Dad chuckles as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “It happened in ablink.”
I don’t miss the nostalgic glimmer that moves through his eyes, that quiet knowing that time is slipping by. I felt it the other day when Josie rolled onto her stomach for the first time, a hollow ache hitting me when I realized my baby is growing right in front of me.
“Take a nap, will ya?” Dad says, eyeing me rub at my lower back.
“You’re a bossy bunch around here.”
“You’ll thank us one day.” He chuckles when I wave him off and head for the stairs. “Hey, um…” He hesitates, and I pause on the stairs. His eyes are pinched shut, like asking me for a favor physically pains him. “Can you still take your mother to her hair appointment?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m happy to. Don’t worry.”
He exhales, a weight lifting off him, and a rush of warmth floods me at the thought of doing him a favor and of stealing a little time with my mom. I can’t help the laugh that slips out as he twirls back to his private dance floor.
I almost fall asleep in the shower, slipping twice and knocking my head against the tile. But not hard enough to get my memories back apparently. The intrusive temptation to throw myself against the wall hits fast and leaves just as quickly, but the fact that it appeared at all is alarming.
“I need sleep,” I mutter to my fogged-up reflection. I still don’t recognize the man staring back, not even after three weeks. And the grays at my temples and the wrinkles around my eyes aren’t the issue. It’s the dimness in my stare, the downturn of my mouth, the look of a man worn all the way down.
I can’t pin all of this on Emma and the kids. I know I did this to myself. I’ve apparently worked myself into the ground and dragged everyone down with me. So yeah, I’m terrified to remember anything about work, terrified to hold that knowledge again. A knowledge that is so addictive and consuming I lose sight of everything else.
It’s what led me here and cost me years of my life.
“Where are we going?” Mom asks from the passenger seat. It’s the third time since we left the house five minutes ago. Her frail hands clutch the seatbelt so tightly her knuckles are white.
“To get your hair done,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Oh, yay.” She beams, relaxing back into the seat, but a moment later, her eyes cloud with confusion again.
“Are you excited to get your hair done?” I offer gently.
“Oh, yes,” she replies, her smile brightening again.
This cycle continues for the entire drive to the salon. When I help her into the chair, a gnawing ache digs into my chest. I guess I hoped she’d be more lucid today.
Her appointment is less than twenty minutes—a quick wash and curl. Something about short outings like this are good for her. It keeps her routine and sense of self intact.
“How do I look?” she asks as the drape comes off.
“Radiant,” I tell her, slipping the stylist an extra tip for having to repeat her cat’s name ten times.
Our wide smiles carry us down the sidewalk, and any trace of exhaustion I was feeling earlier melts away. Mom points out little boutiques, grins wildly when we pass a baby in a stroller, and does an awkward shuffle dance when she hears music spill out of a cafe.
Bylunchtime, she seems lighter, more like herself than this morning but still not fully present. She asks the waiter three times about the specials, and each time, he repeats them with unfailing patience.
“And a French onion soup,” he adds kindly.
Mom studies the menu again, tapping a painted nail to her chin. “This is a lovely place.”
The waiter, Teddy, is composed. But I can see, by the way his eyes flick to the hostess table, that he needs this to be done.
“We’ll take two specials,” I tell him. “You love their soup here, Mom.”
Her gaze is puzzled for a beat, almost as if she doesn’t recognize me at all, but I smile anyway. She softens in response, and I let the relief settle around us.
“Yes, soup.” She gives Teddy a thumbs up, and he tosses me a grateful glance.
We eat our soup in silence. The sounds of the busy diner—dishes clattering, food sizzling, Teddy taking orders—fill the space around us. Mom’s eyes drift around, like she’s lost her way. Then she looks to me, catches my gaze and smiles, and returns to her soup. Another repeated cycle. It’s painful to watch, forming a knot in my chest. For some reason, I want to call Liam and ask him something, but I don’t know what.
And then, it hits me.
