“What in god’s name…?” My father examines the feathery shreds.
“It’s Parmesan. You love Parmesan.”
“Looks like Grandfather’s eyebrows,” he says conclusively before dumping a spoonful onto his plate.
He’s not wrong, I think, although I have no idea which “Grandfather” he is referring to—his or mine. I only knew one of my grandparents—my mother’s mother—and she died when I was five.
“The thing about surviving the winter here is that you must love to read, which I do. And you should also have a dog, which we don’t. Do we?” my father asks Nina, who shakes her head and replies: “Just the cat.”
“The cat, of course. And the wildlife. Just last week, a bear tore through our garbage bins…”
He begins a story, and Nina fact-checks him as he goes. (“That was last year.”) I know she feels it’s important to keep him tied to the truth with regular reminders and corrections, but I don’t see the point. Even before he had Alzheimer’s, my father never let himself be inhibited by facts. To the contrary, his creative interpretation of events always enhanced his storytelling. His reality has always been an abstract work of art; and perhaps that’s true for all of us.
My father finishes his yarn, and then asks, “Is there anything more satisfying than a potato?” as he takes a bite of cauliflower.
This time, Nina doesn’t have the heart to correct him, so we just nod in agreement and exchange an amused glance. Alzheimer’s is not funny, except when it is, which is often. It has the capacity to be both devastating and hilarious, and those who witness it learn to live in limbo, because there’s nowhere else to live.
As Nina and I catch up, Dad does a convincing job of following along. He nods and laughs when we do, though it’s clear he doesn’t always get our references or grasp whom we’re snickering about. Nowadays, I only have superficial knowledge of the people in this town, but in the four years since Nina moved here to take care of our father, she has gotten a fuller picture. Still, there is not much local gossip to report.
“The Seavey house still hasn’t sold,” she says. “That’s all I’ve got: news about whathasn’thappened. Off-season is lethally boring here. I’ll be glad for a change of scene.”
Nina always had a meticulous plan for her life, and moving back to Locust was never part of it—but even she hadn’t seen the pandemic coming. When the first cases of COVID were reported, she had beenwell-ensconced in her PhD program in Boston. But as 2020 progressed, we began to worry more about our father. His memory had been dwindling for a while, and when he backed his car out of the garage without remembering to open the door, it was clear he should not be living on his own any longer. Finding adequate at-home help was not feasible in those early days of the pandemic—the exposure risk was too high, as was the expense. So Nina quickly pivoted, relocating to Catwood Pond and arranging to write her dissertation from here while keeping an eye on our dad. Not long after, he was formally diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
At the time, I was working on a ranch in Wyoming, and though my responsibilities were few, the idea of returning to Locust never crossed my mind. Plus, Nina had stepped up without hesitation, and we all knew—without even having to discuss it—that she was the right woman for the job.
“More?” says Nina, offering me the bottle of Malbec we have nearly finished. Before I can answer, I feel a cloud of fur brush past my legs, and suddenly there is an animal on the table.
“Our beauty,” says Dad, bopping the cat on the head. Dominic is a Maine coon of unknown age and origin. He appeared at the house the summer I was twelve and never left. That makes him at least fifteen, though he could be twice that for all we know. His voluminous coat gives him the look of a wolverine, and I notice that some fur has begun to clump around the base of his tail. For a time, he was my best friend. Now, he looks at me with skepticism.
“There you are!” I hold out my hand to stroke his forehead, but he dodges it. Maybe he doesn’t recognize me, or maybe I’ve lost my touch. For most of my childhood, I was obsessed with animals and determined to become a veterinarian, but that dream fell by the wayside when I dropped out of school.
“Hey!” Nina snaps her fingers toward the cat as he nips a piece of chicken off my father’s plate. Nina is not an animal person. “Stop it, Dom!”
“It’s quite alright,” says my father, giving the cat a head scratch. “We have an understanding.”
“I guess Crumpet’s Rule does not apply to cats,” I note. “But I’m glad to see Dom’s appetite is still robust. And that coat is glorious.”
“Oh yes. She’s a very handsome girl,” says Dad, whose grasp of animal gender was always tenuous and is now completely fluid.
“He,”says Nina. “He’s a boy.”
“A boy?” My father looks incredulous. “With a name like Dawn?”
Nina and I burst into laughter, and my father slips another hunk of chicken to the cat.
“Carl will have his work cut out for him,” says Nina, referring to a neighbor who has agreed to take Dominic when my dad moves to his new residence. Neither of the two homes we’re touring tomorrow accepts animals, and Nina is in no rush to take the cat to Sweden. I certainly can’t handle a pet right now, though the idea of re-homing Dom makes me sad. Or maybe it’s the idea of re-homing my dad that is actually weighing on me. It’s all mixed up together.
A lull settles over the table, and after a moment, Nina says, “Okay, Dad. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
“Already?” I look at my watch. It’s only 8:30.
“He goes to bed at nine o’clock sharp, and he needs a bath tonight,” she explains.
“A bath?” My father looks appalled. “Duringmud season? What’s the point?”
He’s joking now, and I am warmed by the fact that he is still himself. There are plenty of things he can’t tell you—his birthday (March 1), the day of the week (Friday), what county we’re in (Herkimer)—but his fundamental personality is intact, his sense of humor alive and well. And though he can’t tell a long story without getting lost along the way, he can still deploy relics of his once-sprawling vocabulary:querulous,bombastic,arcane,rambunctious,barf. He still has moments of sharpness, his wit bubbling up to the surface.
“Do you need help? Is there anything I can do?” I ask as Nina removes our father’s bib and helps him up from his chair.
