He spins back, now stark naked, his face lit up with excitement. His finger presses to his lips. “Shhh. Tish and I are going skinny-dipping in the lake out back. Don’t wake up her folks, girlie.”
Ah, he’s twenty-three again.
If only.
“It’s too cold outside to go skinny-dipping. And the lake is on the other side of town, remember?”
“No—no, I just saw her outside.” His brows drop, confusion washing over his face the way goosebumps have his skin. “You... why did you call me Daddy?”
Ah, fuck.
I was given the rundown before Marie left this afternoon. I was explicitly instructed to remain neutral when he’s having a bad moment. Nothing to suggest time or place. Stick to generic responses and redirect to something he can do like read, watch the game, or go for a walk.
Fuck.
The thoroughly confused look on his face is like a vice grip around my heart. Why on earth did my family think this was a good idea? I’m not good at this. Not in the slightest.
“Sorry, Hank. Let’s pop your clothes back on, okay?”
“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, wandering around the room, taking it in as if for the first time.
I pick up the underwear and hand it to him. He simply stares at it in his hand.
It’s not the first time I’ve had to help my father with something this personal, but it still makes me feel a little uncomfortable. And then a whole lot guilty. The man wiped my butt and changed my diapers. Mopped up my vomit and driedmy tears. The least I can do is care for him now, when he needs me.
So I squat and hold out the underwear. He steps into it in an automated motion, one leg after the other. The pants go next and then I slide his shirt back on, buttoning it up. When his vest and coat are snug around his shoulders, I give him a smile. “There you are, all warm.”
He tilts his head. “Thank you, love.”
But I can tell by the way his eyes are mostly vacant that he doesn’t recognize me today.
That’s okay, I know who we are enough for the both of us.
“How about some soup for lunch?” I ask, knowing Marie’s everlasting stock of her famous pea-and-ham soup will be sitting in single-serve portions in the freezer.
He brightens. “The little breadsticks, too?”
He remembersthat.
I chuckle and say, “Sure. Breadsticks, too.”
He nods, sitting in his reading chair. He plucks up Mark Twain. “I’ve been meaning to read this one for months, you know. Hope it’s as good as everyone says.” He opens to the first page and leans back in the chair, swiping his reading glasses from the side table as he settles in.
Me too, Daddy, me too.
I pad back to the kitchen and tug the freezer open. Sure enough, single serves of the world’s greatest comfort soup sit stacked in the top of the frosty space. I pull two out and reheat them in separate bowls before hunting for a box of breadsticks.
My head is inside the deep pantry cupboard as the doorbell rings.
“Who on earth . . .”
I head for the front door. I can hear my father’s voice before I even open it.
“Get your hands off me, lad!”
Shit.
I swing the door open to find my naked father, wrapped in a throw blanket that I’m pretty sure isn’t ours, being held by a tall guy around my age with light brown hair. His deep blues are drawn with concern, his grip unwavering on my dad’s arm as he tugs the cap from his head. “Sorry, Hank was wandering through my backyard. Thought you’d want him back. Quinton. I live next door.”
