Chapter 9
NINE
CORRINE
“Honey, he’s good today.”
I felt my shoulders drop, not realizing how tense I’d been when I walked into the Paradise Hill care facility.
Char Davies had been an angel, helping me navigate Dad’s care over the last three years. I moved him from a far worse facility, but the transition wasn’t smooth. Some days, he didn’t know who I was.
“I’m sorry I missed last week. Things have been a little hectic at the bar.”
Char put a light hand on my arm. She had a kind face.
Wore far too much eye makeup and loved her animal prints.
Today, she wore a zebra-striped skirt with a red top.
“Don’t beat yourself up. We’re taking good care of him.
His occupational therapist brought him out to the courtyard.
He likes to feed the ducks. I told him you were on your way. ”
“Thank you. It’s so warm today. He needs some vitamin D.”
“Exactly,” Char said. “You have a nice visit. Just come find me when you’re done. There was something I wanted to run past you. I tried to call your sister, Sylvie, but she hasn’t called back yet.”
“It’s hard for her,” I said. It felt like a lie. “She’s always running in three directions for her kids.”
“Of course,” Char said. She guided me through the double doors leading to the courtyard.
I could see Dad from here, sitting on a bench.
James, his occupational therapist, handed him a piece of bread and helped him tear it into smaller chunks.
A fat male mallard waddled up and snatched the morsel right out of my father’s shaky hand.
Dad barked something in German and the duck backed off.
James caught my eye. He said something to Dad and made his exit. I sat next to my father on the bench as he threw more bread to the greedy flock.
“Not supposed to feed ’em anything but kale or some such,” he said. “Who likes kale?”
“I never did,” I said. Dad threw another piece of bread and turned to me. He smiled, but I could see no recognition in his eyes.
He was healthy. A big man, six feet. A former firefighter. When I was little, he would hoist me on his shoulders to watch the holiday parade downtown. I felt like I could reach the sky.
He was still physically formidable. In some ways, that had made things so much harder. He’d lived with Alzheimer’s for ten years. He could easily live another twenty as I lost him bit by bit in every other way.
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” he said.
“I’m sorry. Work was busy.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Good joke, Teresa. You’ve been out shopping. Did you at least stop at the gas station? This lawn needs cutting and my gas cans are empty. I put them right behind your car. You probably backed over them.”
Teresa. He did this often now, thinking I was my mother. She’d been dead for six years after having a stroke on my twenty-first birthday. I swear, sometimes I think she did that on purpose. Teresa Egan had been a world-class narcissist.
“Your cans are filled,” I said. Char had told me it was best to meet my father where he was rather than try to correct him. So I lived in his reality, rather than trying to force him into mine.
“Hmmph. Well, PJ needs to get on it when he gets home from school. It’s so long it’s starting to seed over there.”
He pointed to a patch of grass near the pond on the far edge of the courtyard. My father’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. He was having a conversation in his own mind. Sometimes, he’d let me in on it. Sometimes, I acted out whatever part he thought I played in this cruel production.
“I don’t like that boy Sylvie’s been dating,” he said. “He has no people. How do I get a bead on a boy with no people?”
He was talking about my brother-in-law. Sylvie’s husband, Scott. They’d been together since Sylvie was a sophomore in college. So that put Dad’s current timeline to about twelve years ago, just before we saw the first signs of his memory loss.
“He’s not so bad,” I said. Today, I was standing in for my mother. He was at least in his own mind, remembering his family. Sometimes, he just stared blankly at the wall.
“They were your job, Ter,” he said. “The girls. I did mine. PJ’s too lazy, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s gonna take care of you when I’m gone. At this rate, Sylvie’s gonna end up pregnant within a year.”
“She’ll be okay,” I said. Sylvie did get pregnant during her junior year in college. But she and Scott got married and she finished school only a year later than planned. My niece, Grace, had just turned ten years old. Garrett, her brother, came along five years after Grace was born.
He was quiet for a minute or two. When he ran out of bread, he folded his hands in his lap.
“I brought you a sandwich,” I said. I made him his favorite, turkey-avocado on a poppy seed bagel slathered with cream cheese. I found some Black Cherry Vernors at the Meijer on the way in. I laid his lunch out on the bench between us. Char was right. This was a very good day for Paul Egan.
