Page 20 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“Thank you,” I told Sarah. “Thank you for staying and for taking such good care of him.”

“You’re welcome.” Sarah lowered her knitting needles, her brows connecting. “You’re back early. Are you here for the rest of the day?”

I stared at my hands with the odd sense that I’d been holding onto something and lost whatever it was.

“I am. You can go home now.”

Sarah smiled and tucked her knitting into her bag. Then she leaned in and patted Dad on the arm. “Bye, David.”

He glanced at her, his eyes glittering and distant.

“Is Henry okay?” Dad asked.

“Of course he is.” Sarah smiled.

She probably didn’t have a clue who Henry was. Without another word, she headed out, closing the door behind her.

I slipped out of my heels, sinking my nyloned feet into the carpet.

The doctors had told me that forgetting short-term things, yet retaining long-term memories would be common for Dad. If that was the case, then why could he remember his brother’s name and not remember that Uncle Henry had passed away six years ago?

I knelt before Dad in the recliner. How I wished he was who he used to be.

I could use someone sensible to talk to right now.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me.”

“Rosie?”

His distant eyes slid to mine. He’d grown so much older in the past few months since the disease had taken more and more hold of his mind. Gone was the man who’d raised me, the one who’d taught me how to catch a softball in the backyard and dive for homebase. Gone was the man who’d taught me how to change a tire, who’d shared a love forStar Wars,old music, and the Civil War with me.

The thought broke my heart a little more every day.

“Is Henry okay?” he asked again.

“He’s just fine,” I lied.

Dad’s brother, Henry, had died during a small plane crash. That wasn’t a memory I wanted to invoke.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Henry,” Dad said, staring off.

I flattened my lips into a thin smile, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and stood. “Let’s get you some lunch, Dad.”

I helped him to the table and attempted to keep conversation with him as I steamed broccoli and seared a few steaks. I blasted my oldies playlist, a collection of The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Frank Sinatra, and anything that might jog Dad’s memory and bring him joy.

They were some of his favorite artists.

The meat sizzled in the frying pan. Little flecks of oil popped and sputtered, and the scent of meat and spices stirred my empty stomach.

“Steaks are smelling good,” I called over my shoulder.

I knew Dad didn’t comprehend, but the doctors encouraged me to treat him the way I would if he were his normal self.

His shoulders slumped. His hands were clasped in his lap, and he stared at the plastic sunflowers I had in the center of the table and the pile of mail I hadn’t yet taken care of at the table’s far end as though I hadn’t said a single word.

My heart sank. I didn’t need to look in those envelopes to know what they contained. Bills.

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