Page 38 of The Cost of Forgetting You

He smacks his lips and drops his gaze back to the floor. The toe of his shoe scuffs against the carpet. “I like their burgers?”

“You do. And so do I.”

He shakes his head. “What’s wrong with me, sweet pea?”

I study my father. The gray at his temples that makes him look so distinguished. The slight bend to his nose. His lips part, exposing that crooked front tooth. It’s the most jarring part of this whole thing. That he can look so much the same and internally be wasting away.

At his appointment today, he told the doctor I was taking care of him for now, but that he will eventually go into a care facility. He’s been agitated the past few days, and every time, as soon as the moment passes, he either begs me for forgiveness or has forgotten it happened altogether. When he does remember, he explains this is exactly why he can’t stay home. Why he won’t.

I assured the doctor this was incorrect, that I’d be caring for Dad till the very end. But when he handed me a prescription sheet for a new medication to add to Dad’s regime, there were a handful of pamphlets beneath it. Brochures for facilities in the surrounding area. It took everything in me not to dump the stack in the garbage on the way out.

I clear my throat. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Dad. Just a rough day, that's all.”

Dad fiddles with the toothpick dispenser but doesn’t comment.

Images of Nana in her room at her facility flit through my mind. The cold, sterile walls with generic hotel art and the floral love seat where she’d always be sitting when we arrived. I try to imagine my dad in a place like that, and a shiver runs down my spine. Sure, she had nurses on call and someone there to remind her to eat and bathe. Dad and Mom were busy raising me, working full-time. They couldn’t do that for her. But with my job’s flexibility and Roberta’s help…

I square my shoulders against the mental onslaught of fears. Insecurities. Too many damn questions to count. At the end of the day, he’s my father. No matter what, it’s my job to take care of him. To do what’s right. After everything, I owe him that much.

“Here you go.” The waitress offers a tight-lipped smile as she places the to-go containers on the hostess stand. “That’ll be $24.15.”

I fish a few bills out of my wallet and place them in her open hand. “Keep the change. And thanks so much.”

We lock gazes, and she gives me an empathetic nod. I look away so she won’t see the fresh tears welling up in my eyes.

While Dad picks at his dinner, I busy myself with small chores in between encouraging him to keep eating. I straighten up the living room. Do a load of laundry. Divvy his new meds into the pill organizer and add a note to Truett’s handwritten instructions. Anything to keep my mind occupied. Between the doctor’s visit, the episode at dinner, and my own unrelenting brain, it’s all too much. Since I got here, I’ve done everything to convince myself that Dad’s diagnosis is mild. Maybe even a mistake. But the more time that passes, the more it becomes clear. And that clarity is cutting me straight through.

As I clean up the remnants of our dinner—which took two hours to complete as Dad went back and forth over whether he did, in fact, like burgers—he opens and closes each kitchen cabinet in turn. I sweep the last of my stodgy, half-eaten burger into the garbage (it’s hard to have an appetite when you’re focused on getting someone else to eat) and suck in a breath.

“Can I help you find anything?”

He scratches the back of his head. “Did you feed Skittles?”

I close my eyes, chest deflating, and nod.

A low grumble of understanding, and then he turns toward the hall. “Guess I better shower.”

He shuffles past the bathroom, then retraces his steps, head hung low. I wait with bated breath for the water to start running. For the charts to do their job. For the tension to eek out of my spine at last.

After a beat, the hot water screams to life. I let myself exhale.

Then there’s a clatter, followed by mumbled cursing. I take a nervous step forward, and then another. Something else falls. A shampoo bottle, by the sounds of it. Anxiety ripples through me. What if he’s fallen? What if he’s hurt?

I jump as something solid hits the other side of the door. My hand closes around the doorknob. It’s locked. “Dad? Do you need me?”

More mumbling. I rap my fist against the hardwood.

“Dad!”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

I jump backward, my back slamming into the wall opposite the bathroom. A searing pain reverberates through my shoulder, but it’s nothing compared to the one in my heart.

I don’t know if you ever get used to your normally gentle, encouraging parent screaming at you like this. There’s so much vitriol in his voice that it disturbs my sense of equilibrium. I feel like I’m falling, though I’m safely braced against the wall. Trembling, I step forward and flatten my palms over the door, ignoring the erratic breaths forcing their way out of my lungs.

“I can help, Dad.” My voice is softer now. I’m just as afraid to be let in as I am not to. “But you’ve gotta unlock the door.”

“I don’t want you!” His voice is desperate, like the cries of a trapped animal.

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