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We all had eras of our childhoods when he wasn’t around for months at a time. He was here but not around.
“He’s been sleeping all morning.” Her hushed voice matches her neat nurse’s uniform, and she smooths her hands down the skirt. “I left him alone, so hopefully, he’ll be more alert for you when I wake him now.”
“Thanks, Betsy,” Dash says, taking a step backward to lean on the railing. We wait outside, listening to the sounds of Betsy waking our dad with her lilting voice and encouraging words.
“Kingston, it’s time to wake up…Good morning, Kingston.”
We hear grumbles from our dad that don’t translate into words. Then, movements and wrestling around as she helps him to the bathroom and gets him oriented.
A few minutes go by, and Dash and I stare at each other, hating this surreal experience of waiting for a man who has only really been able or willing to spend time with us because he doesn’t know any better.
Betsy signals us into the room, and I tell myself not to react to how my dad looks, but to my relief, he looks the same as he did last week. Still dressed in a short-sleeved button-up shirt and one of the hundreds of bowties from his collection. He doesn’t recognize his own kids, but he knows enough to insist on a bowtie each day.
Perched on a settee at the end of the bed, he raises a hand in greeting. It’s been his signature for so long that it’s not surprising his fading memory hasn’t eliminated the gesture. It’s built-in.
“Hi dad,” I say. Dash stays behind me, silent, not wanting to confuse him.
He squints at me like he always does, his brain trying to do calculations it’s too compromised for most of the time. I’m expecting him to call me Archer, and even then, I’m going to ask him what I came to ask.
But he surprises me. “Jackson.” He nods. “And Dashiell back there.” I hear Dash suck in a breath behind me. This feels momentous. It feels like a breakthrough. A part of me is dying to ask Betsy if she thinks the new protocol he’s on is working, but there will be time for that later. If he’s lucid, I need to ask my questions now.
“Good to see you. I was hoping we could chat,” I begin, sliding a chair over from the desk so it faces him. I intentionally move it so close that he has to look at me, and so he won’t be distracted by anything else in the room. I know that if he’s uncomfortable or nervous, he’ll ask me to back away. But he doesn’t.
“Of course. Happy to chat with a friend.”
Friend?
He nods at me and raises his hand again as though he didn’t just do that exact thing. And by calling me a friend, he doesn’t really know who I am, even if he knows my name. Maybe it works to my advantage.
Betsy unobtrusively sets a tray on a small table and wheels it over next to my dad. He ignores the glass of water there and the single orchid in a vase.
“Can we talk about the loan and how you spent the money?” I watch his face for a glimmer of recognition. I get nothing. He stares straight ahead in the way he often does. I’m waiting for him to go off on a tangent, which also sometimes happens.
Preparing myself. Expecting the worst. It’s been a series of progressions over time from hope to hopelessness.
“Yes.” His response gets my attention, and my eyes shoot to his. He’s looking directly at me, something he rarely does anymore.
“Okay. How did we lose that money? Was it a payoff for a lawsuit?” If he had to settle a suit, I can handle that. I can explain it. I just need an answer.
“Lawsuits get settled. That’s the beauty of money.”
My spirits plummet. He’s confused. Wrong. And now I think I’m losing him.
“We—”
He cuts me off. “Our grapes were garbage. Hayden Lanes sold me what we needed. ‘Course it cost money. Everything costs money.”
Wait,what? Our grapes are world-renowned. My pulse ticks up, flitting like a snare drum.
“Dad, we have the best vines. Why would you buy grapes from someone else?” I’ve never heard of Hayden Lanes, but there are so many new wineries popping up in the area all the time. It might not even be in Napa.
He waves a hand, dismissing the idea. “I did what I had to do.”
“Why isn’t there anything in the books about buying from Hayden Lanes?”
“The books?” Dad looks at a built-in bookshelf that lines one wall of his room. He scans the rows of books.
I see the confusion in his eyes and have a bad feeling about what’s coming next. The same thing happened last week after only five minutes with him. But this is important, and I need to pull anything I can from his ailing brain.
