by Sydney Logan
“Thank you.”
“Which branch?”
“Army.”
Suddenly, his expression darkens, and I stiffen for the inevitable outburst.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“I’m just . . . trying to do the math.”
Steph switches chairs so that she can sit beside him. “I understand. I hate math, too. What are you trying to figure out?”
“Well, if you’re Brandon’s age . . . did you even know your father?”
“No, he was killed before I was born.”
“Oh.”
Dad’s face relaxes. So does every muscle in my body.
Steph reaches into her shirt and pulls out her dad’s dog tags. She lifts it over her head and hands the chain to my father. He slowly reads the inscription.
“Ah, he was just a kid. That must have been hard on you . . . growing up without him.”
“Yes, it was.”
Dad gazes thoughtfully at her. “I could sit here and tell you that you should be honored your father died serving his country, but I bet you’ve heard that a lot. And I bet you hate hearing it.”
Steph glances at me, probably looking for a clue as to how to answer him. I just shrug, because I’m clueless. I mean, the morning’s going so well. She might as well just be honest.
“It’s sometimes hard to hear, yeah.”
Suddenly, the girls rush back into the kitchen, each of them grabbing Steph by the hand.
“Come on,” Lily says. “The movie’s starting without you.”
Steph smiles apologetically at Dad, making him laugh as he hands the tags back to her.
“Go on,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”
“You’re sitting by me,” Lucy says as the three of them head into the living room.
Dad and I both chuckle as they go.
“I like her, Brandon.”
“Thank you. I like her, too.”
“Smart, too. I don’t know how serious you are, but she must be pretty important to you if you’ve brought her home.”
“She’s very important to me.”
He nods and reaches for another piece of toast. “I figured as much. Have you two had a discussion about what the next four years are going to be like for you?”
“She has a vague understanding, yeah.”
“And how does she feel about it?”
“She’s . . . not thrilled, to be honest.”
“Well, of course she’s not. Everything she knows about the military begins and ends with the death of her father. It’s a wonder she’s dating you at all.”
No kidding. I don’t dare tell him that Steph and I are in a weird limbo stage. That would just confuse him, especially since I can barely explain it myself.
“Brandon, I wasn’t a good husband to your mom. But you know that.”
“Dad, we aren’t really talking marriage just yet. I’m focused on graduation and AIT. It’s far, far too early for us to be talking about wedding vows.”
“Maybe, but it’s something you should think about. Soldiers sometimes don’t make the best spouses. Especially ones who would rather sign up for another tour of duty than come home to a wife who’s just chomping at the bit to start a family.”
His mental clarity this morning is really starting to scare me.
“Dad, I’m committed to the military. Just like you always wanted.”
“Just like I always wanted,” he says quietly. “But is it what you want?”
It feels like a trap, so I give him my standard response.
“Absolutely, Dad. You know I’ve always wanted to be like you.”
He leans back in his chair and watches me closely.
“You want to be like me?”
“Of course. Always have.”
“Brandon, you don’t want to be like me. I am an old man, and my memory is fading. Some days are better than others, but that doesn’t change the fact that every day, I lose another memory. I forget something that was important to me once upon a time. It’s like a drain. The memory just flows out of me and disappears. And once it’s gone, it’s usually gone for good. But there are other days when I remember everything, and that’s not good, either.”
“Why isn’t it good?”
“Because there are some things I wish I could forget.”
“Like?”
“Like the fact that I was a bad husband. A bad father.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think you were a bad father. You were a little strict—”
“I was very strict.”
“Okay, very strict. But not bad. I would never say that.”
“Maybe not every day. But I was a bad husband. Every single day. Nobody would dispute that. Your mom deserved better. I hope she found it.”
“She left you.”
“Yeah, she did. And I deserved it.”
This is getting deep. And very un-Dad like. We don’t do this. We don’t sit around, talking about his disease and how he was a horrible husband.
“Listen to me, Brandon. While I’m still of fairly sound mind, I want to offer the most important piece of advice I can give you. And I want you to write it down, because you can’t trust your memory. I’m living proof of that. Find a pencil.”
With a laugh, I get up from the table and hunt for a notepad and pen in one of the drawers.
“This is more important than how to clean your gun. Or how to properly make your bed. Or one of the million other things I taught you when you were a kid. It’s the most important thing I could ever, ever teach you.”
I sit back down at the table. “Okay, Dad. Let’s hear it.”
“Ready?”
“Go for it.”
“Be a good husband. Be a good father.”
My pencil freezes. That’s not what I was expecting at all.
“Write it down, son.”
I write it down.
“That’s what’s important in this life. I put the emphasis on the wrong things for far too long. It’s not how many push-ups you can do or how fast you can run. It’s not how many medals or stripes you earn. It’s family. Your wife. Your kids. And then their kids. It has taken sixty years and an incurable memory-robbing disease for me to figure it out, but I finally have. So keep that piece of paper. And someday, when you marry that pretty girl sitting in the living room, read it from time to time. Because I won’t be around to remind you of how precious she is.”
