“Bullshit. I finally admitted what I did just like you wanted, and you threw me out of your room.” He steps closer, eclipsing my space. “I never should have acknowledged shit. It fucked everything up.”
“No. You fucked everything up!”
Behind him, I see Mrs. Palma’s head popping in and out of the kitchen entryway.
I point to the door. “Leave.”
“No. We still have ten days.”
“Left on tour. Not that.”
My mouth hangs open when he crosses into the living room and sits on the sofa. “I want my ten days.”
He’s like a petulant toddler who’s not getting their way. “No.”
“Kate?”
I turn my head in time to see my dad rush down the stairs. “Dad—um…hey.”
My dad wraps me up in a hug. “You’re home from work early.”
“Yeah.”
“Why is there a rock star in our living room?”
Seriously? The man thinks I’m a woman who’s been dead for over twenty-two years, but knows who Phoenix is?
Phoenix gets off the couch. “Hi.”
I cut him a warning look. The last thing I want is to disorient my father more than he already is.
Clearing his throat, Phoenix shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
My dad enthusiastically shakes it. “I’m a big fan of your work. Your voice is undoubtedly one of the most unique voices I’ve ever heard.”
Shock roots me to the spot. As far as I know, he’s never even listened to a Sharp Objects song.
A pompous smile curls his lips. “Coming from you, sir, that means a lot.”
My dad’s eyes gleam. “‘Dream On’ is one of my all-time favorite songs. I’m envious I didn’t write it myself. Absolute brilliance.”
I bite my cheek. I can’t believe he thinks Phoenix is Steven Tyler.
Phoenix looks like he doesn’t know whether to be offended or honored. “Thanks.”
And just like that, I’m back to wanting to deck him in the face.
“Of course, you’d take credit for a song that’s not yours.”
“Hey, Don.” Mrs. Palma flounces into the living room carrying a tray of food. “I made you some lunch. Why don’t we go upstairs and let these two talk for a bit?”
“All right. As long as it’s not egg salad on that tray.”
They start to walk upstairs. “No worries. Turkey and cheese.”
“I’ll be right there,” I call out after them. “Phoenix was just leaving.”
“No. Phoenix is staying.”
Exasperated, I throw my hands up. “Fine. Whatever. Enjoy being down here by yourself.”
I turn to go up the staircase, but he catches my arm. “Who’s Kate?”
“My mom.”
I can tell he wasn’t expecting that because he rocks back on his heels.
Then the ass moseys back over to the couch and sits.
I pace the floor of my dad’s bedroom while he eats his sandwich.
“He’s insane.”
“Not you, dear,” Mrs. Palma reassures my dad before turning to me. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but he seems to care about you. Not that it changes what he did.”
“It doesn’t.”
It comes out way more curt than I intended.
Nodding, she rises from the chair. “Do you mind if I run a few errands? I shouldn’t be more than an hour or two at most.”
The woman never has to ask me for a favor again. I’m eternally indebted to her.
“Of course not.” I look around. “Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”
She shrugs. “Not really. There’s a small load of laundry that needs to be put in the wash and another load in the dryer that has to be folded and brought upstairs.”
“Consider it done.”
She pats my hand. “I’m gonna run to the grocery store and grab some things so I can whip up your favorite for dinner.”
I should turn her down since she does more than enough for me, but my mouth salivates when I think of her awesome stuffed chicken and baked mac and cheese.
“Thanks,” I tell her as she ambles toward the door.
Her steps come to a halt. “Should I get enough food in case our guest downstairs decides to join us for supper?”
I bristle. “Absolutely not.”
“All right, then. We’ll let him starve.”
With that, she leaves.
My gaze falls on the mahogany piano on the other side of the room.
Last year—with help from Mrs. Palma and her husband—I moved it from my dad’s studio to his bedroom. This way he’d be able to play whenever he wants because I know how much he loves music.
I also read once that it’s supposed to help people who have dementia.
However, he rarely listens or plays anymore.
It’s yet another thing this horrible disease took from him.
Plastering a smile on my face, I turn to my dad. “How are you?”
“Eh. Could be better, could be worse.” He blinks up at me. “Who are you?”
That all too familiar ache pierces my chest. “I’m—”
“Just kidding,” he says with a smile. “I know who you are.”
The ache eases.
“You’re my new nurse.”
And it’s back.
He places his tray on the chair beside his bed. “That sandwich made me tired. I’m gonna close my eyes for a bit, okay?”
“Okay.”
Remembering the laundry I told Mrs. Palma I would handle, I grab the hamper out of his room and head to the basement.
After starting the washing machine, I take the clothes out of the dryer and begin folding them.
I woke up feeling stupidly optimistic that today would be a good day, and he’d remember who I was.
But at least I get to see him.
Even though he’s a mere shell of the person he used to be.
And just like that, guilt overshadows my frustration.
This isn’t his fault. My dad never asked to have dementia and I have no doubt that if he had prior knowledge that this would happen to him, he’d be utterly heartbroken.
Just like I am.
I don’t have any memories of my mother. So, while losing her was hard in the sense that I never got to form a relationship with her…the things I grieve most are the experiences and memories I’ll never get to have.
But with my dad, it’s the exact opposite.
He wasn’t just my only parent…he was my best friend.
The man has been by my side since the moment I took my first breath and I have a lifetime full of memories with him.
Memories he can no longer access.
Given our memories shape all facets of who we are…seeing a man who looks like my dad but doesn’t act like my dad is a brand of psychological torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
No matter how tight I hold on, my best friend is slipping away—a little more each day—and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Every night before I close my eyes, I pray for just a few moments where he remembers that I’m his daughter.
But those are so few and far between these days.
After taking a few cleansing breaths to collect myself, I place the folded clothes into the basket and head back upstairs so I can put them away.