Anna
Dad isn’t an attractive man. He has height, but the skinny kind, rounded at the shoulders so he curves forward like a wilting flower. His eyes are pale blue and his gray-orange fuzz is combed to hide a bald spot. All this information is apparent to anyone in the room, though. The things that I should know about Dad—the day of his birth, his baseball team, whether his stoop is old or new—are not there. Or perhaps they are, but deep down, hazy, as though he were a character from a novel I read a few years ago rather than the man who gave me life. He looks at me closely, perhaps for signs of my dementing. I wonder if he’s finding any.
“Anna,” he says, “I can’t believe it.”
At the sound of his voice, my brain releases a select few, seemingly unimportant memories. The way he used to eat ice cream with a fork. The way he used to drink his … morning caffeine drink … so hot, it should have taken the skin right off his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“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!”
I fling out an arm, and one of the phantom people flings their arm out at the same time. I jump backwards. At that exact moment, so does she.
Young Guy slides slowly out of bed and stands beside me. He looks as freaked out as I feel. This is … too strange. I turn to face the black woman and she matches my stance. I wave. She waves. Slowly, the pieces click together. I edge forward, reach out to touch the face of the black person in front of me. It’s smooth, flat. And then, ching. The penny drops.
“The people,” I say, “the black people … they’re us. They’re our shadows.”
For a moment, all I can do is stand there. Holy moly. I actually thought my shadow was some kind of crazy mutant alien. Is that how far gone I am? Young Guy’s hand curls around mine, and I realize it is shaking. And not just that—he’s making a noise, too. In the dark, it’s hard to tell what he’s doing, but finally, I realize. He’s laughing.
Chuckles start to bubble up in me too, slowly at first, and then a full-on manic giggling explosion. Beside me, Young Guy laughs. And so do our shadows.
* * *
I jolt awake. Something isn’t right. Young Guy’s cheek is resting on my torso just below my chin and … Skinny is towering over us.
“I just found them like this,” she is saying to someone. Her face is bent and twisted and her voice is high-pitched. “I don’t know where Rosie is. Carole, would you just find Rosie?”
“Bert’s twisted his ankle,” someone else says. “She’s bandaging it.”
Skinny pulls back the thin-blanket that’s covering us and peers under. “They’re partially clothed, at least. Thank God! Oh, Anna’s awake.”
I lie very still as the guy with the mustache comes into view. His eyes roll over my body slowly. “Are you all right, Anna?” he asks.
I nod, shrinking farther under the thin-blanket, wishing they would get out of my room.
“Did you know Luke was here with you?” he asks, his eyes still wandering.
I glance at the top of Young Guy’s head and then back at the man. “You know I have dementia, right? I’m not blind.”
Mustache Man’s eyes narrow. He wipes at his forehead with his arm.
There’s something majorly unsettling about lying flat while people hover over you, but Young Guy is heavy on my upper torso, so I’m stuck.
“We’ll have to call her brother,” Skinny says. “And Luke’s sister. Do you want me to do it?”
“I’ll do it,” Mustache Man says, but he keeps looking at me. “Anna, do you need help getting dressed?”
I shake my head so hard, I get dizzy.
“Fine. Trish will wait outside until you’re dressed and then bring you to my office, okay?”
I don’t really want to get dressed or go to Mustache Man’s office, but I don’t see what choice I have, so I nod.
“Good,” he says, exhaling. “Then we can sort this whole thing out.”
Mustache Man and Skinny finally leave and I shimmy Young Guy’s head off my body and rise into a sitting position. That’s when it dawns on me, what Skinny and Mustache Man want to sort out. It’s us. Me and Young Guy.