As he walked back down the hallway, he paused in front of the 1989 Super Bowl championship Bobcats team photo. He took in the mullets, the pornstaches, the out-of-control curls . . . and wanted to vomit.
Apparently, cutting him wasn’t the worst thing they could do.
*
CARRINGTON Gray walked into her father’s hospital room with a quick knock-knock.
“Hey, Daddy.” She set flowers on the table and walked over to the chair she knew her mother would have vacated only for an emergency bathroom break or sustenance run. Maeve Gray was a loyal, loving wife. Stooping down, she kissed her father’s cheek with care. He’d lost weight.
He turned eyes that seemed a little too cloudy for comfort toward her. The top of his head was still wrapped in bandages from the severe sunburn he’d received. Monitors beeped, and the IV that provided hydration ran into his reddened, bandaged arm. “Hello.”
“Daddy?” What kind of medication was he on? “Dad. How’re you feeling?” She hesitated—not wanting to hurt him—then gingerly took hold of his hand, which was pink, but not burned at least.
He shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. “Hello.”
Carri blinked. “Daddy. You know who I am, right?”
He blinked back, as if in a copycat gesture of her own. “Of course. Maeve, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be in my room. If my father catches us—”
“Herb.” Maeve walked in quickly, coming to stand by the other side of the bed. “It’s Carri. Carrington. Your daughter. I’m Maeve.” In a gesture that made Carri’s throat clog, her mother carefully brought her father’s hand up to cup her cheek.
“Maeve,” he whispered, eyes watering.
Carri felt awkward, as if intruding on a private, personal moment. With shaking hands, she stood and walked out to the hallway, sinking onto a chair. The cracked vinyl and plastic scratched at the backs of her thighs. A woman in blue scrubs and a white coat walked into her father’s room, and a moment later, her mother walked out to sit beside her.
Maeve sighed as she settled down into the chair beside Carri’s, then reached over to place a hand over Carri’s shaking ones. “I’m glad you could come, Carrington. How was the drive from Utah? Or did you fly?”
“Mom.” It suddenly made sense, why her mother had been so vague about the “accident” that had put her father into the hospital. Who rushed to the ER because of a simple sunburn? “I’m here now. Can you please tell me what’s going on? The whole truth this time.”
Maeve’s lip trembled, but she firmed it up and nodded once. “I was at work when your father . . . wandered away.”
Wandered away, like a puppy that slipped out an open gate? Like a toddler who jimmied the safety lock? “Mom . . .”
“He was gone for nearly twenty-four hours. In this heat, he was pretty dehydrated, and very sunburned.” She laughed, but the sound was watery. “You know how he always forgot to bring a hat with him when he’d go to your soccer games. With that bald egg he calls a head—”
“Mom.” She said it firmly now, because she was afraid if her mother kept going, she’d break. “Tell me the truth. What’s going on?”
“Dementia,” Maeve whispered, looking back toward her husband’s open room door. “They’ll run a few more tests, but it’s nearly impossible to deny at this point. He’s been . . . forgetful lately. Calling things the wrong word, calling me his mother’s name a few times. I just thought, ‘Hey, old age, right?’” Her mother reached up one hand to wipe at the corner of her eye. “I thought maybe retirement was getting to him; he was watching too much television. I started bringing home those crossword puzzles and the . . . oh, the numbers in the boxes.”
“Sudoku.”
“Yes.” She laughed again, but it was less watery this time. “See? Happens to everyone, the whole forgetting words thing. It wasn’t often, but it had started happening with enough frequency I’d convinced him to head to his doctor. They confirmed it. We were going to tell you when you came to visit next. It’s not the sort of thing you talk about on the phone. Then this . . .” Maeve covered her mouth on a sob.
Carri clenched her hands in her lap. They’d deliberately kept her out of the loop.
Her mother continued. “He was . . . was gone. Alone. For hours, Carrington. Hours. Wandering around, no clue where he was going. In just his house shoes, a T-shirt and shorts. They found him at a park, watching children play a junior league soccer game. A parent saw him, spoke to him, saw the burns and called 911.” Her mother swallowed and smiled, though her lips quivered. “He told the police he was watching his daughter. It wasn’t even a field you’d ever played at before.”
Carri reached up to knuckle away a tear of her own. “Oh, Mom. Oh my God.”