Page 31

“I know.”

“I’m your ally, honey. Don’t forget that. You need me, you holler.”

I thanked him for that and for his assistance today. He was right though. Despite all my dad’s promises. Tomorrow might be a battle.

Chapter

Fourteen

Every appointment with his neurologist started the same way. He would take a pen-and-paper test that targeted different types of cognitive function. Drawing, pattern recognition, naming, general reasoning, delayed recall. But to Dad, it felt like something a child would be asked to do. He complied, but he threw his pencil across the table when he finished.

“Careful, Tom,” the nurse said. “Keep it up and you won’t get a lollipop today.” She said it with just the right level of sarcasm; Dad broke into a smile.

“Well done,” I mouthed to her.

Then we waited. Dr. Lorraine Ricci had been a tough get. She had a waiting list eight months long, but once again, Uncle Lloyd came through with some string-pulling and Dad got on her roster one year ago today.

She walked into her examination room with a smile. “All right, Tom,” she said. “I know your time is valuable. So let’s get through this.”

He still hadn’t said anything intelligible beyond a grunt, but at least I’d gotten him here. Dr. Ricci had him go through a few more basic neurological tests making him grip her fingers and follow her penlight. Then she asked him to take a stroll down the hallway and back.

Something happened. On the way down, he sashayed, showing off. But when he came back, something was off. He veered sideways. That alone wouldn’t have given me pause, but he didn’t seem to realize he was doing it. I caught Dr. Ricci frowning. But she put on a bright smile and ushered us back to the exam room.

“Okay,” she said. “So, tell me how things are going.”

“Fine,” Dad said. “Never better. Work is good. The weather’s been good. I don’t get to fish as much as I’d like, but I limit out every time I do. Shot a 68 out at the golf course last week.”

Dr. Ricci shot me a glance. “That’s all great. Now answer my actual question.”

“Dad,” I said.

He shook his head in disgust and stared out the window.

“You know how this goes,” Dr. Ricci said. “I’m going to ask Mercy the same thing.”

“It’s been going generally well. Dad hasn’t had any episodes of disorientation like he was having last year. He knows who I am. He knows when he is.”

She looked at her notes. “Good. All good. Tom, you were having a bit of trouble confusing Mercy with her mother as I recall? And there was an incident in the courtroom?”

He wouldn’t look at her.

“It’s been at least six months since any of that,” I said.

“Good. So we started you on five milligrams of donepezil. We moved you up to ten a few months ago. You’ve been tolerating that well? No new night terrors?”

“How would I know?” he said. “But I sleep like a baby.”

She looked at me again. “You’re still living in the same house?”

“Yes. And no. I haven’t noticed anything in the way of night terrors or sleepwalking. But ... there has been something.”

Dad glared at me. This was the worst part. My pulse raced a little. Would he get angry with me?

“I’m concerned about your driving, Dad.”

He stared at the window again.

“There’s some damage to the car.” I explained what Dad told me. Dad nodded and added a detail of his own, theorizing which neighborhood “hooligan,” as he described it, might have sideswiped him.