Page 94 of Barefoot Lake

“I’m sorry, I—” she struggles to think of a lie that will soothe him. “Can we discuss what you’re currently reading?”

“Miss, office hours are for legitimate questions about course material, not for mindless chit-chat. I am a respected Professor here and a very busy man. If you’re interested in yammering on about new books, might I suggest joining a book club?”

Alice looks cowed, and I want to yell at the brute of a man berating her, but I remember he’s sick, and I can’t. Alice opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, clearly searching for something to say.

“We apologize, Professor. We didn’t mean to disturb you. We’ll go.” I stand and reach for Alice’s hand. Her chin is quivering when she walks with me to the door.

My hand is on the doorknob when the room becomes suddenly silent.

“Rain?” William’s voice is gentle. “Rain McDermott?”

Alice and I spin toward him. His face has become soft, his expression tender.

“I’ve missed you every single day,” he barely whispers.

“What did you say?” Alice’s voice cracks.

William blinks a few times, and his brow furrows again.

“I thought we were finished here,” he says angrily. “Out with you!”

We leave, and I gently close the door behind us. The doctor from earlier is waiting in the hall.

“Are you his daughter?” she asks Alice.

Alice nods. “What just happened in there? He said my mom’s name right before I left. He’s never done that before. He doesn’t even know who I am.”

Alice is hugging herself, but her voice is steady.

The doctor lays her hand on Alice’s arm again with a sympathetic touch.

“We may never know what he saw. Dementia is a very complicated and cruel condition. His status can change wildly very quickly. He was doing well just a few minutes before you arrived. Then, like a switch went off, he was locked in his mind again. I know it can be very distressing to see, but it’s not uncommon,” the doctor explains.

Alice nods again, but it’s unclear how much she’s processing. Her father just called her by her dead mother’s name. I place a hand on her back, and she leans into it.

“Is he ok now?”

“He’s safe, and he will be well cared for.”

“Ok… Ok, good. Let me know if there’s any change. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I wrap an arm around Alice’s shoulders and pull her close to me as we walk out.

In the truck, Alice still sits in the middle beside me, but she keeps her hands in her lap and stares blankly out the front windshield as we drive north. The silence stretches five minutes, ten, twenty.

“Alice?” I finally crack, feeling helpless while she faces whatever she’s feeling after that very difficult visit.

“I’m going to end up just like him,” she vaguely replies.

“You don’t know that,” I protest. “There’s no guarantee…”

“I don’t mean the dementia, though I guess that is possible, too. I don’t have the gene. I got checked. No, I mean the regret.”

I quickly glance over at her, but her position hasn’t changed.

“He knew what he said when he called me Rain. I know it. I might never get to hear their story or why he wasn’t around, but I can feel it in my bones that he was being honest. He’s missed her every single day. And he’ll never know he now has me. I’m not even sure he knows I exist. It’s utterly heartbreaking.”

The English language hasn’t created words that are appropriate to say to somebody in Alice’s position. The ones I settle on are pathetic.