Page 27 of That Island Feeling

I locate him in the dining room. It’s almost 5 p.m., so dinner is about to be served. The whiteboard announces tonight’s meal as roast beef with gravy and potatoes, carrots and peas. Ah, he likes the roast beef. This will be an easy battle.

Primary school teaching hours work perfectly with my caring routine. I can come straight from packing up the classroom to feed Dad his dinner and get him ready for bed. On the weekends, I like to spend most of the afternoon here, mindlessly nattering away at him as he watches television and I freshen up his room. If we’re lucky and there’s no pub crawl or big sports game on, Toby will join us.

I spot Dad across the room, already seated at the dining table. He’s wearing one of his ‘special’ checked shirts, a bib made from an old button-up complete with the collar. Mum found the pattern on Etsy to repurpose his old shirts and I’ve kept up the tradition, stitching a few new shirts each month once the food stains or stench become too much. Three years of visiting this place almost daily and the smell hasn’t gotten any better. It’s in my hair, in my car, up my nose – a mixture of must and grease. I try not to think about its true components. If a celebrity were to bottle it, the fragrance would be called ‘Eau de Neglect’. It would also send them bankrupt. This is the best care our family home could buy: a private room in a hundred-bed facility with a leafy window overlooking the car park. But it will never be good enough.

‘Dad, hi,’ I say, leaning down to plant a kiss on his sagging cheek.

‘Andrea?’

It’s just one word, but it triggers a rush of joy. It’s a happy day when he remembers my name. But even when he doesn’t, he knows that I belong to him, that I’m his person. The recognition is in a shaky hand on mine, his calm demeanour as I spoon his dinner into his mouth.

I pull up a chair next to him.

His confused eyes say: What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school? Have you finished your homework?

They’re questions he would mutter when he was more verbal.

‘I thought I’d stop in and have dinner with you,’ I say cheerily, the words reverberating in my head like groundhog day. I watch as a dim light switches on behind his eyes. The window to the soul. He’s still in there somewhere, like a sand crab burrowed a few centimetres down. The burrows become deeper as the tide drifts out, like Dad with each day that passes.

Dinner is served and I start by cutting the meat and vegetables into small, careful pieces. There’s an option to have the food pureed, but I’ve resisted doing that – for Dad’s dignity, yes, but also because I’m not ready to part with this ritual and sense of semi-normalcy.

We had a scare a few months ago when a bit of bread roll became lodged in his throat. My school first-aid training came into play, and I immediately began whacking him forcefully on the back instead of attempting the Heimlich manoeuvre. After five or so strong knocks with the heel of my hand, the piece of soggy bread came right up. I felt guilty for weeks each time I changed his singlet and saw the resulting bruising blooming between his shoulder blades. Still, my solution was to take longer to feed him; to cut the food into even smaller pieces.

I know I need to consider having his meals blitzed when I’m away. Even if Toby is able to make it for dinnertime (he told me he’ll try, but I’m dubious) he’s not going to know exactly how to cut Dad’s food. And there’s no standard unit of measurement for a mouthful. I might have to draw him a to-scale diagram.

Across from us, a woman’s own pureed meal remains untouched. She’s plucking petals from the flowers in the vase in the centre of the table and slipping them into her mouth. I agree that they’re probably the tastier option – who wants to drink their beef?

Still, I pull the vase towards me, out of her reach.

Dad takes half an hour to finish his meal. I feel deeply satisfied at the sight of the plate scraped clean. I use a damp cloth to dab at the gravy spots around his mouth. There’s a dribble down his shirt bib, so I peel it off and help him stand. He clings to my arm as we shuffle down the corridor to his room. Once I’ve settled Dad in his chair, I get started on my usual routine.

First up, I remake the bed, tucking the sheet down past the solid metal. It’s awkward and my hand keeps getting trapped. I resent the rails as much as I’m grateful to them for keeping him safe. They’re a marker that the disease has progressed.

Once I’m finished with the bed, I move on to the TV remote, wiping it down with a disinfectant wipe and positioning it on his bedside table so it’s easy to reach. I’m restocking his treat drawer with a few individually wrapped pieces of chocolate, when he calls out.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, Dad?’ I reply, turning to find those confused eyes.

‘Lily?’

Oh.

This time his bewildered gaze is saying: Where is my wife?

I wish I could tell him that she’s downstairs, making us all mugs of hot chocolate to sip in front of our evening movie.

I cross the room and perch on the end of his bed.

‘She’s not here,’ I say softly.

His head wobbles slightly. Maybe it’s a nod? At least I’m spared the look in his eyes that haunted me in those early months. He would ask me the same question over and over: Where is Lily? and I would leave without telling him.

I couldn’t bring myself to see the expression on my father’s face when I told him that his wife had died. When I finally managed it, rationalising that the thought he’d been abandoned by her was far worse, he didn’t appear to register what I’d said.

‘Lily’s coming?’ he’d responded.

‘Yes, Dad. Later. She’ll be here later.’

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