Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Delilah
My shoes thud against the bottom of my dad’s garbage can. Waste Management, which is really just a guy named Frank who drives a pickup truck with a caged-in trailer hitched to the back, already came by this morning, so I haul the bin up the dirt driveway. I make a mental note to also write an apology letter to Frank for next Monday when he has to pick up this stinking mess.
I deposit the bin around the side of the house and make my way barefoot up the steps, hoping beyond hope to avoid a splinter. The wood is warm underfoot and worn smooth from years of traffic, but I’ve had enough of the prickly bastards in my life to know it’s still possible. One time a particularly bad splinter wedged itself in the sensitive bend of my big toe. Dad heard me screech on the porch, and it only took one look at me crying with my foot in my hand for him to retrieve a sewing needle and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and sit down beside me, pulling my foot into his lap.
He told me a story about the worst splinter he ever got, right in his butt cheek from a rope swing down by the river, and I was laughing so hard I didn’t even feel him pluck out my own.
I’ve been trying to hold it together. To be stable and in control so my dad and everyone else could trust that I’m capable of handling this. That I can take care of him. To prove to my mom that I made the right decision. But as I lean against a porch post and stare at that top step where Dad held me through my hurt, not only in that moment but countless others, I can feel my heart crack open. Within seconds, I’m broken and bleeding without a single wound to show for it.
My spine bows, and I cross my arms over my chest, clinging to my shoulders. If I can just hold myself tight enough, I can keep it all in. The frustration of not knowing what to do or how to fix this. The agony of knowing it can’t be fixed, only endured.
Hot, sticky tears dampen my cheeks. The air has turned humid as the sun rises high into the sky, bleaching the world with its light. I take quick, gasping breaths, willing my heart to slow down. I can’t be in this state when I walk inside. My dad can’t take the splinters out anymore.
It’s my turn to take care of him.
It’s my turn, and I’m not ready.
Through the haze of tears, I stare at the weathered porch swing. At the towering live oaks. Even, against my better judgment, at the fields beyond our property where a distant Truett finishes patching the fence and mounts his four-wheeler to move on to the next task, our conversation seemingly easily brushed aside.
The world, practical and unbiased, goes on spinning. And I have to find a way to be ready.
I tug my shirt up to wipe away the evidence of my breakdown as best I can. Deep breaths, one after the other, slow my heartbeat to a pace one bracket shy of a racehorse. I can do this. I grew up a long fucking time ago. Being the one in charge, the parent for all intents and purposes, is nothing new.
My hand lands on the doorknob, slick with condensation, and I push my way inside .
Dad is sitting in his recliner in the living room, that burlap pillow squished against his chest. Roberta is cleaning up the dishes in the sink, aside from my half-drunk coffee, which sits chilled on the kitchen island. Once I’ve closed the door behind me, Dad’s gaze catches mine, bright blue with the faintest rim of red to remind me of his breakdown. He smiles, and I let loose a relieved exhale.
“You’re home early!” His grin widens. “How was school, sweetheart?”
Roberta turns off the water and dries her hands. When she turns to face me, her lips are forming a smile, but her eyes are apologetic. She nods once, a gesture meant only for me.
Suddenly I’m grateful for the breakdown on the porch. As it stands, I’m fresh out of tears. Instead I steel myself against all the ways this moment hurts, and focus instead on Roberta. Following her cue, I reply, “It was fine, Dad. Great.”
“Delilah here is a very promising volleyball player.” He hops from his seat, shuffling over to me in a fresh set of clothes. His jeans are dark and well-worn, and he wears a faded T-shirt that says Nothing but with a treble clef underneath.
It makes me smile—a real, genuine expression—as his arm comes around me and squeezes.
“But her real secret,” he adds, and my gaze shoots to his, “is that she’s a hell of a piano player, too.”
“Is that so?” Roberta tilts her head, scanning me in light of this new information. Because it is new, to her and everyone else. Mom and Dad are the only ones who’ve ever heard me play. Mom made sure of it.
He plants a kiss against my temple. His breath is sour, like he hasn’t brushed in days, but I ignore it. I’m just grateful he’s here. Grateful to pretend, if only for a moment, that we’ve gone back in time. That I can make my choices differently this time. And so can he .
