Page 20 of Home Changes
Seth stepped closer. “Nobody took him. He’s been gone a long time.” A beat passed. Then two.
And Chester’s face crumpled. His anger dissolved, replaced by something lost and frightened. “I can’t find the damn barn,” he whispered. “Where’s the barn, Seth?”
“It’s okay. I got you, Pops.”
Seth slid an arm gently around his father’s shoulders and slowly turned him back toward the house. “Let’s go home. I’ll get you some coffee.”
Chester muttered under his breath the entire way back. His tone was rough, disoriented, and agitated. Seth said nothing. He just listened. Each mumbled word was proof his father didn’t understand where he was or what had just happened. When they stepped into the kitchen, Chester walked to the fridge, opened it, and tried to place the bridle inside.
Seth moved to stop him, reaching for the reins.
“I’m not stupid!” Chester shouted, jerking the leather out of his hands. “I know what I’m doing!”
Seth clamped his jaw shut, the muscles in his neck locked tight. God, he wanted to yell. Slam a door. Shout at the unfairness of it all. Shake something until the fear shook loose from his chest. But he didn’t. He breathed. In. Out. Count to ten. Then,in the quietest voice he could manage, he said, “I know, Dad. I know. Let’s sit down, all right?”
Eventually, Chester did. He dropped into his recliner with a weight that seemed to deflate him completely. His hands shook. His breath came shallow. His eyes stared past the window, vacant and unfocused.
Something had been taken from Chester that morning, and Seth felt like he was standing in the rubble of that violence, powerless to rebuild it.
He brought a cup of coffee and handed it to Chester, who stared at it for a long moment before taking a sip. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy, glistening with tears. “I think something’s wrong with me, Seth,” he whispered.
Seth sat down across from him, his voice soft, steady. “Yeah, Pops. I know. But you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again. I’m here. I got you.”
Just past sunset,Seth sat at the kitchen table surrounded by a small mountain of paperwork. There were bills, brochures, pamphlets with resources for caregivers, options for memory care …
All of it heavier than stone. He rubbed the backof his neck, blinking through the weight of decision fatigue, when he heard the soft shuffle of sock-covered feet in the hallway.
Chester appeared in the doorway wearing plaid pajama pants and a faded old T-shirt that readProperty of the U.S. Army, 1964.
Seth had no idea where the shirt had come from. Chester was never in the Army. And definitely not in 1964.
“Are you making popcorn?” Chester asked.
Seth blinked. “No, but I could.”
Chester sniffed the air. “I smell it. I smell popcorn.”
Seth laughed under his breath. “You smell the dog’s feet. I just put ointment on one. Gomer ripped a gash between his paw pads while he was out in the field with you today.”
Chester squinted at Gomer, who was stretched out nearby.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Damn dog smells like popcorn. And you know what? That dog likes me.”
Seth smiled, his chest warming. “He sure does, Pops.”
And Seth was sure of that fact. Gomer had not left Chester’s side since they’d returned home thatmorning. The old shepherd had chosen his next duty.
Chester.
Seth laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days. “You want me to make some popcorn anyway?”
Chester shrugged and wandered into the kitchen. He opened the cabinet like it was routine, like nothing at all had happened that morning. “If we’re eating dog feet, we might as well put butter on them.”
Seth grabbed a bag from the shelf and tossed it into the microwave. “I’ll take mine with extra toenails.”
Chester cracked a smile and lowered into the chair across from him. “You always were a weird kid.”
“And you were the one who let me build a catapult in the backyard.”
