“Oh, wow. Thank you,” I say, getting up and gesturing for him to follow me inside.
I wouldn’t say I know Carl well, but we have established an easy rapport since I arrived in May. A month and a half in, it’s safe to say he is my best local friend—not to mention my only local friend. As we stand in the coolness of the unlit kitchen, I pour us some iced tea and cut two fat wedges of lemon.
“Plans for the weekend?” he asks.
“Oh, you know us. We’re going to get crazy,” I say. I think about my friends in the city, who are inevitably hopping between outdoor bars and backyard barbecues and rooftop parties now that summer is in full swing. I feel a pang of anxiety about missing out on something, losing ground, drifting into orbit, never being heard from again. “We’ll probably take the canoe out later.”
“Perfect day for it,” says Carl. He seems to pick up on my listlessness. “You doing okay, in general? This must be a big change for you. Living here.”
“I’m fine.” My knee-jerk response. But then I actually consider the question. “A little lonely, I guess. I used to have a big group of friends here when I was younger, but we’re not in touch anymore.”
He nods, then surprises me by asking: “Are you practicing self-care?”
I nearly spit out my iced tea. When I worked at Actualize, I heard that term about ten times a day, but I haven’t thought about it since I moved here. I would never have pegged Carl as the self-care type, but his question makes me think.
“I guess I think more about my dad’s care than I do my own. But I’m having a nice enough time. We love the dump—we went yesterday.”
“Going to the dump is your self-care?” Carl asks, and we bothlaugh. But then he says seriously: “Doing this for a parent can become all-consuming. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”
We stand in silence for a minute, but Carl doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He never is. Eventually I say: “It’s weird—my dad said you would come by today. I told him he was mistaken because I thought you were out of town. But here you are. This keeps happening.”
“What does?”
“He keeps making these little… predictions. Or prophecies,” I say. “But I’m sure they’re just coincidences.”
“Why are you sure of that?”
“I mean, he’s not exactly on the pulse. It’s hard to know where he is, mentally. But every once in a while, he has a conviction about something—like he knows what’s going to take place, and then it does. It’s happened more times than I can count this summer. Just little things.”
Carl doesn’t look surprised or skeptical. In fact, for a moment, I think he is about to reveal something, but he just nods and walks to the sink to rinse his glass.
“Have you noticed it, too?” I ask.
“Absolutely. He’s tuned into something. I’ve always thought so.”
“Nina disagrees. I mean, she doesn’t think he’s psychic.”
Carl shrugs. “It’s subtle. Sometimes what he says is vague, or it takes a while to make sense. But he has a definite awareness. For instance, he knew you would come back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes when he would mention you, he would say ‘When Cricket moves back…’ or ‘When Cricket comes to live with me…’ like it was inevitable. And this is for as long as I’ve known him. Three years ago, he was saying that.”
“But I had no intention of moving here until a few months ago. This was never the plan.”
Carl shrugs again. “He thought it was.”
“So weird. Nina never mentioned him saying that. But maybe she didn’t notice. Or maybe she just discounted it because of his Alzheimer’s.I mean, he doesn’t even know who I am. He doesn’t understand that I’m his daughter.”
“Maybe not in the day-to-day, but on some level, he knows.” Carl seems certain in a way that assuages my skepticism. “Arthur’s memory is faulty, but I’ve always felt he’s still working with the fundamental truths. He has even helped me process some things. I once joked that he’s my own personal oracle.”
I snort my iced tea. “Ah, yes. The renowned oracle at Catwood Pond…”
Carl laughs softly, his crow’s feet crinkling.
“Well, I’m relieved to hear I’m not going crazy,” I say.
“You’re far from crazy,” says Carl. “You might even be onto something.”