“Yes, ma’am, she’s really got a talent for it. It’s too bad…” His voice trails off, a frown tugging at his lips. Our eyes meet, and he blinks, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Well, it’s just too bad.”
Too bad, indeed.
He smacks his lips, willing new words to fill the void. When they don’t, his hand moves from my shoulder to the back of his neck, which he rubs like it’s sore. The tips of his ears go red, and a grimace distorts his face. “My damn brain, you know?”
He’s looking at me, but it’s Roberta who answers, “We know, Henry.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, wrapping an arm around his middle and squeezing.
His chin finds purchase on the crown of my head as his arms encircle me again, and for a moment I’m held, like all those years ago on the porch. And for that reason I know I have to do this. Despite the catastrophic way he let me down, for all the times he held me up, I can do the same for him now.
He squeezes my side and then releases me, taking a step back. “What are you up to, sweet pea?”
I shift my weight, unsure if he’s here with me now, or if he still sees me as the kid who just got home from school. Will it confuse him if I say I have meetings? Or does he think I need to head to practice soon?
“Um, I…” I glance over my shoulder at Roberta, who’s politely organizing hand-dried dishes into their spots in the cabinets.
She must’ve been watching me in her peripheral, though, because the moment I look to her for help, she intervenes. “You have work, right, Delilah?”
“Y-yes, but…”
“Henry and I are going to the store to pick up some groceries. Do you need anything? ”
“Oh.” I nod my head, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks. “Actually, yes. I could use a pair of flip-flops if you don’t mind.”
Roberta’s eyebrows scrunch together, but before she can speak, I hold up a hand. “It’s a long story.”
“Noted.” Her laughter—a light, lilting thing—eases some of the tightness in my chest. “We’ll be back in a little while then. Do you have my number if you think of anything else?”
I point to her card where it still sits smoothed flat on the counter.
Her gaze flicks in that direction, along with my dad’s, who laughs so loud I startle. “Would you look at that!”
“Okay, well, don’t hesitate to call.” She smiles again, the warmth returning to her face. For someone who’s spent years in stressful environments, it’s amazing that it doesn’t show in her skin. The only wrinkles she has are happy ones, from smiling too hard, laughing too much.
I absent-mindedly reach up to smooth the skin between my eyebrows, knowing my skin will tell a very different story when the time comes. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about something.
The thought makes me frown.
“Bye, sweet pea.” Dad tugs the door open, plucking his Converse from the porch and sliding into them.
“Have fun, you two.” I wave over my shoulder as I head for the hallway, not missing Roberta’s watchful gaze tracing my steps.
From my makeshift desk, I hear the engine of a car start up and retreat, leaving me in the stillness of an empty house.
My calendar is blessedly empty of meetings until three o’clock. I take the time to catch up on emails and shoot my boss a quick reply letting him know I am, in fact, alive. Luckily Cameron and the rest of my team are incredibly understanding. Without a single question digging for details, I was told to go take care of what I need to down here. Any slowness to respond or sudden appointments thrown on my calendar were totally okay, so long as I let them know if I needed them—for work or otherwise.
I won’t, I assured them. I’ve got it all under control.
I glance at my closed door, imagining the living room and kitchen beyond it, and all the ways in which I utterly did not have things under control today. For all that I want Truett to be wrong, he’s right about one thing. I need Roberta.
My resulting sigh is so heavy it blows a photo off the mirror. It falls against my foot, and when I pick it up, I see that it’s a shot of Truett and me in Halloween costumes when we were maybe eight or nine years old. I’m dressed as Hermione from Harry Potter, and he’s supposed to be Harry. He drew the scar on his cheek instead of his forehead, though. I was the one obsessed with the books; he only played along to amuse me.
It’s so hard to reconcile that boy with the one who turned away at the party when I needed him most. Even harder to hold the two up next to the man in the field this morning, one affected by grief and something deeper that I don’t understand.
I touch the curve of my ear, where I can still feel the featherlight brush of his lashes. My breath catches. How can I still want him this badly, after so much time? Haven’t I been hurt enough?
