‘Dr Davis,’ Michael corrected fast. ‘I apologize.’ He helped my father up. ‘It’s much cooler back in our office. The air conditioning works better in there. You need to get some rest, okay?’
‘You aren’t taking me back in there.’ My father’s protests were wearier.
‘You’ll be safe. You’ll just rest.’
His hospital gown was completely undone. As he turned, I looked through the slit in the side. He wore something strange underneath it, something made of plastic that went the whole way around him. My hands twitched with instant realization. It was a diaper.
Michael helped my father back into the hall. They passed by me without saying anything.
‘Thanks, Michael,’ Dr Frum said. Michael shrugged, as if he had to do this all the time. Perhaps he did. Perhaps tonight, he’d go home and recount this story. ‘We had a guy today who was an extra nutcase,’ he will say, laughing over a beer. ‘And his daughter was something else, too. Shoved him hard, the bitch.’
The nurse glanced at me, her eyes cold. I wanted to tell her-I wanted to tell all of them-that I loved my father. That I felt constant terror and guilt and pain for him. I wanted to tell them that we played cards together, we watched the boats on the East River, we went for walks. And all of those things were, in their own way, wonderful.
But instead I pressed myself against the radiator next to the window, watching as they coaxed him into submission. And then I walked away.
16
I dreamed I was in Dublin, walking over the brick-lined squares to work. The buildings were stately and old. Red buses whizzed by. Men wore top hats. When I came to a park and walked the whole way around a large, smooth pond, my skin started to pale. It became translucent, so much that I could see straight through my hands to my bones and my veins. When I moved a finger, tendons and muscles flexed before my eyes. And my heart was a black knot. Then, my brain slipped into focus. My father was trapped inside my head, sitting on a rocking chair with a blanket thrown over his legs. He stopped rocking and peered out at me. ‘There’s a secret I never told you,’ he said. ‘All you have to do is find it.’
I woke up sweating.
My room was dark and cold. Two dogs were snoring at the foot of the bed. I heard my father’s voice through the wall and sat up, cocking my head toward the living room. And then I remembered: he wasn’t sleeping on the couch anymore, but in his bed again. His last appointment, the bad one, was two days ago. When he came home, he slept for eight hours, and since then, he’d been quiet and peaceful. We had decided to skip today’s session and resume next week, giving him some time to recuperate.
I tiptoed to the edge of my room. At first, his voice just rolled up and down like waves, and I couldn’t pick out individual words. But when I walked into the hall, I heard him clearly. There was a slice of golden light spilling from the gap at the bottom of his bedroom door. He was talking into a tape recorder Dr North had given him to help with his memories. He was supposed to explain to his future self exactly what he was doing in a particular moment so he could go back, listen, and remember.
I heard a crinkle of paper. ‘There are certain things I don’t remember, but I have a list,’ he said.
I ran my tongue over my teeth.
‘I don’t remember how she and I met,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember the place. Was it a football game? In a hallway? Was it Dairy Queen? No, wait. That was…’
He paused.
‘And…what’s next,’ he said. ‘Oh. What was her mother’s maiden name?’
He went through little things. Her favorite meal at the Italian restaurant in Park Slope was risotto. She loved Hall & Oates and Lionel Richie, much to his chagrin. A good friend from the gym was named Marissa. He talked about words they used to say to one another. Nicknames they used. Gifts they got for each other. Gifts they got for Steven and me.
It shocked me that he’d lost this much. Then I heard him bumping through the box he kept at the end of the bed, looking through the receipts. ‘I don’t think I wrote it down anywhere,’ he mumbled.
He sighed. ‘There’s so much I don’t remember,’ he said, louder. ‘There’s so much I need to clear up. It’s like…I have emotions but sometimes I’m not sure why I have them. Everything reminds me of everything…and at the same time, nothing.’ After a pause, he continued. ‘Like today, I was looking out the window and saw this man on the street. A neighbor, maybe, but I couldn’t remember his name, and I had no idea what he did or how long I’d known him. The only thing I knew was that I had a strong feeling about him, but I didn’t know what that feeling was-friendship? Hate? Irritation? If I’d have run into him today, I would have ignored him. But what if he’s a good friend? What if I pretend the wrong thing?’
I walked back into my room and retrieved my journal. I should be writing this down, I thought-but for what? Posterity? Still, I took it back to the hall and opened to a fresh page.
‘But Summer,’ I heard him say.