The Cost of Forgetting You

Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Delilah

“Are you ready?”

I shift my footing. Loose bits of rock scrape underfoot, fragments fallen from tires onto the faded cement of the parking lot. It grates my ears, almost as much as my voice when I say, “I’m trying to be.”

The edges of Dad’s eyes soften. “Take your time.”

Time. It unspools like sand through the threads of my fingers, spilling onto the ground beneath me. I made the mistake once of thinking I had a whole beachfront full of it, only to realize now that all along it was an illusion. The scene of a beautiful vacation, encased in the finite boundaries of a snow globe.

I shook it the day I came home. And here we are, looking at what was stirred up.

The grounds of Edgewood Assisted Living are immaculately landscaped. Square-edged bushes surround the red brick building, and large magnolia trees tower at each corner. Carefully pruned wisteria vines weave through gardening arches that line a walking path off to my right. The building itself is stately and classical, with large columns standing guard on the front porch and windows lining the facade, allowing light to pour in at every angle.

It’s an enormous complex, with the assisted living building up front and a dedicated memory care facility on the back. Dad would start in assisted living and stay for as long as he can handle some independence. The memory care facility is for when the disease outpaces therapy and meds and time, which I pray we have more of than we think.

Mom called me late last night, long after I’d tucked myself into bed and tried to sleep. I don’t know how long I tossed and turned, going over every word I wished I’d said differently. Analyzing each held breath, every sniped comment. When my phone lit up, I was sure she was calling to let me have it for being so disrespectful. And I was prepared to agree with her.

“ You’re right, ” she whispered through the receiver, something I’ve never heard her say before. Words I wasn’t even sure she was capable of uttering.

I had to stop myself from saying, I am? Instead I repeated the mantra that had been living in my head all day. It’s a murder, but a necessary one. Then I mentally thanked Alicia for the morbid pick-me-up, almost missing Mom’s words in the process.

“ He said all they did was kiss. I know that. But I couldn’t believe it, Delilah. He had been so pissed that I said I was leaving him, but he had the nerve to do that? With her?”

“ You were going to leave him? ”

“ Once you graduated. That was the deal I made. ” She sighed, and I could hear the tears on her breath. “I was miserable there, Delilah. Wasting away. I had to get out. ”

In the dark I reached for my heart. Fumbling through tangled blankets and the rodeo T-shirt I never gave back to Truett, I finally found my own skin. Pressed against my chest, my palm vibrated in tune with my pulse. Lifted on the tide of every breath. Up and then down. Inhale the truth, exhale the lie .

“ I’m going to give you the money. You’re all I have left. I can’t lose you. ” Her tone curdled, making otherwise sweet words rancid. “ But I’m doing it for you. Not for him. ”

Good enough, I thought. Then, and now. As I look up at the ornate building, with all its drama and flair, those words trumpet in my brain. Our shoes aren’t littering the front porch, but it’s good enough. There’s no crooked floorboard to greet you, but it’s good enough.

It’s not at home with me, but it’s good enough.

I reach for Dad’s hand and squeeze. “Ready.”

A gentle smile crinkles the softest parts of his face. “Okay.”

The foyer is lined with black-and-white tiles that remind me of an old manor house from the British drama television Dad and I have taken to watching when he can’t fall asleep. His newest meds are supposed to help with that, but they either haven’t kicked in yet or he’s immune. Our shoes scuff and squeak as we make our way to the front desk. A young lady with tightly coiled hair and skin as dark as umber glances up at us and offers a bright smile from behind the desk.

“You two here for the tour?”

Her voice has a soft twang to it, the kind that embraces you from the inside out. I find myself leaning in close, elbows braced on the smooth wooden countertop, while Dad glances around with his mouth popped open.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re the Ridgefields.”

The corner of Dad’s mouth twitches. A smile that matches my own. We’re the Ridgefield family. The two of us. And no matter what Mom has tried to make me believe, there’s nothing sad about that.

“Perfect. My name is Kesha. I’m one of the care coordinators here, and I’ll be showing you around today.” She steps out from behind the counter and offers her hand to me and my father in turn. “It’s so nice to meet you both. ”

The way she smiles, the soft grip in her hand. It reminds me so much of Roberta. I text her to tell her so, and my heart warms when she responds that she’s proud of me for doing what’s right even when it’s hard.

I still don’t know about right, but it makes me feel like everything might at the very least be okay.

