me regret agreeing. But excitement sparkles in Dad’s gaze, holds his head up. He dusts his fingers over the keys with reverence, then meets my nervous stare with a wink meant to ease.

“I don’t remember much,” I admit.

“Don’t worry. I’m a good teacher.”

He starts slow, with a nursery rhyme that makes the elderly couple nearest us giggle and clap. I mimic his movements, letting those long-forgotten memories float to the surface. There was a time when I thought I could’ve been as talented as him. I’d tinker with his keyboard while he tuned his guitar. I even tried to take lessons with Lucy, an excuse to spend more time with her. But Mom never liked the whole music thing, and I wanted to make her happy, so I quit. Now, as my fingers drum along the keys, I wonder why I never cared about my own happiness.

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