Page 3 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Even so, he could’ve tried. He could’ve reached out. But he didn’t. So why, after all this time, should I care what he has to say?

Another deep breath. This time when I exhale, I send all my expectations out with the air. If you don’t want anything, it can’t be taken away. Without hope, there’s no disappointment.

I kneel by the desk and flip my phone over. The screen lights up. The voicemail is still paused where I left it. I sink my teeth into my lower lip and press play.

“I’m sorry to call after all this time. I wanted to give you space like you asked. I wanted… Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m just sorry. I wish…I wish I had some better news, but the doctors… Things are getting worse. Not better. And you’re my next of kin, sweet pea, so I needed to let you know that I’m sick?—”

I hit pause again. The phone screen blurs. What started as simple tears dissolves into full-blown sobbing. Sick? How could he be sick? He’s forty-five years old, for Christ’s sake.

I was supposed to have more time.

More time to be angry. To be resentful if I feel like it. To actually figure out what the fuck I want without Mom’s opinions overshadowing any of my own. Time to start over.

When I press play again, my finger trembles.

“It’s called fronto…fron…ah, hell.” There’s the sound of papers shuffling in the background, followed by a distant voice. My dad mutters something to the person before speaking into the receiver. “I can’t remember what it’s called, and that’s the whole problem. I have what Nana had. I’ve just got a head start, I guess.”

My mind finishes what he couldn’t. Frontotemporal dementia. My heart stops, and it’s all I can do to hold on to the phone with my shaking hand.

Nana, my dad’s mother, passed away when I was eight years old. She lived with us at first, but most of my memories of her come after, when she had already moved to a memory care facility. By that time she no longer knew who we were. She was young to have dementia, they told me. But she was still in her sixties. Ancient to a little kid.

Not like my dad.

“I just wanted to tell you I love you. And that I’m sorry for…for so much. That’s all. You don’t have to do anything for me. I’m getting it all figured out. Well, me and that Parker boy…Truett. You remember him?”

Truett’s face flashes in my mind. A million iterations. All the ways I’ve known him. He’s six and gap-toothed and dressed like a superhero for the school trunk-or-treat. He’s twelve and skinning his knee from attempting a jump on his bike. He’s just shy of seventeen and kissing me beneath a willow tree. Then two weeks later, he’s turning his head, pretending not to see me crying in a field of cruel teenagers.

That movement—my oldest friend, my first love, refusing to even bear witness. It cut deeper than the others ever could.

My cheeks heat. Why is Truett Parker of all people helping out my dad?

“Anyway, I love you. I always have, Delilah. And I… I’d love to see you. But if I don’t hear from you, I’ll understand. Just wanted to be the one to tell you. Be good, sweet pea. Always be good.”

A stilted, robotic voice lets me know I can press one to play the message again or press two to delete it. I choose neither. I just stare at the phone until the screen goes dark, mind racing yet staying stock-still all at once.

I don’t know how much time passes with me kneeling on the floor. Enough that my tears dry and the carpet permanently imprints on my knees. Enough that my phone lights up once more, this time with my mom’s face plastered across the screen.

“Hello,” I croak, my voice fractured from disuse.

“Delilah, can you come get us?” A fit of giggles fills my ear. I jerk the phone away to spare my hearing. “Debbie and I are a bit tipsy.”

That knot in my throat grows larger. I peel myself off the ground and swallow hard. This is real life. I’m not in a dream. I have to act normal when nothing feels normal anymore.

I can do this. I can take care of my mom when my whole world has just fallen apart beneath me. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“On my way.”

“Thank you!” she singsongs. I hang up as they dissolve into laughter once more.

Debbie lives on the opposite side of town, so thirty minutes pass before my mother and I are alone in the car together. She adjusts my right air vent to face her, adding to the two already on her side. “Good Lord, it’s already so hot out and it’s only May.”

Sweat beads at my temples. Collects in the bends of my arms. I think about making small talk. I really do. But the minute I open my mouth to comment on the weather, out slips, “Dad’s sick.”

Her hand pauses over the temperature dial. I feel her gaze land on my face, but keep mine trained on the asphalt ahead.

“Well.” She wets her lips audibly. “I didn’t know you were in contact with Henry.”

“I wasn’t,” I say too quickly. I shift in my seat. “I’m not. He left me a voicemail today.”

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