I talked about the weather. How business was starting to pick up at PJ’s pub.
I lied and said I’d take him there next week for dinner.
Dad could no longer handle leaving Paradise Hill.
The change in routine traumatized him too much.
The last time, he ended up vomiting on the floor of my car, then wouldn’t eat anything for three days.
“I don’t like PJ going to bars,” he snapped. So much for gently trying to pull him back to the present. He vaulted off the bench and started pacing in front of me.
“It’s not working. I told Sylvie and PJ that they needed to look out for her. She’s the baby. You coddled her too much. Did you know she’s flunking out of school?”
My heart sank. He was talking about me. This was a common argument between my parents.
I was the wild child. The screw-up. The one everyone worried about.
Dad always blamed my mother for being too permissive.
She blamed him for being too strict. PJ and Sylvie blamed them both for spoiling me.
“And don’t you dare bring up that ADD crap.
That’s a racket. Doctors and drug companies in cahoots to make zombies out of all these kids while lining their pockets. She needs discipline.”
I stood. “I have to go, Dad.”
He shook his head and then took a step toward me. He raised one arthritic finger and pointed it at me. “Don’t talk back to me.”
My breath hitched. That old fight-or-flight response kicked in. “I’m not,” I said. “But you need to get some rest. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”
His face fell. My father slowly lowered his arm to his side.
“You look so tired,” he said. “You’ve got bags under your eyes.” He reached for me, running his thumb across my cheekbone. I flinched. I didn’t want to be my dead mother anymore. I didn’t want to be the only person tethering him to the life he lost. He was right. I was exhausted.
“I really have to go.”
He turned away from me and put his head down. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You’re just tired.”
“No,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”
He lifted his eyes to meet mine.
“Cor?”
My nickname jolted through me.
“I’m here, Dad.”
He nodded. “Am I dying?”
“No,” I said. “But you had a stroke.” It was the line we gave him.
The doctors said we were supposed to acknowledge when he didn’t feel well.
Telling him he had a stroke was far easier for him to accept than the truth.
His own father had suffered from Alzheimer’s.
My grandpa had been diagnosed at forty-five and was in a nursing home by fifty.
Dad had been terrified of this illness his whole life.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re here to take me home?”
“As soon as the doctors give us the go-ahead. But you’re getting better every day. I promise.” Compassionate lying. God forgive me.
“Okay.” He let me hug him and then he kissed my cheek, his stubble scratching my delicate skin. James came back out. I told my father I loved him. He didn’t say it back.
I passed by Char’s office on the way back to the parking lot. She was on the phone but held a finger up, gesturing for me to wait. Char wrapped up her call and folded her hands in front of her.
“Thanks for stopping. Did you have an update on your dad’s account?”
I stiffened. He was almost maxed out on his long-term care insurance benefits. I was about to owe them three thousand dollars a month. She read my body language before I could think of a reply.
“Did you speak to your siblings?” she said. “I can put together some options in case we get to that point.”
Char smiled. She wouldn’t comment on my family dynamics, but we both knew the truth. I was the only one who showed up here.
“Thanks,” I said, rising.
I got to my car and slid into the driver’s seat. Rolling up my window, I screamed into the steering wheel. A few yards away, two women turned to gawk at me. I raised a middle finger and they hustled away.
I took my phone out of my purse, intending to call Sylvie and rip into her. But my phone rang with an incoming call. It was a Benton County government number. Feeling acid in my lungs, I answered.
“Ms. Egan? This is Detective Roy Dennison. Do you have a minute to talk?”
I swallowed hard. “I do.”
“Great. I won’t keep you. We’re making some progress in the investigation. I just wanted to know what your availability is for the next week or so.”
“I’m… uh… I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay. I’m hoping to have you come in to look at a photo array.”
“What is that?”
“We have some pictures. Possible suspects. If you’d be willing to take a look and see if any of them look familiar to you.”
“You found him? You found Matt Woodson?” I wondered if I’d overdone it in my surprise. But I swallowed my concerns, knowing this was the only way.