I’d like to say we’ve left things on good terms, but I know that’s not the truth. And I’m only interested in the truth now.
Dad’s recovery is slow and uncertain, but we’ve been told the surgery itself went well and they’ll need to keep him a little while longer to monitor his progress.
Mom, CeeCee, and I take shifts at the hospital. James works remotely from Dad’s old shed in the backyard, careful not to disturb what’s left of Dad’s model trains, mostly coated in dust or packed away by Mom. We get a table set up in the corner with a monitor, a keyboard, and everything else he needs for the time being.
“Thanks for your help,” James says when we’re finished.
“No problem,” I say. I’m looking forward to getting to know him for real this go-around.
Imogen is missing most of preschool, but it’s just shapes and numbers anyway, so we sit her in front of educational TV shows for a few hours and make sure her brain isn’t becoming mush in the process.
At night, after family dinner, we play brainteaser games, and if Imogen can’t focus, we read books about road trips and dragons and candy factories aloud to her until she falls asleep with Milkshake curled up on his doggy bed, which is never more than a foot away from her.
It becomes a routine, and I forget, at least for a while, that this isn’t the life I’m supposed to be living right now. If I had to choose between going back to my career and staying here once Dad gets better, I think I’d choose the latter.
Even in the face of surgery and disease, this time together has been all the proof I needed to know that putting comedy—which I admit was more of an obsession than a pure dream—over my family was wrong.
The only one of us keeping track of the day of the week is Imogen, who, before bed one night, reminds us: “My birthday ith next week.”
CeeCee looks stricken. “Oh gosh, you’re right, sweetie.” Time, yet again, has proven elusive.
“Will we be home in time for my party?” Imogen asks innocently, but her eyes betray her. I think she knows the answer, and I want to comfort her.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry.” CeeCee shakes her head. “We’ll have to stay here until Grandpa’s better. I’ll have to call everyone and let them know of the change.”
“I can help,” I say, stepping up. My days are free now, and I want to be of use.
“Thanks,” CeeCee says. “Maybe we can reschedule?”
Imogen isn’t enthused by this feeble offer. “It ith okay, Mommy. Can we do thomething here with Gram-puh?”
CeeCee checks the calendar on her phone. “If the doctors are right, he should be home by then. I think that’s a great idea.” She settles down on the bed beside Imogen, cradling her head close and stroking her hair. I know she wishes she were delivering better news to her daughter.
“Let’s plan something together. Would that be cool?” I ask, taking the lead so as not to add any more to CeeCee’s plate. “Anything you want.”
Imogen’s eyes light up at me. “Anything?”
“Absolutely anything,” I say, delighting in playing the role of the fun uncle.
“Within reason!” CeeCee interrupts with a laugh before gracing me with a tentative smile and mouthing a genuinethank youover Imogen’s head.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Imogen insists her birthday party be comedy themed.
It doubles as a welcome-home party for Dad, so we go all out.
While Dad’s far from fully recovered, looking weary as he’s rolled into the house in a wheelchair, we’re all set to help manage his pain and keep him comfortable until the memory care facility calls, which should be any day now.
Currently, he sits in a hospital bed we’ve rented and set up in the living room, just enough space for a tray and his bevy of orange medicine bottles. None of them are a cure, but all of them a blessing anyway.
The night nurse sits on the far side, red hair pulled up and away from her round face. That color makes me miss Drew more than I already do, makes me wish he were here to support me through this, which is selfish, I know.
For years, I mistook Drew’s seeming stability as a leaning post. I see how unfair that is now. Too little, too late, perhaps. I hope he’s okay, and I would reach out to know for sure, but I’m respecting his boundaries.
I wish he’d give me a second (third?) chance to prove that our love, much like my familial love, can flourish in this timeline if we work at it, but I realize that I’ve been flung into the future and the past is not mine to manipulate.
“Hello, everybody!”
