“What do you think?” he says. “I came to see you.”
Jack walks out from behind me, reminding me that he is here too. “Dad,” Jack says, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
Another memory is niggling at me, but just out of my reach like an itch I can’t scratch. It’s as if my brain has pulled a curtain over the memories area. And not even the VIPs are getting in.
“Dad,” Jack tries again, “how ’bout we go outside?” Jack catches Dad’s elbow, not waiting for an answer.
I look at Dad, at the jacket under his arm with its wide, diagonal hip-pockets.
“Chocolate cigars!” I cry.
Dad stops. “You remember those, huh?”
I am practically jubilant at unearthing this memory. Chocolate cigars. They were always in Dad’s pocket when I was a kid. “Take a load off,” he’d say to Jack and me, handing us one each and igniting it with his thumb-lighter. “Have a cigar.” I have to fight a smile and remind myself that the man with the chocolate cigars in his pockets is the same man who up and left his wife when she got sick. The same man who left me.
“I don’t have any today, I’m afraid,” he says. “But if you’ll see me again, I’ll bring some next time.”
“Dad!” Jack says. “You can’t just show up here and—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
Jack looks uncertain. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Let’s go to my room, Dad.”
It feels strange saying the word “Dad.” I haven’t called anyone that since I was a teenager. As I start down the hall, I pray that I can find my way, and for once (hey, the gods aren’t usually that kind to me) I’m shown some mercy. Inside, we sit.
“So … you have it, then?” Dad says. “Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have supported you.”
“Thanks,” I say evenly, “but I don’t believe you.”
He nods. “I deserve that. And anything else you have to dole out. I’ve already missed so much. Now, even if it’s insults, I don’t want to miss another second.”
I stare at him, all self-assured. I can’t believe he has the nerve to show up here like this, after all this time. Did he think that I would just open my arms and let him back in my life? And why would he want to be back in it, anyway? If he ran away from a wife with Alzheimer’s, what did he want with me? “What are you doing here, Dad?”
“I let your mother push me away when she got sick,” he says after a moment. “I’ve always regretted it. And I’ve no intention of letting history repeat itself.”
I stare at him.
“I’m not making excuses,” he says, “just trying to explain. Your mother was a proud woman. She didn’t want me to watch her decline. I never intended to leave you and Jack, but—”
“Surely you didn’t expect us to have a relationship with you after you abandoned our Alzheimer’s–ridden mother? The irony is that you were the one who taught us to have more integrity than that.”
“I messed up. And you paid the price. But there’s nothing you can say to stop me coming back, Anna. I am going to repair our relationship.”
“Repair our relationship?” I snort. “Don’t hold your breath.”
He stands. “I’ve no intention of it. At my age, holding one’s breath is a bad idea.”
I feel a surprising urge to laugh. But I refrain. That could be construed as letting him off the hook. “Suit yourself.”
Dad plants an awkward kiss on my forehead, and then shuffles toward the door. I want to tell him to get out. I want to tell him to stay.
“When I found out I had Alzheimer’s, I left my husband,” I blurt out, when he reaches for the door handle. “The marriage wasn’t happy, and Alzheimer’s seemed as good a reason as any to call it a day. So we’re alike in that way, I guess. Running away when things get tough.”
Dad’s eyes have become soft and shiny. “That doesn’t make us alike, Anna. You left an unhappy marriage when you were most vulnerable, which shows courage. I left a woman and two children when they were most vulnerable, which shows the opposite. A better man would have stayed.”
“Are you a better man now?” I ask. I’m angry at myself when I realize my face is wet.
“Trying to be.” He laughs softly, shakes his head. “And looking at you, honey, perhaps I did do something right.”
*
That night, Young Guy buries his head in my hair, and I wrap a leg around his waist and pull him closer. It’s mostly dark, but a thin line of light shines in from somewhere.
Wow. I blink into the semidarkness. That’s … weird.
I blink again. There’s a person in the bed next to us. Actually, more than one person—there’s people—moving briskly under the covers.
“Holy—” I push him off and jump up. The people next to us do the same. “Who the fuck are they?” I whisper.
Am I hallucinating? But no … they’re right there. They’re black, not just their skin but their eyes, their hair—all of them. I must be hallucinating.
“Do you see that?” I say to Young Guy. “There! Look!”