I know one thing for sure. I absolutely cannot take him up on his offer. Indebted or not, any time spent alone with Truett will be bad for my health.
The small drawer in my vanity resists at first but finally relents to my tugging. It’s full of old makeup brushes and bobby pins, busted compacts and a hairbrush missing half its bristles. I set the photo on top of it all and push the drawer shut. Out of sight, out of mind. I’ve got more important things to worry about than a childhood crush.
Before I can chicken out, I open a new tab to a search engine on my computer and type in frontotemporal dementia. My hands tremble as it loads. Every bone in my body aches to slam the laptop shut. To hide from the results that unravel before me. I gave the articles a cursory glance before coming here, but part of growing up means knowing all the hard details, even the ones you wish you didn’t. So I force myself to do a deep dive into it all.
The symptoms. The timelines. The fact that it’s genetic—something I suspected but for the very first time hits me square in the chest and steals my breath. One day it could be me. In an instant the years I’ve spent in limbo, waiting for my life to start, all to spare my mom’s feelings—they feel wasted. And now? How could I subject someone to loving me, knowing what could possibly lie dormant in my DNA?
All the more reason to keep everyone at a distance. Less to forget, less to grieve when the time finally comes.
Hours later, as the sound of tires turning over our driveway reaches my ears, I’m numb. But not in a bad way. In a way that makes me feel powerful. I’ve pushed the fear deep down inside and replaced it with knowledge. With a plan. I know what’s coming, as much as anyone can when it comes to this kind of diagnosis, and I’m going to do everything in my power to take care of my dad, the way I’d want someone to care for me.
But first I have to call my mom.
Unsurprisingly it goes straight to voicemail. It’s not the first time she’s given me the silent treatment, and it certainly won’t be the last.
“Hi, Mom. I know you’re probably still upset… and I get it. I do.” Dad’s voice drifts down the hall, followed by Roberta’s laughter. I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m going to have to stay for… well, for a while. I don’t know exactly how long. Dad needs me. I don’t expect you to understand, but just know that I’d do it for you, too. I have to push the past aside. I hope you can, too. For me. ”
I close my eyes. Empty my thoughts. It’s the only way to function. The only way to get through.
“I need you to mail me my extra monitor and a few other things. I’ll send you the list and transfer some money for shipping. I hope—I hope you can forgive me. I love you.”
I end the call and fire off a quick text with the list of things I need to make a life here for the foreseeable future. Then I set my phone aside and stand. Knowledge is heavy. It’s up to me whether I crumble beneath it or get strong enough to bear it.
Aimless pain is useless, but this I can work with. I have direction. A plan. It’s more than I had this morning when I woke up, that’s for sure.
I hear the rustling of bags as I round the corner. Roberta unloads the groceries while my dad directs her. She’s chattering away about her granddaughter who recently started playing soccer. When Dad tells her to put the sugar in the cabinet with the cups, she course-corrects to the pantry without missing a beat.
“She made her first goal and she was so proud, but”—Roberta bites her bottom lip, holding back tears—“it was for the other team!”
Dad lets out a belly laugh, head thrown back, and I pause to take it in. It doesn’t matter what happened between him and Mom. How badly it hurt me. What’s done is done. All that matters is making sure I have this version of him for as long as possible. If that means owing Truett Parker, then my pride be damned.
“Hey, Dad?”
He sucks in a deep breath and turns to me, eyes bright with amusement. “Yes, sweet pea?”
I hold up a jump drive, the result of my hours of research and a subscription to a Montessori-based dementia care podcast. “Do you have a printer I could use? And a laminator?”
Roberta runs the printer, humming her approval with every sheet, while my dad and I spend thirty minutes digging through his office. He only gets frustrated once, but this time when he lets out a slew of insults, I barely flinch. Eventually we find the laminator and, beside it, several unopened packages of laminating sheets. I carry both into my room along with the stack of papers and clear a space on the top of the dresser. With some effort, my suitcase is moved to the center of the floor, and the plug it was blocking is free to use.
While the first sheet runs through the laminator, I turn to my luggage and begin unpacking.