It was a C+ day. Grumpy but not too agitated. In Dad’s world, if there was an Ally Morales, she was eight years old, and it was almost summertime.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Would you like any snacks? Your music?”
He didn’t answer. He was back to staring out the window where a slow, icy drizzle had begun.
The nurse tilted her head in the direction of the hall, and I followed her out.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“He suffered a broken tibia when he fell out of bed this morning,” she explained.
“Did he break anything else?” I asked, leaning back against the wall.
Falls were especially dangerous with my father’s diagnosis.
“Some bruising and swelling, but no other breaks,” she said.
Thank you, goddesses of gravity. “How’s his pain?”
“With dementia patients, it’s hard to tell.”
Everything was hard with dementia patients, I’d come to learn.
“We’re administering low doses of pain medication every few hours and monitoring him. He’s slept a bit since he got here, and we’re doing our best to keep him in bed for now. Our PT and OT teams are coming in to evaluate him in the morning.”
“How long will he be here?” I asked. At this point, unexpected hospital bills had the power to do more than bankrupt us.
“It’s hard to say at this point. It depends on the therapy teams,” she explained.
“Where’s my wife?” my father demanded from inside the room.
I winced. I’d stopped wondering that decades ago.
“Will your mother be visiting?” the nurse asked me.
I shook my head. “No. She won’t.”
“I’ll let you visit for a while. Try not to get discouraged if he’s agitated,” she said, patting me on the arm.
“Thanks.” I returned to the room where I was a stranger. My father was back to glaring out the window, his food still untouched.
“That looks good,” I said, pointing at the soup on his tray.
He grumbled under his breath.
I pulled out my phone and cued up my Dad Playlist. There had always been music in our house. Dad’s Latin roots combined with his love of BB King, Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald created the soundtrack of my childhood. He played the piano well and the guitar a little less well. But his enthusiasm made up for it.
He’d given me the gift of music appreciation. And so much more.
Now I was failing him.
Dad’s fingers drummed out a beat to Tito Puente’s “Take Five.” At least it was one thing the disease couldn’t rob him of.
“Did you know that Tito Puente served in the Navy during World War II and paid his way through Julliard on the GI Bill?” Dad mused.
“Really?” I asked, pulling the chair up to his bedside.
“You look familiar. Are you Mrs. Vacula’s daughter?” he asked.
“I am,” I lied brightly and felt my neck flush red. Mrs. Vacula had lived across the street for twenty years—gracefully enduring hundreds of Dracula jokes—before moving to Mesa, Arizona. I’d learned quickly that correcting him, reminding him of the things he didn’t know anymore, only hurt us both.
“Your mother makes the best beef vegetable soup, you know,” he said.
“It’s true,” I said. “Let’s see how this recipe measures up.” I picked up the spoon and held it out to him.
It was late when I let myself into my father’s house.
I nudged the thermostat down a degree or two and wandered into the kitchen, helping myself to a bowl of ramen and a stale bagel from yesterday’s work snacks. Emergency carbs that I’d snagged before they’d thrown out the leftovers. I’d thought a fashion magazine would have had nothing but juice cleanses being passed around. But the sheer amount of food in my department alone was the only thing standing between me and being too hungry at night to sleep.
I yawned. I’d get through this. I had no choice, and it was stupid to lament about it.
Heading upstairs, I stepped over the weak spot on the landing and continued into my childhood room. Too tired to worry about neatness, I left my clothes in a pile on the floor. My legs were red from the cold and itchy from the synthetic lace of the tights.
After bundling into a pair of sweat pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt, I climbed under the covers on my twin bed.
Wearily, I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to my catering boss, apologizing again for missing my shift that night. It was definitely going to hurt being out that money.
I should boot up my laptop. See if any invoices had been paid. Go through the bank account and see what I had to work with for next week. Not that I needed to. I knew down to the penny what was in there. It wasn’t hard keeping track of three figures.
At least the hospital bills would take weeks before they started to trickle in. Because I wouldn’t see a paycheck from Label for another week or two, I’d estimated low there just in case I’d calculated the taxes or the health insurance withholding wrong.
A full-time paycheck was going to make all the difference to me. I just had to hang on until payday, and then I could reassess everything and make a new plan.
For now, I’d just tighten the belt one more notch.
My phone buzz-clunked in my hand.
The text came from an unknown number.
Unknown: Did you make it home? By the way. This is Charming.
I stared at the text as I chewed stale bagel. What the hell was Dominic “I Hate Your Guts” Russo doing texting me at 11 p.m.?
Maybe it was an accident. Maybe the text was meant for someone else. Someone else who also happened to nickname him Prince Charming.
While I debated the possibilities, another message arrived.
Dominic: Nelson was crushed that you wouldn’t let him go to Jersey with you. You owe him an apology.
Holy cheese and crackers. The man was texting me. On purpose.
I wondered if the cab he’d paid for had accidentally delivered me to a different time dimension where the Dominic Russos and Ally Moraleses of the world got along.
Me: Sorry to have dashed Nelson’s dreams. I hope he’ll forgive me.
I debated thanking Dom for the cab money. But decided it was safer to just pay him back instead. Ugh. Another unforeseen expense. But Dominic Russo wasn’t the kind of man I wanted to be beholden to.
Dominic: How’s the family emergency?
Me: Under control. Why are you being nice?
Dominic: I’m not being nice. I’m seeing if you decided to quit yet.
Finished with the bagel, I flopped back against my pillow.
Me: That sounds more realistic. I was worried you’d somehow managed to activate your soul.
Dominic: One must have a soul in order to activate it.
I worked up a smile as I stared at my screen. Was he being funny? On purpose?
Me: Are you drunk? Or do you only sprout a personality after dark? Or wait, is this Greta?
Dominic: You’re annoying.