I open the trash and find three eggshells but no sight of the eggs themselves.
“That’s good,” I say lightly. “Sounds like you’ve had a productive morning.”
He watches me arrange the mugs. “You don’t have to fuss over me, Fifi.”
I drop my jaw in faux-horror. “Yes, I do. It’s the nurse’s oath. Along with…” I tip my gaze to the ceiling and ignore the water stain in one of the corners, “…I will make sure the beds are clean, the food marginally edible, and never underestimate the power of a cup of tea.”
That raises a smile which lights me up inside.
While the water heats, I open the fridge and begin a silent inspection. Half a carton of milk stands on a lone shelf, expired. A lasagna I’d frozen on my last trip down sits beside it, untouched.
His medications are on the side where I’d left them, although Thursday and Friday are still full in the pill organizer and it’s Saturday today.
“Have you been taking these?” I ask, holding up the organizer.
He glances at the box in my hand. “I think so.”
I set it down on the counter and lift out today’s pills. “Thinking isn’t the same as doing, Dad.”
“Well, I haven’t keeled over,” he replies with a satisfied grin.
I shake my head, smiling. “That’s not a benchmark.”
His gaze falls and guilt rushes through me.
I sit down across from him. “I’m sorry Dad. I just worry about you.”
His eyes lift. “I know. But I’m okay, Fi. You really didn’t have to take a sabbatical from the hospital. You love your work.”
I dare not tell him I quit completely. I don’t want him to panic.
“It’s fine,” I say, with a sigh. “I’ve missed you and I want to help out here for a little while.”
I make us both coffee and some scrambled eggs, and I put the fork in his hand and tell him to eat. He then makes me question everything by asking after my work, and the drive back to New York, like a sound-minded human. For a fleeting moment I wonder if some company and a decent meal is all he needs.
He finishes the plate and looks up. “You staying in your old room?”
“Yeah.”
While the spare bedroom is larger, I need something familiar while I find my feet here again.
“That’s good.” He looks relieved. “Florence changed the sheets.”
The room goes very still and my fork clatters to the plate.
Florence was my mother.
My mother died giving birth to me.
He seems to hear it himself a second too late. His focus moves in and out and I watch as realization gives way to confusion and then to fear.
I thought it would be the consequences of forgetfulness—the missed medications, the lost paths—that would be the hardest, but I was wrong. This is the very worst part. Not the forgetting, but the moment they realize they’ve forgotten.
“I meant—” he starts.
I rest a hand over his. “It’s okay, Dad.”
“I know she’s gone,” he whispers.
