I take the Christmas tree, with its dried-out needles, to the sidewalk. I wanted to see how long I could keep it alive with sugar water. It’s fought the good fight, but the tree, it’s obvious, is no longer with us.
On Family Feud, one of the categories is “Advantages of artificial trees over real trees.” One of the popular reasons is “no smell.” More and more, I get this feeling I don’t know a thing.
January 19
Dinner is take-out enchiladas and tamarind sodas. Yesterday was filets-o-fish. The day before it was rotisserie chicken. To Mom, it seems not to matter that these restaurants most likely use aluminum. She got tired, I think.
Mom and I eat our enchiladas in the living room, in front of the TV, on which Dr. Oz is measuring a woman’s calf. This number will reveal her risk of stroke and liver problems, he says.
About the ripped piece of yellow paper hanging from the sleeve of my mom’s cardigan, she says, “A glue-gun accident.”
When I ask how she’s doing, Mom says, “Fine, fine, fine.”
What I’m telling her: Aluminum is in cake mix, antiperspirant, antacids. There’s aluminum in the earth’s crust.
What I mean is: You’re not to blame for this.
What I mean is: It’s not your fault.
“Put on a sweater,” Mom replies.
I’ve been taking from the top of my suitcase, not exhuming any farther.
“I’m cold looking at you,” she says.
January 20
“Dad? Please.” I’m sitting outside the door.
“Go home,” he says, for the two hundredth time.
I slide him a tortilla, into which I’ve folded jam.
What do I do all day? I don’t even know. I dig hair out of the bathroom drain with a chopstick. I listen to what sounds like a dog whimpering, and which turns out to be a squirrel talking to another squirrel. I watch a woman in scrubs walk by our living-room window, neatly eating a taco.
I read messages on Alzheimer’s caregiver forums—threads about Medicare, about the best brand of adult diaper, about what to do if your loved one accuses you of stealing his money. Consensus: Be calm, apologize.
On a different board, I read the messages about how to find your life’s passion. Consensus: Try everything! Be sure to do all the quizzes in What Color Is Your Parachute?
How unfair, that he isn’t sad—that Joel never spent time mourning us. What goddamned fucking unfair full-of-shit bullshit.
“Ruth,” he joked once, “I’m going to change my last name to ‘Less’ and then marry you.” I was never planning to change my last name anyway, so joke’s on him, I guess.
January 23
I find Levin’s phone number and extension on the college website. Now I’m calling him.
“Hello?” he says, sounding very tentative. I realize it’s my father’s name that shows up on his caller ID.
I introduce myself, and apologize: I don’t know if you remember me. The last time he saw me I was probably twelve or thirteen. I remember being rude to him—no ruder to him than anyone else, but rude just the same.
I remind him that I’m Howard Young’s daughter, and Levin asks, reluctantly, how my father is.
I tell him: My father has never been better! In fact, that’s why I’ve called! I realize the semester has already begun, but is there any way for him to get his job back?
I’m being as polite as I can manage. I’ve adjusted the pitch of my voice—it’s higher.
After I’ve stated my case, there’s a long pause.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the dean says.
“Would you be open to a trial period?” I ask, pleasantly.
“I would not,” he says.
“But why not?” I persist.
Something like twenty seconds pass.
“Ms. Young,” Levin replies, not having any of this. “You understand: your father is unwell. My decision takes into consideration the safety of all involved. I hope I’m being clear.” He pauses. “If I see your father on campus, I’ll have to call the police.”
They’d always had a rivalry, Levin and my dad, but they had always been cordial. Years ago Levin got the promotion that Dad had wanted. I could see why it enraged my father, to be at Levin’s mercy. His smug voice made my blood boil.
I call Theo to admit defeat. Not exactly in those words, though.
January 24
At five this morning, while my parents are still asleep, I drive to the doughnut shop. There are two people in line: a stout woman in a short sequined dress buying crullers, and a tall, messy-haired man who looks to be in his thirties, with his hands in his pant pockets. Noticing me, he takes a hand out and gives me an awkward half-wave. His wallet falls out of his pocket in the process; he bends to pick it up, sheepishly.
“Ruth?” he ventures.
“Theo,” I say.
Theo asks what kind of doughnut I want, and I tell him glazed. He proceeds to buy us a few glazed doughnuts, a matching number of doughnut holes, and a couple cups of coffee. We settle into a table in the middle of the shop, as though someone might notice us in the window.
The plan is to meet on Mondays, because Levin, our nemesis, isn’t on campus on Mondays. But first we need to find a classroom: morning to night, the History Department building is back-to-back full.
“I’ll let your dad know that the department changed its mind about letting him teach,” Theo says, putting the smallest splash of cream into his coffee with his left hand. I notice a scar, an inch between his index finger and thumb—pale and shiny. And then I notice there are at least four other markings, streaking the back of his hand.
“My cat gave those to me,” he says, because I’m the worst at not staring. “I was ten. Anyway, I’ll e-mail him with the list of enrolled students.”
“Who are the enrolled students?”
“Former students. Grad students who’ve been in his civil rights class.”
“What about his office?”
“I’ll tell him it was moved,” Theo says. “And that he can use mine.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll share space with my friend Joan,” he says. “It’s only a semester. It’s no big deal.”
He chews a doughnut hole. “I feel like I have to buy the holes,” he says, “because doughnuts have their holes punched out of them. Whereas bagels’ holes are made by stretching. Not buying them feels like being part of the problem.”
All the doughnuts are gone and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether or not to say more. I attempt to take a drink from my empty coffee cup.
“He was sending these e-mails,” Theo says.
E-mails to the provost insisting that Levin be dismissed. List after list of his shortcomings, one after another, and the president had mentioned some of these complaints.
So Levin was none too happy about it.
But that aside, the myriad grievances were true—things had been slipping. Dad had mixed up dates—shown up for Thursday classes on Fridays, Wednesday classes on Mondays. He’d left classrooms of students waiting. Forgotten names. Forgotten tests. Forgotten grades.
“He seems okay,” I say.
“He seems okay,” Theo agrees.
“Hey,” I ask. “How’d you know I’d be home? You know, when you called?”