A lump forms in my throat, because with those words, I finally understand. My father’s not just offering words of wisdom to me. He’s saying goodbye. Today. While he’s still mentally competent enough to do so.
“Dad, it could be years until—”
“And it could be tomorrow. We don’t know, Brandon. We never know. We just keep going, hoping for the best, but preparing for the opposite.”
“Soldier on,” I whisper.
Dad nods. “That’s still good advice. Write that down, too.”
I don’t need to, but I write it down, anyway.
“Brandon, don’t be me. Be better than me. Be the man I should have been. That way, when you’re old and gray and your memory is shot to hell, you’ll have no regrets. Promise me.”
“I promise, Dad.”
“Good.”
After folding up the paper and sticking it in my pocket, I take my dad by the arm and lead him to his recliner. Steph and the twins are sitting on the couch, while Christian’s in the rocking chair, reading a magazine.
“Uncle B, do you want to sit with us?” Lily asks.
“I would love to sit with you.”
I lift her into my arms and sit down on the couch. She snuggles against my chest and continues watching the movie.
Steph turns to me. “Everything okay?”
I look over at my dad. His eyes are already closed.
“Looks like you wore him out,” Steph whispers.
“It was a deep conversation.”
“But good?”
“Very good.”
Withou
t a doubt, it was the most mature conversation I’ve ever had with my father. It’s just too bad it took us twenty-two years to get here.
But I’m glad we finally made it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Stephanie
Even though I want to be a teacher, I’ve never really spent a lot of time around young kids. Lucy and Lily are adorable and fun, but they’re also exhausting. After a full day of movies, coloring, dancing, and baking, I can’t deny I’m thankful I’ll be teaching older kids. The girls’ constant need to be entertained also has me feeling sympathetic toward Brandon’s sister. It’s really no wonder she’s cranky. Being a single mom, working full-time, and taking care of her dad can’t be easy. Despite my newfound compassion for Christian, I still try to avoid her. She’s not happy with me, or the fact that I’m here, but she’s seemed to accept it and hasn’t tried to pick a fight since last night’s dinner.
By mid-afternoon, the girls have settled down long enough to take a nap. Brandon and Christian are at the kitchen table, talking in hushed whispers about their dad’s care while I keep Mr. Walker company in the living room. I know very little about Alzheimer’s and its various stages, but even I can tell that today has been a good day. He ate a big breakfast, a decent lunch, and has stayed alert and lucid throughout the afternoon. I’ve always heard that routine is important for dementia patients, so I’ve been a little worried that having a house full of people would agitate him. But so far, it’s been a great day. Maybe being around family helps.
He’s sitting in his recliner, watching a documentary on the Civil War while I flip through a family photo album. There aren’t many pictures, but there are pages of newspaper clippings, including one where Mr. Walker was awarded the Silver Star for rescuing two wounded soldiers during the Battle of Khe Sanh. In the picture, he stands tall and dignified in his uniform. By his side is his wife, Diana, gazing proudly at her husband. It makes me wonder if she was just forcing a smile for the picture or if she was truly happy that he was being recognized for his heroism. And, if she was happy, what happened later on to make her throw it all away and leave her family behind?
So many questions.
“You’re quiet over there,” Mr. Walker says softly.
“I was just looking at this picture of you being awarded the Silver Star.”
“That was a good day. September. 19 . . .” his voice trails off as he tries to remember the year. Hoping to help him out, I look closely at the newspaper print.
“I’m not sure. The date has faded on the article.”
“It was September 1968. Or was it ’69?”
I’m just about to tell him it’s okay if he doesn’t remember. Anyone would have trouble remembering an event that happened so long ago. But before I can get the words out of my mouth, he quickly leaps to his feet.
“It was 1968. I’m sure it was 1968!”
“Mr. Walker, it’s okay—”
“It’s not okay!” His breath is ragged as he turns to me. His eyes are cloudy. His expression pained. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
“I’m . . .”
Brandon and Christina run into the living room.
“Who is she? What is she doing here?”
Christian takes her father by the arm. Brandon sprints to my side.
“Dad, that’s Steph. She’s Brandon’s girlfriend.”
“Brandon doesn’t have a girlfriend! And if he does, he certainly doesn’t need one. He should be focused on his drills. Focused on school. Just watch. He’ll get her pregnant. Then he won’t go to college at all!”
“Dad, he’s already in college. Everything is fine. Let’s get you to your bedroom.”
As Christian leads him to his room, he keeps shouting random insults about what a slut I am and what a failure Brandon is. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Brandon wraps me in his arms.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Steph. I promise he doesn’t have a clue.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“You didn’t do anything, sweetheart.”
“I must have.”
“You didn’t. I promise.”
Brandon pulls me over to the couch. With a sad smile, he gently wipes away my tears with his fingertips.