We tour the memory care facility first. I imagine it’s so we don’t end on such a sad note. It’s clean, well-appointed, and the staff seem nice, but it’s still depressing. I’m glad it’s brief.

We take the wisteria-lined path back to the main building, and there we see a small movie theater, salon, and a room they’ve decorated to look like a soda shop. You can tell the intended resident is a lot older than my father by the choice of decor and movies on the roster, which only adds to the unfairness of it all. But Dad takes it all in stride, even asking for a photo with a cutout of a woman sporting big breasts and a tray of milkshakes in hand that they keep propped behind the counter of the soda shop. I snap the shot with tears in my eyes.

The residents’ rooms are more like apartments, with small kitchenettes that host mini fridges and countertops but nothing that can catch fire, and a lounge area that leads into the bedroom and bath. Dad sprawls on the couch and props his feet up. “I could get used to this,” he says, grinning.

Kesha laughs good-naturedly. I bury my hands in my jean pockets and force a chuckle.

“We’ll check out the dining room last. Lunch will be served soon, so you can meet a few of the residents while you’re there!” Kesha tosses this over her shoulder as we stride down the hall, past framed images of beaches and faded florals and one of a dog and a cat snuggling close. It reminds me of the doctor’s office, and I can’t help but grimace.

The place is nice for what it is. I understand that. But I can’t possibly imagine driving off and leaving my dad here alone. That is, until we step into the dining room.

The chairs and tables where they serve food are offset from the main room in an atrium, with light pouring in from all sides. An older woman and gentleman sit at a white-clothed table, chatting animatedly. There’s a family in the farthest table. They have a little boy, about six years old, who plays checkers with the resident they must be visiting. The kid skips his checker an absurd number of times, then collects everything in its path. His laughter is maniacal. The man who plays opposite him grabs a white napkin from the table and waves it in the air in defeat, which only makes the little boy laugh harder.

My gaze skirts past all of it, taking in the joy and normalcy and life that thrums in the atrium, before settling on a sleek baby grand piano standing sentinel in the main room.

Dad notices it at the same time as me. His lips audibly pop as they part, his jaw slackened. I try to meet his gaze, but he turns to Kesha, who’s watching his reaction with a raised brow.

“Can I…?” His words drop off, though I don’t know if he’s forgotten or is simply too thrilled to bother saying play.

“Go right ahead, Mr. Ridgefield.”

“Henry,” he corrects in a soft voice. Then he meets my gaze. “Will you…?”

So he has forgotten. Sometimes certain words slip through the cracks in his mind, and it can take days for him to find them again. If he ever does.

“You want me to play with you?” My voice wavers, tripping over the emotions left behind from our tour. “I haven’t since I was a kid.”

“That’s okay.” He offers me his hand. “I can teach you. ”

The bench creaks beneath our weight. My hands tremble, awareness of how many eyes are turning toward us making me regret agreeing. But excitement sparkles in Dad’s gaze, holds his head up. He dusts his fingers over the keys with reverence, then meets my nervous stare with a wink meant to ease.

“I don’t remember much,” I admit.

“Don’t worry. I’m a good teacher.”

He starts slow, with a nursery rhyme that makes the elderly couple nearest us giggle and clap. I mimic his movements, letting those long-forgotten memories float to the surface. There was a time when I thought I could’ve been as talented as him. I’d tinker with his keyboard while he tuned his guitar. I even tried to take lessons with Lucy, an excuse to spend more time with her. But Mom never liked the whole music thing, and I wanted to make her happy, so I quit. Now, as my fingers drum along the keys, I wonder why I never cared about my own happiness.

Dad slips into a classic from Phil Collins. “Against All Odds.” The only full song I ever learned to play on the piano, simply because it was Dad’s favorite. I smile, remembering Lucy’s note. Of course it was his favorite. All along, it’s because it was hers.

Slowly the resentment I’ve held for the torch he carried for her gives way to understanding. To sorrow, that it ever had to be that way at all.

When Dad plays, he turns into something else. Himself, but so much more. He is the song. It’s the air flowing in and out of his lungs. The blood coursing through his veins. For this moment we’re suspended in time. There’s no dementia here. No pain. And I could weep for it, that sweet reprieve, as I lose myself in it as well.

We play the song all the way through. Dad carries most of the harmony, while I keep us on track with the melody. Kesha’s jaw drops somewhere around the second verse and stays that way till the very end. When the very last note breathes its last, the few people gathered around erupt in applause. He turns to me, flushed and wide-eyed, and smiles. “I like it here.”

