by T. K. Leigh
I turned from Reggie and walked down the corridor, my knee-high boots clicking against the linoleum floor. This place had a strange smell to it. Lemon cleaner. Baby powder. School lunch turkey dinner. However, it was the best facility around for chronic neurodegenerative diseases. It just so happened the neurologist who had been treating my father the past few years was on the staff here. That made the choice in facilities a no-brainer.
I passed a few decorative trees, smiling at some familiar faces. It didn’t matter how much they tried to make it look like this was just another apartment complex. It was still an inpatient facility that reminded me of the convalescent homes I visited during Christmas when I was forced to sing in my church choir as a young child.
Coming to a stop outside a white door, the number 127 on a plaque beside it, I placed my hand on the knob and turned. Upon entering, there was a small sitting area with a couch and two reading chairs directly across from a wall-mounted flat-screen television. A desk sat against the opposite wall, along with a bookcase boasting some of my father’s favorites. At the far end of the room was a doorway leading to his private bedroom and en-suite bathroom. When we had to make the difficult decision to put him in here, we wanted this place to feel as close to home as possible. We’d packed up all the trinkets and photos he had displayed prominently in the house I grew up in. Glancing at them now, I realized I was only in one of them.
Walking to the bookcase, I grabbed a black-and-white photo, studying it. I couldn’t have been more than two or three at the time. I sat beneath a large oak tree in one of the gated parks in the city. My mother stood behind me, staring at the camera. A huge smile lit up my face. She looked sad, lost, unfulfilled.
I ran my fingers over her face, my features nearly similar to hers. Large doe-like eyes, light blonde hair with chestnut accents, high cheekbones, fair skin. Once she left, I felt like the outcast of the family. It was apparent that Drew was my father’s son. His olive-toned skin, caramel eyes, and dark hair was identical to my father’s and the rest of my extended family’s. I stood out like a nun in a strip club. I didn’t look like I belonged. Sometimes I didn’t feel like I did, either.
“Josie, is that you?”
I tightened my grip on the frame and took a deep breath, readying myself for yet another afternoon of confusion. I stared at the unhappy woman my father thought I was, then placed the photo back on the bookshelf. As I turned around and my eyes fell on my father in the doorway, my jaw tensed, my fists clenched, my pulse soared. I shouldn’t have been nervous, but this man in front of me wasn’t my father. He hadn’t been for months now.
“Are you okay, Ms. Brinks?” The orderly pushing his wheelchair looked at me with concern.
“Of course.” I gave him a forced smile, swallowing hard. I was anything but okay as I looked at the shell of a man my father had become. He always seemed larger than life, his raucous laughter bellowing through the halls of the modest house in Somerville I called home throughout my childhood. He would swoop me up with little effort and hoist me onto his shoulders, racing around the halls like he didn’t have a care in the world. The man staring back at me now was weak and beaten down by Alzheimer’s, his once strong body frail.
I stepped toward the door, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and pushing it farther into the sitting area. “I’ll take it from here, Jeffrey.”
He raised a brow. “Are you sure?” he whispered. “He’s been a bit aggressive today. I can stay, if you’d like.”
“He’s not going to hurt me,” I responded in a low voice. “He’s my father.”
“But he doesn’t realize that.”
I fought back tears I had kept at bay since we’d learned about my father’s condition over three years ago. As the disease continued eating away at the man he once was, it had become more and more difficult to keep it in.
“Maybe today he finally will.”
He hadn’t known who I was for over a year now. Still, I held out hope something would trigger a memory the disease hadn’t gotten to yet. I yearned to hear him call me Molly one more time before he was taken from me, despite the medical staff telling me the chance of that was highly unlikely. Maybe that was why I came here every afternoon and read to him. By getting lost in one of the books we’d bonded over when I was younger, maybe he’d finally look at me and see his daughter, not his estranged wife or a stranger here to do him harm.
