Ryan and Ian both try to chew down their laughter.
“Boys,” Mum scolds them.
“Spending time with them will definitely help you,” Dad goes on. “They could teach you something really important.”
“Like what? How to win the last level ofMarioKart?” Ryan says.
“The fact that you even know what you’re talking about says a lot,” Chris says, helping me out.
“It’s Evan’s fault,” Ryan says, immediately shifting the blame to her son.
“Hey, even I don’t play that stuff. It’s for little kids,” Evan responds, disgruntled.
“And you’re not a little kid?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Chris says, resting her elbows on the table and dropping her head into her hands.
The poor woman is already exasperated. I wonder how long it’ll be before she kicks Ryan out. I hope she warns me first – I wouldn’t want to miss the show.
My dad leans over to me and speaks softly, so the others won’t hear. “You can always learn something, Nick. From anyone – and especially from kids.”
“I don’t get what you mean.”
“You will,” he says, before turning back to his dinner.
* * *
“How comethe physiotherapist is coming over so late?” I ask Mum as I help her load up the dishwasher.
“This is just so that they can meet each other. You know, for your dad…”
“Sure. I hope he likes her.”
Mum sighs. “Me too.”
“Martin says that she can work with any type of patient, even the most difficult ones, and ones with specific…conditions,” Chris comments delicately.
The problem with this family is that everyone speaks without thinking – no one has any issues spouting all kinds of bullshit – but no one has the courage to talk about Dad, to give it a name.
Dad has Alzheimer’s. It has a name, for fuck’s sake. Let’s use it.
He’s getting worse, even if, thankfully, he’s not a complete invalid yet. He can still sit and talk with us most of the time, but the doctors have told us quite clearly not to wait around for any miracles. And they’re right. We all know it, but it’s impossible not to hope that it’ll be a while before things really start to deteriorate.
But Dad has started to close himself off, and everyone’s noticed it. He goes out less and less. To be honest, he never goes out at all anymore. After the last few instances, which sent Mum into a total panic, we decided to stop putting her nerves to the test. He’s starting to hate hospitals, too – they make him uncomfortable, and he doesn’t like the doctors. Taking him for a check-up has become really difficult, and after his accident at home, things have got much worse.
The days he spent recovering after the surgery were terrible. He was agitated and nervous, and would lash out for no reason. As soon as he was home, things were a bit better, but he refused to go to any kind of centre for his physiotherapy. We tried to reason with him, we waited a while, but by that point, we had to make a decision: and Chris’ idea, to have someone come to the house, was the best solution we could think of.
We’re all just hoping it pays off.
The doorbell goes. Our physio’s here.
“Can you go, Nick?” Mum asks nervously.
“Sure, no problem.”
I close the door of the dishwasher and head to the front door, ready to let her in. But when I flash one of my best smiles, fate, destiny or maybe bad luck, hits me square in the chest.
8
