“Me?”
“Yes! Don’t you think you would like to live there? With the movie theater?”
“That place? Certainly not.”
“Why not?” she persists.
He furrows his brow. “It’s full of old people.”
Nina and I stifle our laughter, and I ask from the back seat, “How old do you think you are, Dad?”
He shakes his head. He may not have the correct number (seventy-four), but he has an answer: “Notthatold.”
Perhaps he is right. Maybe after a certain point, we get to decide how old we are. Or maybe there comes a moment when time starts sliding in all directions, revealing itself as an illusion, rendering age irrelevant.
I don’t blame my father for not being enticed by the facilities we’ve seen. I found one of them bone-chillingly depressing. All the residents there seemed to be awaiting something—and not something good. The second one had a slightly more cheerful ambiance, but it still struck me as the wrong place for our father. It had no charm, no whimsy, and although the staff seemed perfectly capable of caring for my father, I wanted them to do more than just accommodate him—I wanted them toappreciatehim.
Maybe Nina and I have underestimated just how attached our father is to his house, which is undeniably his natural habitat. Dad was raised in New York City, but he had spent all his summers in the Adirondacks. By the time he inherited the camp from his uncle in his late twenties, he was hooked on a visceral level. He always described our summers by Catwood Pond as “the great exhale.” He said our bodies knew where we belonged; sometimes it just took a while for our minds to catch up.
“Well, I thought Orchard Hills was fantastic,” coaxes Nina. I know she wants him to acquiesce so that she can move to Stockholm with a clear conscience. “Everyone says great things about it, and there are so many activities, great food, lots of eligibleladies.”
My father waves his hand dismissively, not taking the conversationseriously, which is fine. It’s not really his decision, but one that Nina and I will make—or rather, have already made. We turn onto the county road, whose two lanes are dappled with late-afternoon sun. Cresting and dipping through the woods, we wend our way towards Locust, where the road finally flattens out and intersects with Main Street. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of town, perched on the south bank of Lake Locust, which draws tourists in the summer but dozes through the off-season. We don’t see a soul as we pass the turnoff to the lake beach where I used to lifeguard, then Sal’s hardware store, the Locust Inn, Deb’s Depot, and Lorne’s All-Day Diner. As we exit the center of town, we pass the community tennis courts. Puddles are pooled in the service boxes, and the posts look naked without their nets. I wonder if I can still swing a racquet.
A few minutes later, we reach the turnoff to our road. My little car is still there, nestled in the mud where I abandoned it—but there’s something new on the windshield.
“Wait, slow down,” I say. Nina stops and I hop out to examine the note that is tucked beneath the windshield wiper. In a messy scrawl, it says:
Happy to help pull you out. From Carl
No contact information. I crawl back into the car and ask, “Do we know a Carl?”
“He’s our best friend,” says Dad.
I look to Nina for verification.
“He’s our neighbor. You know, the one who is adopting Dominic? He owns the cabin on the west bay—the old Ainsworth place,” says Nina, skillfully navigating through the mud on our drive up the hill. I can picture the cabin. Catwood Pond only has about ten camps along its shores, and I know them all from memory. “Moved in about three years ago. Mid-fifties, maybe. Lives alone. I don’t know him that well, but he comes by every few weeks to shoot the shit with Dad. It’s kind of sweet.”
“He’s a skilled woodworker,” adds my father. He seems to know more about Carl than he knows about himself.
“He’s a former contractor. Now he makes custom furniture,” adds Nina. “And he is always happy to help with odd jobs.”
“Like a handyman?”
“Yeah, but for free.”
“So he just does favors… for no reason?” I don’t know why the idea of altruism arouses my suspicion. Maybe my life in New York City has warped me, but I’m not accustomed to people doing things without some kind of agenda or expectation of quid pro quo.
“He probably gets some satisfaction out of it. And he really likes Dad. Like he said, they’re friends,” says Nina, turning into our driveway.
“I didn’t know Dad had friends.”
“Of course I have friends!” our father interjects. “More friends than you could even dream of.”
Since his diagnosis, my father’s social network has atrophied. People aren’t sure how to interact with him, so they just stop interacting at all. I don’t blame them. I’m his daughter, and although I’m ashamed of it, I’ve avoided his illness, too. I backtrack, saying, “I know you have lots of friends, Dad. Carl sounds nice.”
Later that evening, as the light falls, I find my father dozing in his favorite armchair, its leather shell cracked from years of wear. Beside him is the oversized cribbage board that doubles as a side table. Despite the many things he has forgotten, he still remembers the rules of this card game, according to Nina. It makes me think that there are chambers of his brain that are still fully functional, and maybe we should give him more credit. Maybe we should focus on what is still there, rather than what is lost. I sit down in the chair opposite him and start crawling my fingers along the holes in the table. Its surface is weathered, but with some refinishing, it could have a whole new life. Maybe with some refinishing,Icould have a whole new life.
My father opens his eyes and sees me examining the table. “I made that,” he says. I know this isn’t true. It came with the house when he inherited it. This is where Nina would usually correct him, but I decide to go along for the ride, see what he comes up with.
