I kiss her forehead. “Yes, at the show. Now let’s go see our father.”
A few steps in his room and the silence is deafening. The only sound is the hum of the air conditioner and Dad’s heavy breathing.
His back is to us as he stares out the window at the view of the setting sun over the manmade lake outside the facility.
Doctor Williams clears his throat. “Gerard, you have visitors.”
Dad doesn’t move.
Doctor Williams turns to us and whispers, “I administered a sedative several hours ago to calm him. It should be wearing off by now. Just speak softly and don’t bring up anything that may trigger a panic.”
“Doc, have you been able to figure out what triggers these attacks?” I ask as I glance at Dad, oblivious that we are in the room.
“It varies,” Doctor Williams continues with a low voice. “But the one common question he asks and gets upset about is your mom. When he asks for her and she doesn’t show, he gets belligerent. I’m hoping with you two here, he’ll be less quarrelsome, maybe it’ll calm him some.” He gives us a resolute nod and a concerning smile before he leaves us in the room.
This visit differs greatly from the last time I stepped foot in this room. On the other side, I can see the journals on the desk, one is open. I can only assume he read them.
I wish I knew what he wrote in them. Were there words of how much he loved Mom? How much he loved us? Were they of his missions? Or how life was when he got back?
The navy left me with some scars. But as I study the man before me, I realize his Alzheimer’s has left me with a greater scar that runs so deep I don’t know how to heal from it and unsure if it ever will. I miss my dad and the way things used to be.
Dad continues to stare out the window as I slowly move further into the room. Avery sits in a chair opposite Dad and I lower myself to the chair next to her, so we are both facing him.
Dad is a shell of a man. He’s not a man full of life and happy to see his children.
I want to say something, but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, Avery speaks up, her soft whisper fills the space between us. “Hi, Dad.” She rests her palm on his forearm. “I brought you something.”
Avery holds up a white paper bag that I didn’t notice she was holding before. She pulls out a single clear wrapped loaf of banana bread.
Dad’s gaze slowly moves to her face as a slight tug pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Stella?”
I study Avery and can see how Dad could be confused. She is the spitting image of Mom with the same caramel hair, green-hazel eyes, and high cheekbones.
I press my lips together, wanting to correct him, but I don’t say a word and let Avery take the lead. This is not her first rodeo with him and I can tell she’s all too familiar with this routine.
“Dad, you are such a jokester, aren’t you?” she says softly, easing the blow as she unwraps the treat. “How many times have we played this guessing game?”
Avery’s eyes dart to me, silently letting me know this is not the first time Dad’s mistaken Avery for his wife.
Dad clears his throat, squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then opens them. “You’re Avery, right?”
My sister’s smile widens. “Yes. You remember.” I can hear the sadness in her voice as she clears her throat and smiles. “There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to . . . Brody, this is Gerard Reinhardt. I bring him banana bread every time I visit. Gerard, this is Brody.”
“It’s nice to meet you . . . Mr. Reinhardt,” I say with emotion, as I swallow the lump in my throat.
I stretch my arm out as does he and we shake. I hold on a fraction longer than I should as my heart gets heavier and the lump in my throat grows thick with emotion. The firm handshake is still the same, but the touch of his hand is alien to me.
“So,” Avery speaks up, breaking the silence, “what have you been up to, Dad?”
He turns to face Avery. “The ducks are at it again.” Dad points to the open window.
Avery and I look out to see a raft of ducks at the edge of the pond. The female duck, I assume, has wings out as if she is protecting her ducklings behind her. My dad chuckles and I miss that laugh.
“How long have the ducks been at it?” I ask.
“For a while,” he answers.
We continue to watch the ducks as they wobble into the pond.
“Why did the duck cross the road?” Dad blurts without warning.
To prove he’s no chicken.
“To prove he’s no chicken.” Dad’s baritone laughter fills the room.
Avery and I laugh in unison.
“Dad, that’s a good one,” Avery speaks up and her shoulders relax. “You got more jokes?”
Dad angles his head as he scrutinizes me. “Brody, where’s your cast?”
My cast? What the? Fucking hell . . . he thinks I’m thirteen years old.
My head jerks back as my eyes immediately dart to Avery, then back to him.
Dad’s back. He remembers. But for how long?
It was the day Kyle and I were popping wheelies off the makeshift ramp we made. I came running into the house, covered in scrapes and scratches, holding my arm as Kyle trekked right behind me. Dad was on the deck while Mom painted on her canvas next to him.
Granted, I was in a whole lot of pain, but to watch my parents scramble was comical. Mom splashed paint on the deck to get her purse and the newspaper went flying in the air as Dad ran to grab the keys off the hook.
I was in that cast for two months. And I was waited on hand and foot by them both and took advantage of my parents. I remember Avery rolling her eyes at me every time I fake-whimpered about my arm so Mom would make me my favorite sloppy joes.
Thinking quickly, I respond, “My cast? I went to the doctor’s this morning to get it off.” I stretch my elbow. “See? Good as new, Dad.”
“I was supposed to take you. So, Mom took you instead? I thought she had to work.” He pivots his body and looks toward the door. “Is she here? Stella! Stella!”
“Dad, she had to rush back to work,” Avery steps in. “She told me to tell you to make sure you eat your banana bread. It’s your favorite, remember?”
“Will she be coming home for dinner? Or will she be working late again?”
“She didn’t say,” Avery answers.
“She seems to work late when I’m back from my deployments.” He rises from his chair as he blows out a breath and slams his hands together. “Should we order pizza for dinner? Or do you want grilled cheese? How about mustard fries?”
Childhood memories flood my thoughts. The experimental dinners when it was only us three while Mom worked late at the office. Mustard fries, mayo sandwiches, and Nutella pizza. The carpet picnics in front of the television and the blanket forts we made only to fall asleep in them. These are the memories I cherish.
“Well, Dad,” I speak up, “I think Avery and I would love to have your mustard fries. I have been craving those.”
“And can we play fortress? I have got some new ways to hold the blanket up,” Avery says.
He sits back down and scrubs his face. A ghost of a smile changes Dad’s expression and then it turns into a blank stare.
“Mustard fries? Fortress? What’s that?” There’s confusion in his dark blue eyes.