When Christmas came around again in 1999, I helped my father move into the Center’s ‘rehabilitation’ property, an old manor at the corner of its grounds. Merewether was built for patients who could handle more space and freedom but still wanted day-to-day treatment. My father wanted to move there on Christmas Day-it was his present to himself.
The day was icy and bright, and we had to be careful carrying my father’s bags up the slippery front steps. I felt charmed by Merewether’s cozy Craftsman-style detailing, dusty Mission furniture, upholstered window-seats and drafty farmhouse kitchen. There was a big fir tree in Merewether’s living room, too, only this one felt more appropriate. Sweeter. Not many residents were around-most had gone to visit family, as Merewether patients were allowed to leave the Center’s premises for a few hours each day. There was an older woman who was a wonderful painter; she gave paintings to the other housemates as Christmas gifts, even one to my father, though he’d just moved in. There was an overweight man who spoke very softly and cried when we sat down to Christmas dinner, prepared for us by some of the aides and the chef they’d brought over from the main building. There was an emaciated girl in her twenties, barely older than me, with dark hair and translucent skin. They were nice, though, and grateful for a celebration. I didn’t mind my father living with them.
My father laughed and joked with the aides. Wesley came again and sat on everyone’s laps. We talked about how this might be the last Christmas of our existence-Y2K was upon us, and there was a lot of half-baked talk about water pipes exploding, massive floods, planes falling out of the sky, and bank accounts dissolving into rows and rows of zeroes. There was even a round of singing, the thin girl banging out Christmas carols on the house’s old piano.
That winter, my father and I set a time every night to talk on the phone, but suddenly, I would call and he wouldn’t be there. When I did catch him, he was often distracted, getting off quickly. We’d agreed to read a John Irving novel together and conduct an over-the-phone book group, but when I asked him about it a few weeks later, he admitted he hadn’t started it yet. A good chunk of the winter went by when I would call, leave a message, and it would take him days to call back. When we spoke on the phone, he asked me such small and generic questions, as if I was a distant relative, or perhaps a friend’s child: How was my new job? How was the guy I was dating? I began answering in monotone, insulted.
Or was I just being sensitive? Was he just busy, or was he avoiding me? Perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling me. Perhaps there was something I’d done. The paranoia mounted through the spring, creeping up without me quite knowing it, until I realized three weeks had gone by and I hadn’t called him-nor had he called me. Who had not called first? Who had started this?
I finally visited him in early August, more than eight months after he’d moved into Merewether. I took Metro-North, got a cab at the station, gave my name at the security desk at the Center’s front gate, and a golf cart picked me up and drove me to Merewether’s doorstep. Merewether didn’t allow any cars on its premises; everyone got around by golf cart or bicycle or on foot, not unlike a retirement community.
My father opened the door to Merewether himself, announcing that the others in the house had gone to see the new Austin Powers movie at the big theater in town. I stepped into the house tentatively, unsure of how to greet him. We awkwardly hugged, then moved away from one another. I looked around. The front room’s furniture was lumpy and comfortable, the pillows missing some of their batting. A Big Mouth Billy Bass-the electronic novelty that sang ‘Take Me to the River’-was propped up against a credenza across the room. There was plenty of evidence of the other housemates-a pale blue cardigan hanging from one of the coat hooks, a wrinkled copy of The Stand by Stephen King face-down on the front room’s easy chair, a pair of eyeglasses on the round table. Next to the glasses was a large note that said, Without speaking, without silence, how can you express the truth?
My father noticed me looking at it. ‘We sometimes write koans for each other.’
‘Koans?’
‘Philosophical sayings. For meditation. Leahanne is a Buddhist. She got us into it. It’s really useful.’
I assumed Leahanne must have been another Merewether resident. ‘So…you like everyone in the house?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he answered. ‘They’re very nice. They love animals as much as I do. I’m trying to see if we can get an indoor cat.’
I laughed. ‘Right.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not a cat person, Dad.’
His face clouded, offended. ‘I like all animals.’