“He was having such a good day. What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything. This is normal . . . if you can call it that. This is every day. Christian was just telling me she was surprised we’d avoided an outburst. It was only a matter of time. Medication will help calm him down. Tomorrow he won’t even remember the things he said. And we never remind him. It just upsets him, and that’s the last thing we ever want to do.”
“How sad.”
“Yeah, it is, but it also makes me grateful for our talk this morning. It was the most stable I’ve seen him in months. And I know everything he said to me was genuine, despite the garbage he just spewed at us.”
“What did he say this morning?”
“He said he was a bad husband and father, and that he didn’t teach me what was important in life. He said I need to really think about my future. And if I’m lucky enough to have you in it, I need to always remember how precious you are and to be sure my family is always my number one priority. He told me to remember it, because he won’t be around to remind me.”
“Wow. That almost sounds like—”
“A goodbye. I know.”
I snuggle deeper into his arms.
“I’m glad the girls were napping.”
“Me, too.” Brandon kisses the top of my hair. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I know it’s scary.”
It is. And it makes me feel even more compassion for his sister.
A little later, Christian returns to the living room. She doesn’t even acknowledge me. Just mutters something about making burgers for dinner before heading toward the kitchen.
“She really hates me.”
Brandon lifts my face toward his. “No, she doesn’t. But even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We smile at each other before he leans in, kissing me softly.
Kentucky moonlight shines through the window. It’s pretty and bright, making it impossible to sleep. Not that it matters. I never rest well when I’m not in my own bed. The house is cozy and warm, but the sounds and smells make it unfamiliar, and if there’s one thing I thrive on, it’s familiarity.
I’m a lot like Brandon’s dad in that way.
Mr. Walker slept on and off the rest of the evening. The twins didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye before their dad picked them up. My guilt was heavy, and I had apologized repeatedly, but Christian and Brandon both assured me I wasn’t to blame.
“This is normal,” Christian had said.
This is normal. I’ve heard that a lot over the past few days. As a future English teacher and just a general lover of words, I find it interesting how one phrase can have so many different meanings. To me, this situation is anything but typical. For Brandon’s family, today was simply a regular day.
It’s hard to imagine, and it makes me sad to try.
Restless and fidgety, I decide a change of scenery is needed. And maybe a glass of warm milk. I crawl out of bed, grab my book out of my bag, and head downstairs.
The house is mostly dark, except for a dim light shining from the kitchen. I manage to make it there without banging into furniture, and I’ve just opened the refrigerator when I hear someone sniffle quietly. I turn to find Christian sitting at the kitchen table. She’s wrapped in a robe and holding a glass of wine.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone else was awake.”
Christian shrugs. “I’m always awake, it seems.”
I nod and reach into the fridge. “I can’t sleep. I thought I’d make some warm milk.”
“Does that help?”
“Usually, yeah.”
“Mom used to make us warm milk when we couldn’t sleep,” she says. “But it never worked. I
t just gave me gas.”
I laugh softly and reach for a mug. We’re both quiet while the milk warms. Once it’s ready, I join her at the table.
“Does wine help?”
Christian glances at her glass. “Sometimes. I really just drink it to relax after a long day. At this rate, I’ll be an alcoholic by the time I’m thirty.”
I don’t say anything. I just drink my milk.
“Oh, come on, Steph. That was funny.”
I grin. “It was a little funny. I just don’t know when it’s okay to laugh about . . . all this. I don’t want to do or say the wrong thing.”
“I understand.”
We sit quietly for a few minutes until a loud snore makes me jump.
“Sorry.” Christian points toward the baby monitor on the island. “It’s the only way I can hear him at night. Dad’s bedroom is down here, right beside the living room. Using the stairs isn’t such a good idea with his bad coordination. At night, I either have to use the monitor or sleep on the couch, and the couch sucks.”
“I think you made a good choice.”
She nods and takes another sip of wine.
“My brother loves you. You know that, right?”
I smile. “I do. Brandon’s never been shy about how he feels.”
“And how do you feel?”
“I love him, too. I know you probably don’t want to hear that, and I know you don’t like me. I just wish I understood why.”
She sighs and pours herself another glass.
“When Brandon first told me he was interested in you, I tried to convince him it was a bad idea. It’s his last semester, and his focus needs to stay on school. But, according to him, you’re even more focused than he is, and his grades are still good, so . . .”
“We’re both determined to graduate on time. That’s never changed.”
“But then he told me how you feel about the military, and while I understand why you feel that way, I can’t help but worry that the cycle is repeating.”
“What cycle?”
Christian takes a long sip of her wine before continuing. “When I was in high school, I had three goals—make my father proud, become a nurse, and marry Jordan Young. We were the classic high school cliché. He was quarterback of the football team. I was head cheerleader. Once we were engaged, Jordan told me he wanted me to be a wife and mother and nothing else. So, that’s what I did. Then we had the girls, and everything was great until I mentioned I was ready to take some college classes and start working on my degree. He refused to support me. Wouldn’t even discuss it. I did it anyway.”