“Okay, Ms. Brinks. Buzz me if you need anything.”
I nodded, refusing to turn back around and face Jeffrey. I didn’t want to see the concern and empathy in his expression. When the door clicked, I blew out a breath, parking my dad’s wheelchair in the sitting area across from one of the reading chairs.
“Would you like some water?” I headed to the small kitchenette and opened the door to the mini fridge.
“You don’t have to wait on me, Josie. Come and talk to me. Ever since the baby was born, you never talk to me anymore.”
I wanted to scream, I’m not Josie! She left you years ago! I’m that baby! But I didn’t. This wasn’t my father talking. Like the doctors and nurses had reminded me over and over again, it was the disease. No matter how many times I’d heard it, though, I couldn’t help but feel I had done something to make myself completely forgettable in my father’s eyes. How could someone simply forget a person they bathed, clothed, loved, and protected for over twenty years?
“Like I’ve already told you,” I said evenly through the ache in my chest, “I’m not Josie.” I twisted the cap off the water and grabbed a straw from the drawer, popping it in the bottle. When I glanced up, I noticed a mischievous smile tugging at his mouth. “What?”
“I get it.” He winked. “Role play. I like it.”
I gripped the counter, drawing in a breath, recalling Dr. McAllister’s directive to switch the topic if I ever felt uncomfortable.
Ignoring his last remark, I headed toward the sitting area, bringing his water to him. “What book would you like to read today? Do you want another thriller? Or something different? You’ve always enjoyed military books. We could read one of those.”
He grabbed my arm as I set his water on the small table beside him. “And what kind of husband would I be if I always chose what we read? No, Josie. You choose. Tell me a love story.”
He began running his fingers up my arm in an affectionate manner. I ripped it away from him, wishing life weren’t so unfair, wishing my father could remember me, not think I was his wife who left him over two decades ago because we weren’t enough for her. The woman who refused to even return a phone call when I tried to reach out and inform her about my father’s condition. The woman who broke all her promises to us.
I stepped up to the bookcase, perusing its contents. My eyes settled on the spine of a book. I pulled it off the shelf, the cover tattered and torn after being read and reread countless times during my adolescence. I remembered swooning over Mr. Darcy before I knew what swooning truly was. In my mind, no man could ever compare to him. Whenever I had a bad experience with a guy years ago, Mr. Darcy was always there for me. I was pretty sure he had ruined me for all real men. Perhaps that was why I hid behind a laptop and wrote fictional accounts of every woman’s fantasy man. Because the fantasy was always better than real life.
I settled into the reading chair, subtly pushing it back just a little to keep my distance from my father, and opened the book.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
It felt like I was seeing an old friend again for the first time in years. Jane Austen’s words provided me a sense of comfort, and I was able to forget about all my troubles for a minute as I returned to her world.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SOUND OF THE door opening snapped me out of the spell Jane Austen’s words had put me under. Looking up, I noticed Jeffrey in the doorway.
“Visiting hours are up, Ms. Brinks,” he said. “Sundowners.”
Hearing th
e term, which referred to Alzheimer’s and dementia patients’ increased irritability as the sun went down, I checked my watch, surprised to see it was already five. I closed the book and placed it on the side table, standing from the chair.
“Love you, Daddy,” I whispered, leaning down, placing a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I gazed upon my father’s shrunken stature as he slept slumped over in his wheelchair. My heart ached at his appearance. He was just a few years past his seventieth birthday, yet he seemed years older than that. I wished there were a magic pill he could take that would turn him back into the man he used to be. The man who had makeup parties with me when I was a little girl. The man who spent too many nights assembling a dollhouse I just had to have for my seventh birthday. The man who attended Mommy and Me lunches during elementary school so I wouldn’t feel left out. Those memories were so clear, so vivid. Why couldn’t they be that way for him, too?
