Page 53 of The Cost of Forgetting You

Heat flares in my cheeks.

“Okay,” I squeak. My throat is so dry. I drink what’s left of my water and try again. “Be safe driving back home.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve certainly got a long, dangerous trek ahead.” He chuckles. “You need help getting up?”

I shake my head. If I’m going to prove I’m still capable of caring for my father, getting out of bed is probably a great place to start. I swing my legs over the side and rise, swaying a little before catching myself on the headboard.

Tru reaches for me. I hold out a hand to stop him. “I’m good. Just needed a second.”

He watches me warily but doesn’t intervene again, even as I wobble across the room to my dresser and pull out an oversize sweater, donning it over my thin shirt. Our gazes meet. I can feel him appraising me. My spine stiffens. I jut my chin out. “I’m ready.”

After a beat of silence, he nods, then turns to stride down the hall. I don’t watch the lazy swing of his hips or study the way his jeans hug the glorious curve of his ass. Not even a little bit out of the corner of my eye.

And no one can prove any differently.

“Night, Henry.”

“Good night,” Dad replies. “Don’t you get sick, too.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Truett tosses a wave in my dad’s direction. His hand claps his thigh on the descent; then he hooks a thumb in his pocket as he glances over his shoulder at me. “Delilah.”

“Good night, Tru.” I bite the inside of my cheek. My gaze flickers between him and Dad. “Thanks again. For everything.”

The noisy summer night floods the room, overpowering even the opening credits of whatever movie Dad has queued up. Truett nods, one foot out the door, and calls, “Anytime.” Then the door is shut, the chorus of insects and animals once again blocked out, and that tightness in my chest releases.

“How are you feeling, sweet pea?”

My head jerks toward my dad. He’s gazing up at me, brows furrowed. His voice is unusually clear, no hesitation or stuttering as he speaks. He sounds like himself. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that it’s two in the morning. I’d skip sleep forever if it meant getting this version of him again.

I realize I’m still hovering in the middle of the awkward space between our living room and kitchen, body angled toward the door Truett disappeared through. I backtrack, making my way around the chaise portion of the couch, and settle in next to my dad. He’s pale like me, with purple bruises blooming beneath his bright blue eyes, but his smile is firm.

“A lot better, Dad. I’m sorry I left you to fend for yourself.”

He blows a raspberry, and it seems so like him that for a second I forget about the shower incident. About the restaurant. I even forget the doctor’s pamphlets, filing it all away somewhere to remember on a different day.

“I was fine. I’ve been sick lots of times before you came along, kiddo. Besides, Roberta showed up just in time.” His expression softens. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were sick, too. I haven’t felt like myself the last couple of days.”

I think of my blowup at the river. At the drool practically spilling out of me at Truett’s proximity this evening. I huff a laugh. “You and me both.”

He chuckles. It’s breathy and tense, but I’ll take it.

“What are we watching?” I glance at the television. Before he even answers, I know what he’s going to say. Jim Carrey’s face fills the screen, framed out by an artificially blue sky.

“The Truman Show,” we say together. Dad smiles and adds, “This was the first date your mother and I had after you were born, did you know that?”

I nod but don’t interrupt. I like when he tells this story.

“You were a few months old when it debuted, and Kimberly’s parents came to town to finally meet you.” He sighs, shaking his head. “It was so mind-blowing the first time we saw it. That he couldn’t realize it was all a make-believe world and everyone knew it but him.”

My pulse slows. I roll my lips. Stare at the screen rather than my dad. Because it is mind-blowing, isn’t it? Even though Dad is aware a lot of the time, in those moments where he’s not… It's like watching him live in a world outside our own. Unlike Truman, none of us locked him inside. Only his mind. The worst kind of betrayal.

I snuggle close to my dad and try to push the thoughts out of my head, but for the rest of the movie, all I can think about is what the doctor said when he pulled me aside after the appointment and tilted his head sympathetically. “Enjoy the moments of clarity as best you can. They come less and less as we move into the later stages.”

I didn’t realize before what a luxury it was to be so unaware of time and the speed at which it passes. Now I can’t look away as each grain of sand slips through the hourglass, marking another second closer to the end.

My eyes are heavy by the time the credits roll. The DVD returns to the home screen, with a still image of Jim Carrey projected on a wall of television monitors. I reach for the remote, prepared to eject the disc, when Dad’s hand lands on mine.

It’s still dark out, but the clock on the oven tells me it won’t be for long. I scan Dad’s expression. His eyes are distant, like he’s seeing me but not really. He smiles softly. “I love this movie. Would you watch it with me, sweet pea?”

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