“So, how was your art today?” I asked as he settled onto the couch beside me. Hopefully it wasn’t too late in the day to get him to recap his morning and afternoon.
“Mediocre,” he said, flicking his gaze to me. “Thanks for asking, Dancing Queen.”
My heart squeezed at the nickname, irritating the ache that was permanently there these days. He hadn’t called me that in… I had no idea how long.
I stared at him as he scooped up the remote and flicked the channel toGeneral Hospital, oblivious to the little moment I was having, and something in me panicked, desperate to grasp the moment of clarity, to extend it. I reached for his free hand, and he let me take it, the contact like a balm.
Plastering on the biggest smile I could, I squeezed his hand gently. “I was thinking we could go to the beach tomorrow.”
He looked at our clasped hands, then up at me, brow furrowed. Our gazes held for several long, thick seconds before he frowned deeply, etching deep lines into his face. “Are we on vacation?”
“Feels like it sometimes.” I wasn’t even sure if that was a lie. What did you call it when you weren’t home, but you weren’t on vacation either?
The utter loss and confusion written in his features cut me more sharply than complete vacancy ever had. He wasn’t lost in his own world, but he wasn’t here either.
Lucidity was the enemy sometimes, too, however fleeting.
“Want to tell me about the paintings?” I tried again. He tapped the remote on his knee.
“Dad?”
The tempo of the taps increased before he jerked his head toward me, and I bit my tongue, dread dropping like a brick in my stomach.
I’d messed up. Pushed too hard.
He released my hand and pointed the remote at me, all softness gone from his gaze as he rasped, “And just who the fuck are you?”
I wanted to scream abuse at the universe for doing this to him. To us.
Rolling my lips together slowly, I forced a calm smile. “I’m Ireland.”
It was like watching the clouds part on a darkening evening. The anger went as quickly as it had come, but there wasn’t sunlight left behind.
Just… the collapse of a day.
I was lucky in that, at least. His episodes of aggression and agitation, so far, had been brief.
“Ireland,” he repeated, testing the word.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes.”
He pushed his damp, graying hair behind his ear the exact same way I just had. “Always been my dream to go there.”
I swallowed hard, but it didn’t help the crack in my voice. “Yeah?”
He was vacant as he turned back to the TV, leaving me with the ghost of his abandoned dreams.
After the night nurse came by with his evening meds, I got Dad’s teeth brushed and tucked him into bed without issue.
I wanted to lean over and kiss him but second-guessed it, not knowing if it was the right thing, especially when I wasn’t sure he knew who I was.
For the next ten minutes, I glared at the couch.
It hadn’t appealed the first night and did even less so almost three months later.
Having someone to talk to after such an emotional, up-and-down day would’ve been great.
A real bed would’ve been even better.
