Page 74 of A Taste of Chardonnay

His eyes met mine, and for a second, I didn’t even know if he recognized me.

“You!” His voice was low and accusing. “You left me with athief. She tried to rob me blind.”

“From what it looks like, she was trying to cook you dinner.”

“Liar!” he screamed, fist coming up. A familiar chill of fear ran through my spine, but I wasn’t a child anymore. I was bigger than him, stronger. “Put your fucking fist down. We’re not doing this.”

“I’ve been robbed!”

“No, you haven’t. I need you to go into the den while I clean up this damn mess.”

Fury burned hot in his eyes, but beneath that, I could see something entirely different. Fear. Confusion. A man trapped in a mind that no longer made sense to him.

I didn’t want to be sympathetic, but he was barefoot, and there was glass.

Closing my eyes for a second, I inhaled and stepped toward him with my hands up. “Everything is exactly where you left it. No one took anything, and you are safe. I promise you.”

He shook his head almost violently, a panicked lilt in his voice. “No, no. I saw him. I know I did.”

“Look around. Everything is exactly how you left it. Everything.” I darted my arm out to the overturned kitchen chair, the glass on the ground, but also the pots hanging from their hooks, the microwave on its cart, the keys on the table. “It’s all here.”

He took in the room, eyes darting from object to object. He gripped the end of the table as if he needed it to hold him upright. “I… I don’t…” Confusion marred his features, twisting the deep lines in his forehead. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“I know.” I stepped toward him, not wanting to hug him but feeling drawn to comfort him in some way. “But I’m real. I’m here.”

“You should go.” He gave a sharp nod of refusal and motioned wildly toward the door. “Before I say or do something I’ll regret.”

I wanted to say it was too late for that. Thirty-nine years too late, but he was a shell of the man I knew so long ago. “Don’t worry about it. Go sit and watch TV or something while I clean this up.”

His shoulders slumped in defeat, an invisible weight too heavy for him to carry. With a solemn nod, he turned away.

I found a broom and dustpan on the side of the fridge and cleaned the glass. I turned the stovetop on. The soup was already compiled, it just needed to finish cooking. Dishes were stacked in the sink, so I rolled my sleeves up and got to work. After, I shot Ray a text, asking if he’d be able to stop by tomorrow morning since my morning looked as if it would be spent on the phone, trying to find a replacement—someone who had experience with dementia patients.

Ray responded almost immediately with an affirmative.

When I was finished with the kitchen, I went into the den and found Ron on the couch, eyes closed, Fanny in his lap. Fanny spotted Jack and jumped from Ron, taking off. Ron startled awake.

“Brady, when did you get here?” he asked.

I ran a hand over my face and sat on the loveseat. “Just now,” I said. If he couldn’t remember the shitshow from before, I didn’t feel like reliving it. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I slipped it out.

Chardonnay’s name flashed on the screen. “Shit.”

I tapped into the text.

Chardonnay: I’m knocking and you’re not answering. Where are you?

I stood up to call her.

“Are you doing anything for the fourth?” Ron asked.

“The fourth of what?”

“The Fourth of July. I thought we could shoot off some fireworks like we did when you were a kid.”

“Jesus.” I rubbed a hand over my face. We were coming up on December for fuck's sake, and the last time we shot off fireworks, I was five and burned myself when he didn’t wait for me to take cover and shot it off in my direction. He hadn’t done it on purpose. A drunken fool mistake is all it was, but I hated fireworks after that.

“It’s November,” I said. “Thanksgiving just passed.”

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