It was as if Dad hadn’t so much as walked through here today.
“Ireland…,” Nurse Emily called as she emerged from the bedroom. “I’ll see you at the care-team meeting in the morning with Director Links?”
I abandoned the pillows. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
She nodded and made a note on her tablet. “Good. I’ll see you at eight, then. Now… will Mr. Sewell be eating in the cafeteria, or should I arrange for something to be brought up? He didn’t give me a concrete answer.”
The sound of something being knocked over followed by a string of colorful, muffled curses came from Dad’s room.
I internally winced but kept my face blank as I answered, “He’ll eat in tonight. Seems he’s… in the zone.”
To her credit, she didn’t push me on it and instead gave me a little pat on the shoulder before walking out the door and moving on to her next patient.
Dad came out moments after the door closed. “That woman is always very interested in me. It’s flattering, but she’s oblivious to my hints that I don’t have the time to indulge such things right now.”
I didn’t have a thing to say to that, but it seemed he didn’t need one, as he then shuffled by me to the couch and clicked on the TV to some random channel.
He made a frustrated noise as he sat down. “I hate the commercials on this TV. They don’t make ’em like they used to. No pizzazz, no story. Never pushing boundaries.”
“I know,” I replied, a surge of fondness for him and his peculiar opinions filling me. For several minutes, I juststood there, catching my breath as I watched him, enjoying his mild fussing. “Want me to put on a movie instead?” I asked when the next round of commercials started, and he repeated his earlier sentiments.
Then he ignored me, caught up in a commercial for toilet paper, so I left him to it and went into his bedroom to clean up. I kept my eyes unfocused as I gathered the risqué paintings into a pile in his bedroom and put them in the bottom drawer of his dresser, where they joined countless others.
A caregiver knocked quietly on the door before opening it and wheeling in Dad’s customized, nutritionist-approved meal. I quickly ran two washcloths under the tap in his bathroom, adding soap to one.
When I joined him at the table, I waved the cloth in front of him, and he automatically stuck out his hand.
The perpetual knot in my chest eased just a fraction. Today, right now, he remembered this.
Dad was a gifted artist. I was not. But while I was growing up, he still insisted I create something every day to “get my demons out.” In elementary school, it was modeling clay or coloring when I’d get into fights with kids, usually after they told me I was too mean to dance or made fun of Dad because of rumors the shitheads heard from their parents. During my teen years, it became more frequent, with him sitting me down at the kitchen table at least twice per day, forcing me to draw my feelings.
He thought every human condition could be solved by art.
If only that were true.
Most nights, even the ones without drama or trauma, we’d sit at the kitchen table together after dinner and draw, color, or paint. Afterward, we’d clean off each other’s hands with a cloth. The entire thing was almost ceremonial,and it was always cathartic, even when my demons were only as big as blisters on my toes from my pointe shoes.
There wasn’t a canvas grand enough or a cloth big enough for the demons of the past year.
He patted the small box of crayons in the breast pocket of his linen shirt as if assuring himself they were there. It was sohimthat I could almost fool myself into believing it was just a normal evening. That he was the same eccentric guy with tangled hair, loud opinions, and razor-sharp wit, ready to call it a night soon so he could get up early to teach art at the local high school.
He patted the carton again, and I smiled as I worked the smudges off his fingertips. He used to carry a carton of cigarettes there, he’d once told me, but gave it up when I was born, replacing them with the crayons.
I’d gotten most of the smudges off before he jerked his hand out of my grip and picked up his fork. I grabbed some snacks I’d stashed in the closet and ate quietly beside him. When he was done, I subtly guided him to the bathroom for his shower, pointing out where the towels were and which products he might enjoy.
Most days, he was capable of showering on his own, but on all days he hated being coddled, no matter how lucid he was, so I kept it brief.
Before he closed the door, he looked at me for a long moment, as if he knew there was something he needed to examine more closely.
I held my breath, but a few moments later, he abandoned the search with a barely there shrug. Or it abandoned him, maybe.
It was impossible to tell.
I didn’t go far, leaving the bedroom door open as I sank back onto the couch. Even though the shower wasoversized and outfitted with everything needed for maximum safety, I stayed alert and within shouting distance for all of his showers.
His hair was tangled and soaking wet when he stepped back into the living room a few minutes later, dripping onto his fresh T-shirt, which was on backwards.
It wasn’t worth an argument.