A buzzing snapped me out of my depressing thoughts as I headed into the hallway, reaching into my purse. Finally finding my phone in the bottomless abyss that was my bag, I saw a text from Drew.
You’d better not be bailing on tonight. If I have to suffer through speed dating, you do, too.
I hastily typed a response as I dashed down the hallway.
Just finishing up with Dad. Be at my place at 7. I’ll have Brooklyn meet us there. Make sure you wear a button-down shirt. And please shave. As much as women say they like a bit of scruff, that shit hurts when you go down on us.
I grinned to myself, imagining my brother’s face turning red as he read my response. I could hear his voice in my head, exclaiming, “Jesus, Molly. Enough.” Instantly, Drew’s reply appeared on the screen, making me laugh.
Jesus, Molly. Enough.
I tossed my phone into my bag, about to turn down another long corridor in this maze of a building.
“Ms. Brinks!” a voice called out.
Stopping, I spun around. A man wearing a crisp blue shirt, black tie, perfectly fitted black pants, and white lab coat hurried toward me.
“Dr. McAllister,” I exhaled, furrowing my brow when I noticed the concerned look on his face.
I’d always been amazed that someone who appeared so young could be one of the top neurologists in the state, if not the country. It had taken me over a year to brush off my urge to call him Doogie Howser. Granted, he had to be in his thirties, not sixteen, but I’d expected my father’s doctor to be old with white hair and a beer belly, not an attractive dark-haired young man who had a perpetually windswept look about him, as if he’d just stepped off his sailboat. I imagined he looked just as good in a pair of board shorts and boat shoes as he did in a tie and jacket.
“I told you. Call me Noah,” he said with a smile that highlighted his nearly perfect teeth. One of the bottom ones was a bit crooked, but I liked it. It made him seem more earthly and less god-like.
“Okay. Noah.”
We had this conversation every time I saw him. Still, each time he asked me to call him Noah, all I could think of was learning about the story of Noah’s Ark in first grade before one of the nun’s graciously asked my father not to bring me back to the Catholic school I had only been attending for a whopping three weeks. I couldn’t help but picture Dr. McAllister, wearing a dark robe and having a ridiculously long beard, surrounded by a gaggle of animals. I’d confided that in my brother, who was convinced there was something wrong with me. It was simply my coping mechanism. Dr. McAllister, or Noah, always seemed to be the bearer of bad news. Our father’s condition would only worsen over time. Imagining his doctor in a humorous setting prevented me from having a complete breakdown about how unfair this situation was.
“Do you have a minute? There are a few things I’d hoped to discuss with you.”
I studied him. Whatever he wanted to talk to me about couldn’t be good, not after five on a Friday.
“It’s regarding your father,” he added.
Nodding, I followed him down several hallways, past the front desk, and through a set of doors leading to the administrative wing. We finally came to a stop outside a metal door. He pulled a set of keys out of his pants pocket, inserting one into the lock. He opened the door, holding it so I could enter ahead of him.
Lights sprang to life, illuminating the small office. To the right were a leather loveseat and sofa that sat catty-corner, separated by a simple lamp and side table. His desk stood beyond that. Medical journals and legal pads obscured most of its usable surface. A small bookshelf was positioned adjacent to the sole window. On the opposite side of the bookshelf were two framed diplomas. A Bachelor of Science from Harvard hung just below an even more impressive frame boasting a certificate from Johns Hopkins University, claiming one Noah Joseph McAllister to be a Doctor of Medicine. I’d seen the same framed diplomas in his office at his own private practice, too. Apparently, doctors had to hang their diplomas in each of their offices. I figured it was an ego thing.
“Have a seat, Ms. Brinks.” He gestured to the sofa. I lowered myself onto it, trying to remain still so the leather didn’t make that embarrassing sound it so often did.
“You can just call me Molly.” I smiled at him, glancing around his office as he sat on the loveseat next to the sofa.
“Okay, Molly. How’s everything with you?”
