12. Chapter 12 Staley
Chapter 12 Staley
D ad woke up in a good state of mind so I get him outside for a walk. It’s slow going, the walk, but it’s good for me, for us. Time to think and be with one another, relishing the days we have left. Nostalgia floods my body when I think about all the walks Dad and I used to take. He’d talk about his day, and I’d lament about the latest school gossip. Life used to be so simple and inconsequential, and now I wince every time the phone rings, waiting for more bad news.
“It’s nice today.” Dad smiles at me. Although we’re not related, people often say how much we look alike; maybe it’s because we both hold the same look, not knowing what’s happening.
You’re lost, Staley, but so is your dad.
I’ve got no energy, but I pull it together for him and attempt small talk, even if it is one-sided.
“It’s the nicest day, Dad.”
Dogs quirk their heads to the side when hearing the words walk or ball and Dad does the same when I say his name.
It catches his attention, but he doesn’t know why.
To say my head is a clusterfuck after running out of Theo’s house yesterday is a gross understatement. I am not one to shy away from what I feel, but when catching vibes for someone else, I am an espresso tamper pressing emotional grounds into a tight space. My only goal is to keep these feelings packed and tight, leaving me bitter. No one wants a harsh cup of coffee, let alone a partner.
Panic, fear even, is my normal. Whenever I have a moment to not focus on the never-ending to-do list, I naturally backslide into despair and hopelessness.
Theo and I started on the wrong foot, a very exasperated foot, but by the end of our second session, all we did was lock legs and touch accidentally. But there was something more there.
The planets must be misaligned because, as I try to delve a little deeper into what was different about my time spent with Theo compared to, say, anyone else, my phone rings.
“Hello, this is Staley.”
If I had a dollar for every time a ringing phone interrupted my life
Listening to Luca Blue— the phone rings.
Making a new friend— the phone rings.
Cuddling an out-of-my-league but slightly grouchy cuddle client— and my phone rings.
“Yes, hello, this is Evergreen Pharmacy. We received a prescription request for Russell Monroe. Our policy requires us to contact the customer before filling the prescription when the price exceeds five hundred dollars—”
“Five hundred dollars? I’m sorry, I think I’m in a dead zone. Did I hear you right?”
“No, it’s not five hundred dollars—”
“Oh, what a relief.”
“It’s six hundred and forty-two dollars.”
The middle of the street could swallow me whole, and I’d gladly accept the gesture. Hell, I’d take a flattening by city bus. Dad wanders about fifteen feet ahead of me, unattended for far longer than is responsible for me. I spin myself around in complete frustration at the prescription price.
A defeated and angry growl leaves my body. Anxiety, on occasion, ramps up the anger I have tucked away.
Why bother pressing the phone’s mute button when dropping it to my side is adequate? The pharmaceutical companies should know what they do to families.
“I’m sorry, did you say six hundred and forty-two dollars?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m twenty-one.”
Pounding floods my chest and travels to my temples.
“But what about the coupon? The doctor said we could use the coupon.”
“That’s the price with the coupon.”
Because I’m ornery I poke the bear and ask.
“Dare I ask what it was before the coupon?”
“It was six hundred and fifty-two dollars.”
My phone slides out of my hand and drops to the asphalt.
This is it, Staley, rock bottom—time to sell your organs. Or move to Canada.
The pharmacist’s voice, although distant, shouts up at me. It dawns on me that I have no idea where my father is.
Back to spinning.
I scan our neighborhood, looking into driveways and behind hedges, desperate to catch a glimpse of the blue shirt he’s wearing and his sandy blond hair.
Losing control is no different than being buried under the weight of beach sand as the tide crashes over my body refusing to let me back on my feet.
But losing Dad is no better than being in the unexplored depths of the ocean without an oxygen tank.
I have one job.
One.
Keep him safe.
In the depths, my lungs compress, and I frantically search for a way out of this mess. Breathing increases but becomes less productive, and a panic attack sits on the shore, staring me dead in the face. I’m being held at gunpoint, being told not to move.
“Dad! Dad!”
Don’t lose him.
I already am.
The pharmacist asks whether I’d like to fill the prescription or not.
A hearty laugh carries across the city block. It’s Noah. Countless weekends throughout childhood were laced with the neighbor’s laugh. I’d know it anywhere. Out of all of my dad’s friends, Noah spent the most time with me. Noah learned how to braid my hair and subsequently taught my dad how to do the same for me. Noah baked cookies with me on all the major holidays, and even on the days I got my heart broken—he was there, consoling me and letting me know it wouldn’t always end in pain.
He was the first to notice things were off with Dad. I didn’t want to believe him.
But Noah was right, and I still resent him for catching the signs before I did. I never expected him to fall off the face of the planet once the diagnosis was official, though. In times of illness and weakness, who is loyal to you and who is not tends to float to the top of the surface like the nasty layer of foam you get when clarifying butter. Noah is foam to me now.
Sprinting toward Noah’s house, I bark at the pharmacist.
“Fill the prescription. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
Noah’s back comes into view, and I hope Dad is nearby because, for whatever reason, he ends up at Noah’s more often than not. But Noah is the last person I want to loop into a missing person’s search-and-rescue mission.
“Noah, have you seen my da–”
He spins on his feet and meets my eyes.
“Staley.” There’s a reassurance in his voice that I miss. “He’s right here.”
I hope the laughter means Noah isn’t angry at my dad for infringing upon his flower beds again. Dad sits in one of the chairs in Noah’s garage, his feet kicked up on an ice chest as if it were a makeshift footrest.
“I’m sorry, Noah. My phone rang, and I got distracted. Dad, let’s get home.” My heart ricochets wildly, and all I can feel is the intense thumping against my rib cage, challenging its capacity to contain my errant feelings. Sweat crawls down my spine, and I know in my bones how overdue I am for a good, messy cry.
You lost him.
Usually, Noah is irritated by our sudden arrivals, pissed even. It takes everything within me to conjure up memories of what it was like with the two of them when Dad was welcomed in Noah’s home. How did two people who spent so much time together grow so far apart? One silver lining: Dad only remembers that he and Noah were best friends. Why did he bail on us?
The counselors told me to keep as much of my dad’s life as familiar as possible. It’s why I still have him living at home and can’t afford him to live elsewhere—financially or emotionally. They told me I’d need to seek outside support for myself at some point or consider other loved ones I could lean on. I thought I had that in Noah.
To count up all of the losses seems pointless. I miss the normal we once knew, as selfish as it sounds. A slight breeze kicks through the driveway, and I welcome the cool sensation it gives my now hot and red skin.
Dad holds a remote control and an open bottle of beer from the garage fridge in one hand. He shouts back at Noah playfully.
“Don’t just stand there. The game starts in ten minutes.”
“Russ, we wouldn’t want to miss the pre-game chatter. Let’s see what Marv is wearing today. Last week, he wore a peacock-printed blazer. Wild.”
Noah doubles over in laughter, his eyes filled with tears.
“Something funny, Noah?” I’m annoyed that he can find things to laugh about.
He wipes his eyes, and for a second, the sun hits him just so. In a way, I soften in front of him. I know that his laughter is genuine, but it’s a mask for those struggling to keep it all together. Gray rings line the underside of Noah’s eyes, and his face drops at my question. Caught on the spot, Noah sighs and chokes back a tiny sob before he starts in on me, and I’m prepared to tell him to hit the bricks if he complains about Dad in his garage again.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you laughing ... and crying?” Stress melts over my body until what remains is a sticky memory of what it could have been. I wrap my arms around my torso to slow the creeping sensation of a full-on breakdown. Pressure helps when the anxiety builds.
The slight reprieve gives me the courage to drop my arms and poke Noah in the middle of his chest, double-dog daring him to try me. Noah flinches as if I’ve harmed him—his cry-laughing shifts into something all too familiar. Anguish and grief and all the things left unsaid pull at the corners of his eyes, and the laughter is cut off at the head, left to flail about.
Noah walks toward the short retaining wall bordering his yard from ours. It can’t be more than two feet high, as our home sits slightly above his. I watch as he pulls his hands through his hair, his cries muffled by the distance between us. He turns to me and then sits against the wall. Tears glisten across the bottom half of his face. He makes no attempts to cover his sadness or to wipe it away.
Big heaping, gulping tears leave his body and I forget that I’m not the only one who is grieving here. I’m stuck, not knowing what I should do next. There is hurt between Noah and me, but I shouldn’t let it interfere with the fact he kept Dad safe until I found him. The word uncomfortable doesn’t describe this feeling, and I know we’re no longer close enough for me to ask for an explanation. He doesn’t owe us anything. Not anymore.
“Hey, Dad, we should leave Noah to it.”
Dad sets the beer on the ice chest because his muscle memory shows off occasionally, taunting all of us who love a good miracle, even in the smallest of forms. He comes to his feet and clicks the television off. Dad turns toward the both of us, following my directions for once. Noah is unsteady on his feet, wiping at his eyes. Embarrassed, he gives me his back, and I’m left more confused than before. Dad takes the whole performance in with a look I know to be concerned. Then he does what I least expect him to: he hugs Noah from behind.
At first, Noah’s arms remain stiff at his side, his fists clenched as his former best friend is hugging him and not me. Noah’s body melts at the connective touch, and I wonder if I’m breaking some friendship code by witnessing this personal exchange. Dad whispers to Noah, and I cannot make heads or tails about what he’s said.
“I’m so, so, sorry, Noah. Come on, Dad, let’s get back.”
It takes two steps for my dad to put his hand up to stop me from coming any farther. Noah’s arms loosen and wrap around the arms braided across his chest. Desperate sobs eject from his body, and after a few moments, they alleviate into much quieter whimpers. Dad’s voice repeats the same thing over and over again. This time, I can make it out.
“I’m right here.”
Noah nods and releases himself from Dad’s grasp, righting his body. He pulls his shoulders back and wipes all evidence of tears from his palms across the sides of his pants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Noah cry except when he helped take pictures of me for my senior prom so Dad and I could have a nice photo together.
Losing a best friend to this disease is unimaginable. Noah remembers it all; he keeps their memories together and will for every day, moving forward. Dad is like a child standing under a snowy sky, trying to catch one snowflake on his tongue but inevitably missing them every time. He won’t remember this exchange, but Noah and I will carry it, another scar on our battered hearts. All we can do is keep the memories—tend to them—and try not to let them eat us alive because our relationship with Dad will never be the same again.
Noah nods at me in apology. He doesn’t need to tell me what he’s sorry for because I already know. But his face tells me what I’m feeling deep in my achy, sad bones; this sucks, we’re the saddest of the sads, and dementia is total bullshit.