My gut clenches as I walk through a lobby with beige furniture arranged like someone’s idea of a comfortable living room. It’s designed to be welcoming when it’s anything but.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist looks up from her computer.
“I’m here to see Robert Christensen. Room 237.”
She types something, frowns at her screen. “Visiting hours end at nine. And you are?”
“His son.”
“I’ll need to see some ID.”
I hand over my driver’s license, watch her compare the photo to my face like I might be lying about who I am. Which is fair, considering I haven’t been here often enough for anyone to remember me.
“Just so you know, he’s been having a rough evening. Sundowning’s been worse lately, and he got agitated during dinner.” She hands back my license. “Try to keep the visit calm.”
Sundowning. The word makes my chest ache. It means his brain gets more scrambled as the day goes on, and evening visits are when he’s at his worst.
Room 237 is at the end of a long hallway, and I can hear the television blaring before I reach the door.
I knock, but there’s no answer over the noise. I push the door open and find him sitting in his recliner, wearing pajamas and a cardigan that’s buttoned wrong. He stares at the TV with the kind of blank concentration that means he’s not really seeing it.
“Hey, Dad.”
He slowly turns toward me, his eyes squinting, and for a moment there’s no recognition on his face. None. He looks at me like I’m a stranger who just walked into his room.
“Who are you?” His voice is sharp. “I didn’t ask for anyone to come in here.”
My heart sinks. “It’s me, Dad. Zane. Your son.”
“My son?” He squints harder, confusion mixing with fear. “Zane’s twelve years old. You’re not Zane.”
Twelve. Jesus. He thinks I’m still a kid, probably remembers me from when I was learning to skate on the pond behind our house.
“I grew up, Dad. It’s been a long time since I was twelve.”
“That’s impossible. Zane was just here yesterday. Or maybe last week.” He’s getting agitated now, hands gripping the arms of his chair tight. “Where is he? What did you do with my son?”
“I am your son.” I move closer, keeping my voice calm. “I know I look different, but it’s me. I promise.”
“No. No, you’re lying.” His breaths are labored now. “Zane has lighter hair. He’s small. You’re too big, too old. Get out of my room.”
I find the remote on the floor next to his chair and turn down the volume. He recoils., his eyes wide.
“Dad, look at me. Really look.” I pull out my wallet, show him my driver’s license. “Zane Christensen. That’s my name.”
He takes the license with shaking hands and stares at it for a long time. I watch his face as he tries to process the information and make sense of why some stranger has his son’s name.
“This says you’re thirty-two,” he says finally. “Zane’s not thirty-two. He’s just a boy.”
“I know it’s confusing. The doctors said your memory might play tricks on you.”
“What doctors? I don’t need doctors. There’s nothing wrong with me.” The license falls from his hands. “I want you to leave. I want to see my wife. Where’s Margaret?”
Margaret. My mother’s name. She’s been dead for six years, but in his condition, she might as well be in the next room.
“Mom’s not here right now, Dad.”
“Why not? She always comes to see me. Every day, she comes.” His voice rises again, the confusion morphing into distress. “Did something happen to her? Is she hurt?”
