Chapter 53
Tristan
Dad and Bobbie agree that it’s a good idea for me to get my own apartment. Even though one of the main reasons I moved home was to take care of Dad, we agree that I can be just as helpful, and maybe more helpful, if we have some space from each other.
“Besides,” Bobbie says, “you’re an adult! You should get a chance to have some privacy from us old folks.”
“That’s right!” Dad says. “Especially now that you’ve got that hot new boyfriend.”
He is, of course, referring to Nick.
It’s been an ongoing battle, ever since he met Nick when Nick and Abbie came over to pick me up for the hike, to remind Dad that Nick and I are not officially dating.
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s an argument I need to continue having. According to the San Francisco Fire Department, Nick and I are dating. And, at this point, if we’re not dating, what are we doing?
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I gently correct Dad.
Dad looks confused for a moment. “Right, he’s your fiancé. I know you and Warren are engaged.”
We’re sitting in the living room, having breakfast on a slow Sunday, because Dad and Bobbie have been going to church way less often recently. I’m not mad about that.
Up until Dad’s comment, our conversation had been lively and relatively joyful. With those words, Bobbie and I both freeze. She looks at me, her eyes wide with concern.
I’m too stunned to say anything at the moment. Dad’s comment caught me wildly off-guard. Though he’s had some significant memory lapses in the past, this is the first time he has forgotten about Warren’s death.
And I don’t know what to do.
I know the textbook way to handle this. I know that I could gently remind Dad that Warren and I are no longer engaged, because Warren is dead, and that the guy I’m seeing is named Nick.
But how can I do that, when I can’t even find my voice?
Thankfully, Bobbie finds hers first.
“Tristan, would you mind refilling my coffee?” she asks, holding up her mug. “You might need to make a new pot.”
I stand automatically, moving on instinct, taking her mug and mine to the kitchen. My head is spinning, and my eyes sting with tears. I set the mugs down on the kitchen counter with shaking hands. They clack against the hard countertop.
I know that Dad had no intention of hurting me with his words. He would never mean to hurt me like that.
But still, it hurts.
I grip the counter and take some deep breaths, trying to calm myself.
Thankfully, the pot of coffee is empty, and I go through the motions of refilling it and brewing. It burbles in the background as I stand there with my head bowed, my heart beating quickly, trying to regain some sense of composure.
What’s worse? I wonder. The fact that Dad’s losing these memories, or the fact that I have to remind him?
Dad’s lapse in memory has brought the grief of Warren back to the forefront of my mind.
I have been doing so much better. I’ve begun to think, actually, that I’ve started to move on.
If there really are just five stages of grief, I’ve been pin-balling through them instead of going through a nice linear progression.
This shoots me right back from acceptance to something far worse.
Bobbie joins me in the kitchen.
“Hey,” she says softly, her eyes both sad and kind. “I told him.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Your coffee’s almost ready.”
“He feels terrible.”
I rub my eyes. “I know. I know he does. And I don’t want him to feel bad. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t want to forget things like this. He doesn’t mean to say things that make me remember how—how awful it was to lose Warren.”
She rubs my shoulder. “I wish I could say that it was going to get better….”
“We both know it isn’t.”
She sniffs, wiping at a tear on her cheeks. “Maybe this is another good reason to get your own place.”
“What about you?” I ask. I’ve been hesitant to bring it up, but there’s no more avoiding it. “Aren’t you worried that he’ll forget you and your time together? What happens then?”
“Tristan. I love your father. When we married, we made vows and promised to be together in sickness and in health. We agreed before we got married that we were in it for the long haul, come what may. I always knew, when getting remarried at our age, that sooner or later one of us was likely to have some health problems. Is this sooner than I imagined? Yes, it is. But does it change the love I have for your father? Not at all. No matter what happens, I will still love him. If he forgets me, I will still be here. I will not leave him. We made a promise to each other, and I intend to keep it.”
“Would my moving out make things harder for you?”
She gently takes my hand. “Tristan, I love you, and it’s so sweet that you ask, but I’m not going to answer that question. Right now, you need to do what’s best for you. You have to figure out what that is.”
She shrugs. “And if things are getting serious with this guy—which you don’t have to tell me!—then maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea for you to get your own place.”