“Yeah?” I murmur. I inhale, but my lungs won’t fill up. My hand is still trembling as I bring it to my chest and push, willing the ache away.

His brows gather close. “What’s wrong?”

“I just—” Tears rush to the surface. Embarrassment knots my stomach. I can’t believe I’m doing this here, in front of everyone. Kesha must see the look on my face, because she’s suddenly very interested in the floor. I force my gaze to meet my father’s, but all I want is to crawl in a hole. “I’m so sorry. For blaming what happened on you. For not understanding that you and Lucy…” My throat fills, and I swallow, trying to clear a path to breathe. “You loved her, Dad, and I’m sorry I couldn’t see that. Didn’t want to see that. I shouldn’t have punished you for it. I was so cruel. I didn’t even try to understand.”

His hand settles over mine, where it has fallen into my lap. “You were just a kid.”

“Yeah, but that letter?—”

“That letter,” he interjects, “made me so proud.”

My breath catches. “W-what?”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be able to stand up for yourself. To say what you wanted, rather than what you thought we wanted to hear. I was proud of you for writing that letter.” His gaze catches on mine and he grimaces. “I should’ve reached out to you sooner, but I wanted to honor your wishes.”

Tears puddle in the corners of my mouth, dampening my words. “I was so selfish, Daddy.”

He uses his free hand to swipe some of those tears away. The other remains on mine, squeezing every time a sob rattles my throat.

“Being selfish isn’t as awful as people say. There are bad ways to be selfish, sure. Not being careful and getting someone into a situation they shouldn’t be in. Marrying them so no one thinks you’ve done the wrong thing, even when you know your heart lies with someone else. Giving in to desires that will hurt everyone you love.” His eyes go wide, unseeing, like he’s in another time, rather than here with me. “But there are good ways, too. Like going after your dream job or living someplace just because you love it. Taking the one you love for yourself. Believing you deserve it. Because you do, sweet pea. I made the wrong decisions in my life, but I’m glad you were selfish. I hope you’ll continue to be selfish in the very best ways.”

The words are slow, stilted. I can hear the effort he puts into each one, and then into stringing them together to form a coherent sentence. It’s a gift I’ll never be able to thank him enough for, that he managed to give them to me.

By the time he falls quiet, I can’t see him through the tears. I collapse into him, my arms tight around his neck, and let myself cry in my father’s arms. Perhaps for the very last time.

“The cost of forgetting you,” he whispers into my hair, “is that I’ll never be able to make it right. To show you how very sorry I am for the way I let you down.”

“I know, Daddy. I know.”

He leans back, cradling my sopping-wet cheeks in his trembling hands, and smiles like I’m a miracle in the flesh. “I’d do it differently, you know. If I could. I’d tell you the truth. Set a better example. It’s my first time living life, sweet pea, but I wish for your sake it were my second so I had better lessons to teach you.”

I nod into his hands, my tears dripping into his palms. His guitar-string calluses are fading. Another piece of him that’s slowly passing away. I want to hold on for as long as I can. But I also want him to know I’m capable of letting go.

“You did an amazing job. All the good things I am are because of you. ”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re because of you. You’re remarkable, Delilah. Don’t ever forget it.”

I collect his hands in mine and squeeze. My head drops, gaze trained on our gathered hands. “Truett said the same thing.”

“He’s smart, like his mama was.” Dad chuckles, but it’s dry and wrought with pain. “Just one more life lesson, then we can do some paperwork and go get ourselves some shrimp sandwiches.” He looks at the piano keys, his chin wobbling slightly, as he adds, “If you love him, don’t let him pass you by. I promise you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

My face crumples, and his does, too. It takes several long minutes for us to gather our composure and peel ourselves away from the piano. Several more before we can explain to Kesha that despite our display, we do like it here, and we are ready to make that decision.

The whole drive to the Grille, I lose myself in fragile silence. Dad, meanwhile, chatters on about what he’ll do if they don’t have his shrimp this time, our conversation already forgotten. It’s perhaps the only blessing of his disease, that wounds ripped open can so quickly be mended.

Mine remain raw within me, desperate for some kind of resolution. And no matter how many circles my brain travels in, I always come back to the same one, with dirty blond hair and a knowing grin.

Two hours later, when we roll into our driveway, he’s waiting on our front porch as if I’d summoned him, my name the only word on his lips.