Page 107 of When the Smoke Clears

“Because he’s lost so much weight, the diapers don’t fit him well enough to contain the waste. And it’s hard to transfer him from the bed to the toilet.”

“You mean he can’t walk?” I narrow my eyes.

“Correct,” she says.

“Then how did he wander into another room?”

Her courteous smile vanishes. “I’m not sure. I was helping another resident.”

I rub the back of my neck and inhale slowly.

“We’ve kept him out here to keep a close eye on him. It’s concussion protocol.”

My dad is terminally ill. We’re essentially counting the days until he dies. And they’re worried about a concussion?

“Thanks.” I muster a smile. “Can we take him to his room now?”

She looks at her watch. “Yeah. I’ll check on him after you leave.”

Mom unlocks his wheelchair brakes, then I push him toward his room. A lady sitting on the seat of her walker in the hallway reaches her hand toward Dad as we pass.

“Wish I could kiss your boo-boos,” she says.

Dad slowly reaches out his hand to touch hers. It’s a soft caress. Mom stiffens next to me with a look of horror on her face. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. She knows that, but I’m sure it still stings.

I pick up the pace to detach their hands.

“Are those your kids?” she calls.

“I’m his wife,” Mom says through gritted teeth, turning as though she’s going to pick a fight with a woman who can’t stand unassisted.

“He’s not himself,” I mumble, grabbing her arm to pull her toward his room.

His roommate smiles at me, pulling off his headphones. “Did you have a nice trip?” he asks while sitting up in his bed.

I’m not sure why Vincent is in here. He seems mentally sound. Sure, he uses a walker, but he walks faster than the nurses. I heard one of them call him Speedy.

“It was a nice trip. Thanks for asking,” I say, helping my dad into his bed.

Mom closes the curtain between the two beds. It’s not a sound barrier, but she must like the illusion of privacy. I nod for her to sit in Dad’s lift chair, but she crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, standing by the door.

“What’s my name?” I ask Dad.

“William.”

I nod, removing his glasses. “Who’s that?” I point at Mom.

He squints. “Steffi.”

Again, I nod. “Is she your wife?”

“Yes,” he says as if it’s a ridiculous question.

I don’t know if his answer makes what happened in the hallway better or worse. From the scowl on my mom’s face, I’d say worse.

“Do you remember falling?” I straighten his covers over his legs.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly.