4. Miles
4
Miles
“Look at that,” Arthur said, stopping in his tracks. He nodded toward the water, where moonlight bounced off the waves. “Would’ve been perfect to paint. Should’ve brought my gear.”
Miles followed his gaze. “Yeah?”
“See how the moon’s hitting the water there?” Arthur pointed, tracing the path with his finger. “A bit of white with navy—dark gray for the shadows. The trick’s in the shine.”
Earlier, his dad might’ve forgotten for a moment that Miles was his son, but he could still rattle off paint colors as if reading from a catalog.
They continued along the dry, cool sand as waves rolled in with a steady hush, and stars blinked overhead.
“Remember that lady who kept saying I used too much orange?” Arthur asked. “At the show in Buckhead?”
Miles nodded. “Mrs. Marcy. She still bought three of your paintings.”
“Should’ve charged her double.”
“Too late now.” Miles laughed. “We could come back tomorrow or next week and bring your supplies.”
Arthur’s face brightened. “Yes. Late morning would be perfect. The light’ll be different.” He turned slowly. “The tide’ll be lower. Those rocks will make good foreground elements.”
Miles made a mental note to check if they had enough canvases. He’d also need to dig out the travel easel—the one he’d bought for Arthur’s sixtieth. They’d taken it on weekend trips to the mountains. Despite his dad’s complaints about “lugging this garbage,” he’d admitted, “it did the job.”
A spark of unexpected comfort flickered inside Miles. Maybe the beach is helping?
Dr. Mendez had mentioned how environmental triggers sometimes helped ground patients in their memories.
“Remember how I used to bring you here?” Arthur asked, hand at waist level. “When you were about this high?”
Or maybe it isn’t helping at all.
Dr. Mendez had also warned him that the disease could progress in unpredictable ways.
Miles felt a familiar ache catch in his chest. “We never came here, Dad. We only came to this beach once—after ...”
Arthur frowned slightly. “Right. Of course. You were afraid of the water that day.”
Miles shook his head gently. Now more than ever, it was the simple places that held the most weight—the ones he never thought would matter, until they did. “We never swam here. You’re thinking of Eagle Lake, remember? That’s where you taught me to swim.”
“Right, right.” Arthur paused, running a hand over a piece of driftwood. “Good days and bad days.”
Over the years, Miles had learned to wait. His dad’s thoughts surfaced on their own time, and rushing them only left them both frustrated.
Arthur straightened, letting the driftwood fall. “It’s not your fault, son.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fire. Your mom ...” Arthur turned to him. “You were just a kid.”
Miles swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. This wasn’t a topic they’d discussed—not even before the Alzheimer’s. That night had always been a dividing line in their lives: before and after.
“I know, Dad.”
But he didn’t know. Not really. Inside him still lived that ten-year-old boy—the one who’d felt his mom pushing him out the bedroom window, her final act before the ceiling collapsed.
Miles shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the familiar spiral shell. He ran his thumb over its ridged surface. Sometimes, he’d hold it up to his ear, swearing he heard something beyond the ambient sounds or the rush of blood in his ears—something calming.
Back at the station, the guys never let him forget his “lucky charm.” Once, on the way to a warehouse fire, Bryan had caught Miles rubbing it and asked, “What’s the shell saying?”
Tom had chimed in, “I’ll bet five bucks that shell’s getting more action than we all have this week.”
Jeff had simply smiled, lifting his jacket collar to reveal the St. Florian medal tucked beneath. “We all got something.”
Miles cleared his throat. “We should go. It’s dark.”
Arthur nodded, but didn’t move. “Five more minutes—to look at the stars.”
“Of course, Dad.”
It was such a normal request—just like the dad who’d once kept him up past midnight to watch the Braves finish a 12-2 blowout, insisting with that stubborn grin, “You never know what might happen till it’s over.”
A breeze shifted, carrying a sound—a splash? A muffled voice? Miles glanced down the shoreline, but saw nothing.
Probably just the wind.
As they marveled at the stars, movement down the beach caught Mile’s eye—a small, dark shape.
A shorebird?
Then the shadow moved toward them at full tilt—too fast for a bird.
Within seconds, a dog had reached them, circling Arthur’s legs before plopping down at his feet.
“Well, hello there, little guy!” Arthur crouched without his usual difficulty, extending his hand. “Where’d you come from?”
The small black dog, with neatly trimmed hair, sniffed cautiously before pressing into Arthur’s palm. Then, with a wiggle, the dog flopped onto his back, paws batting at the air, belly on full display.
Arthur chuckled, rubbing the dog’s belly. “Aren’t you the friendly one?”
Miles smiled, watching his dad interact with the dog as easily as breathing.
It reminded him of the woman from the support group, who’d mentioned bringing her cat to visit her husband in memory care. The facilitator had nodded, explaining how Alzheimer’s patients often connected with animals in ways they struggled to with people. “No expectations,” she’d said. “Just the present moment.”
Miles hadn’t gone back after that first meeting. He told himself it was scheduling, but each Wednesday evening when seven o’clock approached, he’d find himself lingering at the kitchen table, car keys in hand, unable to move. Hearing others’ stories had left him raw for days. Besides, wasn’t he handling things fine? He had systems in place: daily phone calls, charts, medication schedules, and a neighbor who checked on him a few times a week. What good would sitting in a circle of strangers do for either of them?
And yet, watching his dad with Max made something shift inside him. Maybe there were other strategies he could try, like those therapy dog programs the facilitator had recommended.
Kneeling, Miles checked the collar, finding a silver shell-shaped tag with a name and phone number etched on it. “Max,” he read aloud, glancing at his dad.
“Max,” Arthur repeated, scratching the dog’s ears. “Good name for a good boy.”
Miles patted his back pocket for his phone, then remembered he’d left it charging on his nightstand. He glanced back at the darkening beach. If they didn’t head back soon, the walk home could get twice as difficult. His dad’s confusion sometimes worsened after sunset—Dr. Mendez called it “sundowning.” But Max clearly belonged to someone who was likely worried sick.
He scanned the area, but no one was in sight. The distant cottages along the shore showed only a handful of scattered lights.
Leave Dad alone while I run for my phone? Not an option.
Bring Max back to the house? Better.
As Miles reached for the dog, the wind carried a faint rustle—then a woman’s voice. “Max! Max, where are you?”