"Yes, like the number."
"Hm."
He lets Ellie scent his hand, and then Ellie lets him pat her. Maybe she can bring him some comfort—some calm—while I try to gently wake up his sleeping mind.
"What's this about?" my father asks, giving me a curious look.
I stop chewing my lip. "I wanted to talk."
A knot forms between his brows. "Do I know you?"
I sit next to him, sighing. "That's not important."
In the past, he hasn't responded well when we tell him he should know us, and I don't want to get off on the wrong foot here.
"I forget things a lot," Dad muses, looking up at the moon while he pets Ellie.
This is good. If he's conscious of his memory lapses, it could be easier.
"Tell me about that," I prod gently. "What sorts of things do you forget?"
"All kinds of things, I think. Names, the date, earlier I forgot how to tie my shoe." He laughs sadly.
My chest pangs. "What else?"
His lips press into a thin line. "I'm not sure. People, maybe? Things that have happened."
The hand he isn't using to pet Ellie clenches on his lap.
"Do you ever try to remember them? The people you think you're forgetting? The things that happened that you don't remember?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer, but the shadow over his eyes deepens.
"Sometimes," he murmurs. "But it's like…like looking into a dark room, and the harder I look, the more distant the memory becomes. And when I try to follow it, the darkness gets…deeper. If I push against it, it just—just swallows me up."
His knuckles turn white, and my throat burns.
"And then I'm lost in it," he continues in a trembling whisper. "And it's endless. Suffocating and so…so lonely."
I fight to swallow past the ball forming in my throat, and Ihate—god, I hate myself for doing this.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, and I realize I've been quiet for too long. "You seem upset."
At this, I nod.
"Have you ever done something…" I shudder, pushing through the resistance twisting in my chest. "Something you regret?"
I need to try to ease him into a conversation that will lead to Ambrose and somehow avoid the inevitable explosion when it all comes rushing back in.
"Hasn't every man?" he replies.
My hand aches as I close it into a tight fist.
"Anything you can remember?" I push, my stomach roiling.
He frowns, and for one fleeting second, there's a flicker of recognition in his eyes before it fades away.
"Try to remember," I urge gently, choking on bile.
