It’s like Danny knows somehow. I don’t even have to explain it to him. He just gets it, gets how draining it is for me. He’s extra careful with me on those days, gives me little things: a cup of tea, a foot rub, a hug, and Netflix.
I stare at Danny seated comfortably on the opposite side of the table as he patiently removes a Scrabble tile from my dad’s mouth and hands it to him.
“The G’s don’t taste as good as the Q’s,” he tells him and my dad smiles at him, actually beams at him as if he knows it’s a joke. “Now, where are we putting these?” Danny asks. He slowly hands the tiles to my dad one by one and watches as he sets them on the board.
“Ha! Z on a triple word score. We are cleaning up, Martin!”
“I don’t think”—I lean across the table and look—“ZYWQBCCKDDGHYYG is actually a word.”
“It’s a Welsh word, note the lack of vowels.” He counts up the score and scribbles it in his police notebook, which is never far from his breast pocket, even on his day off. “So that’s 62 on a triple word score, which makes 186, which brings our grand total to 489.”
“I think you two are cheating.” My mouth twitches.
Danny turns to my dad and grins. “He’s such a sore loser.”
My heart throbs in my chest as I watch my dad lean his head on Danny’s shoulder. Danny wraps his arm around him without even thinking about it as he gathers up the Scrabble tiles with his other hand.
“Well, I don’t know about you, Martin,” he remarks conversationally to my dad, “but I think we’ve embarrassed Tris enough for one day over his appalling spelling skills. How about Jenga?”
“They banned Jenga,” I lament ruefully. “There was nearly bloodshed last time between Mr Peterson and Mrs Phelps.”
“Ok, no Jenga then. What do you want to do, Martin?” Danny asks him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and in response my dad picks up a puzzle box and nudges it into my hands.
“You want to do a jigsaw?” I ask as I open the box and scoot my chair in closer.
I don’t bother looking at the picture, it makes no difference. Dad can’t do puzzles anymore, not properly anyway. He just kind of fits all the pieces together haphazardly so the finished article somewhat resembles a brightly printed cardboard spiderweb, but it keeps him focused for a little while and makes him happy. Danny and I sit companionably taking turns to hand him random puzzle pieces.
I’m so focused on Dad I almost miss the cool trickle down my spine followed by a small shudder. I shift my shoulders uncomfortably and glance behind me, but nothing seems amiss. Just the regular residents milling around with the carers and various visitors and family members.
But I can’t shake the strange feeling. For just a moment, I could have sworn a cold shadow had passed over me.
“Hello there, Tristan.” One of the familiar nurses stops by the table to check in. “Danny.” She smiles at him.
I shake my head lightly to clear the strange thoughts swirling in my mind and greet her warmly. “Hi, Lois.” She’s been caring for my dad ever since he was brought here nearly four years ago.
She nods at my dad. “It’s nice to see Martin so relaxed.”
“Yeah.” I smile softly as I watch Danny handing him another puzzle piece.
“It’s nearly lunchtime,” she says. “I doubt you’d want what the residents are having since most of them are on soft food and liquids to avoid choking, but I can get cook to rustle you up a couple of sandwiches if you’d like.”
“That would be perfect, thank you.” I smile up at her and Danny does the same as she wanders off towards the kitchen.
We pack up the puzzle and help Dad into the dining room, settling him at a table between us. Danny sits and holds Dad’s hand, chatting about random things, knowing he’s not really taking it in, as I feed him slowly, stopping now and then to wipe the mashed potato from his chin. Danny takes over spooning him some sort of pink gooey pudding so I can eat my sandwich from a plastic plate and sip my juice from a plastic beaker.
The rest of the day passes much the same. We sit with Dad while he scribbles in a colouring book with brightly coloured felt-tip pens, getting more on himself than the page, but then again, art is in the eye of the beholder. We sit curled up on a sofa and watch some old episodes ofSupermarket Sweepfor a while as the rain continues to pelt the wide steamed-up windows of the dayroom, the sound comforting over the muted volume of the TV.
We help him with his dinner and then after, we sit in the kitchen eating Chinese takeaway with some of the staff while Lois and one of the other carers bathe Dad and get him ready for bed. Usually, I’d sit by his bed and read to him, but tonight Danny surprises me by pulling out loads of extra blankets and pillows Lois has provided and building a blanket fort on the floor in Dad's room. He places the small nightlight we brought with us on a previous visit inside so it casts stars and constellations across the roof of the tent.
It feels like my lungs are too small as I suck in a breath and stare at his finished fort with tears burning my eyes. It’s just like the one my dad built for me after Mum died. Dad and I slept inside it every night for six months because I was afraid he was going to die, too, and leave me all alone.
“I thought that”—Danny’s hand slips into mine and grips warmly—“as he’s having a good day, this might feel familiar to him and help him connect with you, even if it’s on a level we can’t see. I like to think that some part of him deep inside will know.”
I can’t speak, my throat is aching. Just when I think it’s not possible to fall even more in love with this man, he goes and does something like this.
My watery gaze falls on Dad as he crawls slowly into the fort and flops on his back, patting the pillows and blankets around him before staring up at the stars cast above by the rotating nightlight.
“Come on,” Danny says, grasping my hand and picking up the battered copy ofThe Voyage of the Dawn Treaderfrom the bookshelf.
