The pain, inside and out.
Just enough to make room for whatever came next.
By the time I was too breathless to continue and the new blisters on my feet were numb, I folded, slumping to the floor.
Just two more minutes.
In two minutes, I would be stronger. I would be better.
Then, on shaky legs, I got back up.
In the dark studio, I peeled off my pointe shoes, hissing when the blood flowed freely again.
When I got back to Dad’s apartment, he was quiet as I guided him through his nightly routine and tucked him into bed.
All night, my anxiety lay awake with me on the couch, shuffling throughmyplaylist of questions about the future that haunted me on loop.
Director Links was all sharp lines and poise at the head of the conference table.
I glanced down at my grungy With a Flourish School of Dance T-shirt and black jean shorts, wondering if it was customary to dress up to meet your dad’s potential new roommate.
That hadn’t been on any of the Alzheimer’s forums.
Dad tapped his box of crayons on the table, entirely unbothered by it all. His breezy linen shirt and pants were clean thanks to the prompt in-house laundry service we paid a fortune for, and his deep blue eyes had been clear all morning.
“Mr. Sewell, can I get you anything?” Nurse Emily asked from the other side of the room, where she was leaning against the wall as she peeled an orange. She always seemed to have some sort of fruit with her.
“Some paper wouldn’t go amiss,” Dad said as he scraped the small cardboard box across the gleaming tabletop.
Director Links smiled and produced a piece of paper from the briefcase by her feet, then slid it across the table to Dad.
He thanked her as he pulled a green crayon from his box and started doodling.
Director Links clicked a few buttons on her tablet before getting to it. “Mr. Sewell. Miss Sewell. Do either of you have any questions about what we’ve just discussed before we bring in Mr. Smith?”
“Just one,” I said when Dad didn’t speak up. “What happens if this doesn’t work out?”
Dad glanced up from his drawing, a small frown on his face.
Director Links smiled her best professional smile at me. “Then we meet again and discuss. We pivot. We do everything we can do to find the best possible situation for Mr. Sewell and Mr. Smith.”
“You can trust us, Ireland,” Nurse Emily said from the corner as she dropped the last bit of orange peel into the trash can with a softthunk. “We’ve got your back. Both of you.”
Dad upended his carton onto the table, spilling out therest of the colors, then focused back on his work with more gusto than before.
He didn’t seem to want any part of this.
“Well said, Emily,” Director Links praised as she stood up from her chair. “I’ll let Mr. Smith in now, and we’ll go from there.”
When the door opened again and I sensed new people entering the room, I kept my focus on Dad, who didn’t give them any attention either.
“Come on in,” Director Links said, and heavy footfalls sounded against the floor.
Dad tossed the green crayon away with a clatter and started folding the paper.
“Mr. Sewell, Miss Sewell, I’d like you to meet Mr. Smith.”
I tore my gaze from Dad’s precise movements and pushed my chair back to stand up, but a gruff, deep voice with a Southern drawl stopped me.