“Good,” I answered, returning my eyes to his. “I’m on a bit of a tight deadline with work, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Ah, yes. You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
I cocked my head.
He smirked. “I’ve seen your name on a few columns in Metropolitan.”
“Oh, of course.” I laughed politely. “Your wife or girlfriend must read it, huh?”
He narrowed his gaze, shaking his head. “No.”
“So you read it?”
“No. What I meant to say was I don’t have a girlfriend.”
I raised my eyebrows, giving him a coy grin.
“Or boyfriend,” he added quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t have a boyfriend. I mean…not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just…” He closed his eyes, drawing in a flustered breath. “Let’s start over. No girlfriend. I’m straight. Some of the nurses here read the magazine and bust a gut laughing at your column. You make them smile.”
“Then my job is done.” An awkward silence passed between us. I cringed at the idea he had read “Ten Tips to Giving Better Head”. My columns were very tongue-in-cheek, a way for me to air my grievances with whatever was bothering me that particular day. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss with me? I doubt it was how to let a guy down nicely,” I joked, recalling one of my recent columns. Of course, there was nothing nice about the advice contained in it. The article would have been more appropriately titled “Ten Reasons Dating is for Schmucks”.
“Right.” He paused, his expression turning serious. “I apologize for the fact I haven’t had time to update you on your father’s condition myself.”
“I understand you’re busy.”
“Nevertheless, there are a few things you should be made aware of and I didn’t want to wait until the next time you and your brother were scheduled to meet with me.”
I remained motionless, my face heating, at complete odds with the chill running down my spine. I felt out of my element here. Drew was the one who made all the decisions regarding my father’s care. He was the one who knew all the appropriate questions to ask. All I knew was my dad had a terminal illness that had progressed over the past several years, now requiring constant care.
Meeting my eyes, he licked his lips, as if bracing to deliver a fatal blow. “Your father’s condition has begun to deteriorate at a much faster pace.”
“I’m sorry. What?” I furrowed my brow, shaking my head.
“As you know, there are seven stages of Alzheimer’s ranging from extremely mild to minutes away from death.”
I nodded quickly. When my father first got his diagnosis, I picked up every book I could on Alzhe
imer’s. It was what I did. Drew was the practical one, methodically hunting for the best neurologists and long-term care facility money could buy, hoping he’d be able to extend the death sentence my father had been given. I did the only thing I knew. I researched the disease and was forced to come to the realization that my father would soon not only forget who we were, but would no longer be able to bathe or go to the bathroom on his own.
I thought we had time. Now, looking at the forlorn expression on Dr. McAllister’s face, which he probably reserved for all the families he was about to deliver bad news to, I knew that time was coming to an end. I didn’t know how people in the healthcare profession got up every morning, knowing they’d likely have to face upset and grieving family members, all wanting an answer to one question… Why?
“I know all about the stages of Alzheimer’s,” I barked before softening my voice. “I thought he was doing okay.”
“We can’t ignore the signs, as much as we want to say he was just having a bad day. He’s had months of bad days, Molly. He’s become increasingly violent and irritable. So much so, he’s had to be restrained several times. The staff has checked for infections constantly, hoping that would explain his irritability, but he’s healthy, all things considered.” He shook his head, his eyes remaining glued to mine. “He’s easily confused.”
“He’s always been easily confused,” I argued, not wanting to believe my father was close to the end. “When he was diagnosed, you said he could live with the disease far into his eighties or nineties. It’s only been three years.”
“It’s true the life expectancy can be as long as twenty years, but every case is different. There’s no cookie-cutter formula here, Molly. Your father has a much better chance of living a little longer because you’ve made him a priority. Many patients with advanced Alzheimer’s, like your father, have such a short life expectancy because there’s no one around to take care of them. The staff here is the best there is, and I promise you, we will do everything we can to ensure your father’s final days are as comfortable and pain-free as possible.”