Fuck, this is the worst part. Watching him relive her death over and over, or forget it completely and wonder why she’s not visiting. The doctors said it’s better not to remind him, but lying feels like another kind of cruelty.
“She’s fine. She just couldn’t make it tonight.”
“Oh.” He seems to accept this. His attention drifts back to the television. “When is she coming? I want to tell her about the man who came to see me.”
“What man?”
“Nice man. Friendly. He knew about Zane, knew we used to live in Detroit.” Dad’s voice gets softer, more confused. “Or maybe I dreamed that. Sometimes I can’t tell anymore.”
A chill runs down my spine. “What did this man look like?”
“I don’t remember. Dark hair, maybe? He had a nice smile.” Dad picks at a loose thread on his blue cardigan. “He asked about Zane. Wanted to know if he still played hockey.”
My blood ices in my veins.
Someone’s been here, asking questions about me.
“Dad, this is important. When did this man visit?”
“I don’t know. Today? Yesterday? Time doesn’t work right anymore.” He looks at me with sudden clarity, like the fog lifted for just a moment. “Are you really my son?”
The question nearly breaks me, my heart aching at the flicker of recognition in his tired eyes. “Yeah, Dad. I’m really your son.”
“You got so tall. And your voice is different.” He reaches out tentatively to touch my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Something’s wrong with my head.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“I feel confused all the time now.” His voice gets smaller, more uncertain. “The nurses keep telling me things, but I can’t remember them. Are you really my boy?”
“Yeah, I’m really your boy.”
“Good. That’s good.” He pats my hand like I’m still twelve. “Margaret will be so happy when she gets home from work.”
The brief moment of recognition is already slipping away, replaced by the delusion that Mom is still alive, still coming home every day.
“The facility is helping you stay safe.”
“Safe from what? From myself?” He laughs. “I’m safe here. Your mom will be home soon. We take care of each other.”
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
He mentioned you to our friend. Seems proud of his boy, the hockey player. Would hate for anything to change.
My jaw damn near hits the polished tile floor. Someone’s been here, talking to my father, pretending to be friendly while gathering intelligence. And now they’re letting me know they can reach him anytime they want.
“Are you sure you’re my son?” Dad asks, his focus now fully on the television.
“Yes, Dad.”
How the fuck could I be so careless by coming tonight?
I just needed to see him, to talk to him, to remind myself what’s at stake. And now I’ve put him in more danger.
Someone knows about Dad’s condition, knows exactly how vulnerable he is. They’ve been in this room, talked to him while he was confused and frightened, probably got him to share information without him even knowing what he was doing.
“I should probably go,” I say, moving toward the door.
“Okay.” He doesn’t ask me to stay, doesn’t seem upset. In his mind, I’m just another stranger who stopped by his room.
