‘He has a bed sore. I can’t get it to heal because he forgets that he shouldn’t put his weight on it.’
‘Does he need medication?’
‘The doctor came out during the week and gave me the dressings I’ve been using and some cream. He told me to persevere for now.’
‘Oh,’ is all I manage to utter.
I should’ve been here. I should’ve spoken to the doctor. Instead, work and gallivanting with some rich CEO were top of my priorities.
Sandy squeezes my hand tightly. We walk to the bottom of the stairs and help my dad stand. We struggle through the house and down the three small concrete steps into the garden. He apologises with each shuffle forwards.
The garden is bright, with sun shining on the yellow ash leaves on the trees and in piles on the ground. Birds are chirping and fluttering down to nibble nuts from the bird table Dad and I haphazardly handcrafted one spring day when I was nine or ten. We thought it would last a year or so at best but here it is, wood flaking from its roof and remnants of bottle-green paint scattered around its legs, but still standing strong.
My dad is more content than I’ve seen him for too long. He closes his eyes and leans his face to one side, pointing it in the direction of the sun. He sits on the wood bench that he claims to have rescued from a second-hand market shortly after buying our townhouse. He once told me, ‘There’s life left in it; all it needs is a good home.’ He was right, as he always was.
‘When I feel a little stronger, I think I’ll trim those conifers,’ he says nonchalantly, causing Sandy and me both to scrutinise the overgrown row of evergreens at the bottom of the garden.
‘We could always arrange for someone to come in and cut them for us,’ I suggest.
He looks at me, his face is taut, and I know what’s coming, what comes every time. I’ve tried avoiding his questions and I’ve tried lying to him but he spent too long working in the medical field to be fooled. Each time his moment of realisation comes, it cuts through me in the way he would take a scalpel to his patients, slowly breaking my skin, drawing deeper as it moves.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ he asks.
A deep breath fills my lungs but doesn’t give me the strength I need. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Dad; you just forget sometimes, that’s all.’
‘I forget?’ he asks.
The too-familiar sense of confusion lingers in his words. His scalpel slices deeper still, a laceration that will never heal.
‘What do I forget? How often do I forget?’
No matter how many times we have this conversation, it never gets easier and I never get any better at dealing with it.
‘Sometimes, you forget people.’
‘Do I forget you?’ he asks, his eyes glazing over, leaving him seeing the world through frosted panes.
‘Yes.’
‘What is it, Scarlett? What’s wrong with me?’ When my response doesn’t come, he asks again, demanding an answer.
‘You have Alzheimer’s.’ I say it quickly, swatting away the tears that escape from my eyes. I never used to cry.
As he absorbs my words, silent tears slip from his soft blue eyes. He grabs one of my hands from my lap and shuffles on the bench to face me.
‘I’m sorry, my Scarlett. I’m so very sorry.’
‘Stop it,’ I say, taking his wet cheeks in my hands. ‘It’s okay, you’re fine right now, you’re here, let’s enjoy our day.’
He closes his eyes and nods. ‘You’re a good girl. In case I forget to tell you, thank you for being here with me. Today. Always. You mean everything to me, you always have and even if I forget to say it, you must remember that deep, deep in my heart and in the depths of my old, broken mind, I love you. I love you now, forever and always. I’ve loved you more than life itself since the first day I held you in my arms and I will never stop loving you, my beautiful girl.’
I throw my arms around his neck and we hold each other, rocking gently. His embrace familiar and warm.
‘I love you too, Dad. Please never forget that.’
Sandy makes tea and later sandwiches and cakes, which we eat in the garden. Despite the air dropping cool, my dad is reluctant to go inside, preferring to place a blanket over his legs. We pass the afternoon easily, reminiscing about times we all remember. Dad watches Sandy and I play cards and attempts to join in when I let him see my hand. To my amazement, he remembers the rules of the card games we play, although he doesn’t have the energy to play himself.
In the late afternoon, his blinks become longer and though he forces his eyes back open, they seem to weigh more each time he tries. I don’t want him to sleep just as much as he wants to fight against it. We both know the world could be a very different place when he wakes.
