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I can only imagine how easy it would have been for someone to take advantage of his frailty, even without knowing the extent of his dementia.
But back when he drove us five miles over the speed limit down the main road in Napa Valley, we thought our dad was the king of everything.
When we got to the ice cream shop, Dad would always go in order of age, allowing Archer to pick his flavor first—always rocky road, always in a sugar cone—and moving down the line. Jackson went next, needing to look at every bin of ice cream inthe case and taste a few before deciding. Nine times out of ten, he picked mint chip, but he always made a big show of debating the others.
Beatrix always chose vanilla and asked for a second scoop of a different flavor. Dad would allow it if she chose to have her ice cream in a cup, like somehow it was so much healthier if she gave up the cone for the second scoop.
Then came Dash, who couldn’t resist the pink, sickly sweet bubble gum ice cream and who always picked out the multi-colored chunks of gum to save for last. He’d chew them up into a giant wad and taunt the rest of us with his dessert after dessert.
When it was my turn to pick, my dad would lift me onto his shoulders because, at age two or three, I couldn’t see into the cases. He’d read all the flavors to me and give me side commentary on the ones he liked best. “Mocha almond fudge is a classic. You can get vanilla anywhere, so I’d pick something with a little caramel or nuts. Daiquiri ice looks better than it tastes.” I’d solemnly listen to his advice, even though it was mostly the same every time, and then I’d reliably point at whatever was the most colorful, generally the rainbow sherbet. I’d ignore the chorus of doubt from my siblings, who’d always tell me that sherbet wasn’t really ice cream.
“Don’t listen, Penny. It’s real ice cream to me.” My dad would often order himself a scoop of the same thing just to prove it was the best. That annoyed my brothers, who were always jockeying for attention.
They held it against my dad for years, but now, we’re all in the same boat, watching him slowly slip away. Equal opportunity loss.
Now, being the youngest gets me nothing, not a glimmer of additional recognition when I walk into his bedroom with my sister, who is with me today when I visit. Dad’s doctor suggested we visit in pairs—something about making it easier for him torecognize us without overwhelming him. I don’t know. It hasn’t seemed like it’s helping.
Beatrix and I hike up the stairs to the second floor of the mammoth house where Dad and the nannies raised us after one too many affairs with Napa’s single women drove our mother to move out. The seven-bedroom home has cathedral ceilings on both stories, making for an extra-long winding staircase. It used to entertain me as a kid to send stuffed animals down the curving banister and see which could get the farthest before falling off.
Holding the banister now, I feel like those days were a lifetime ago. I only come to this house to visit my dad, which colors the experience with sadness.
Dad’s nurse, Betsy, waits for us outside his bedroom door with her brown chin-length hair framing her owlish face. Her round eyes and arched brows tell me more about what to expect than she could with words.
“Not a good day?” Beatrix speaks my concerns out loud. She knows the drill. It’s rarely a good day, just degrees of bad or worse.
Betsy tips her head from side to side as we approach. “Morning, ladies. He’s doing okay this morning, all things considered.”
“Meaning?” Beatrix’s heels click-clack across the parquet floor as she approaches, arms crossed over her crisp white blouse and black buttonless jacket. I, on the other hand, am wearing sweatpants. My dad used to scorn me for it—“Always dress to impress, even if you’re the only one who knows it”—and maybe a part of me wants my slovenliness to shock some recognition into him.
“He’s tired even though he slept all night. He knows who I am, so I’m optimistic he’ll recognize you,” Betsy says quietly, ushering us through the double doors that lead to my dad’sbedroom suite. Painted pale yellow, it’s a bedroom and a living room and an office all in one. It’s bigger than the entire cottage where Colin is staying.
That thought brings my mind back to Colin, and I wonder what he’s planning on doing today. I can’t help being acutely aware of how little time he has left before work and life will take him back to Palo Alto. Three days, to be exact.
“Trixie, good morning.” My dad’s voice emanates from deep in his belly, and he’s always had the ability to command a room. It heartens me to hear him call my sister by her nickname. I follow her into the room, and his eyes land on me. “How’s my Shiny Penny?”
It’s a rare moment of clarity, and I know Beatrix feels the same gratitude I do that we’re here for it.
“Hey, Dad.” My sister goes over and kisses his cheek. I can’t help it—I want a hug, and he indulges me.
He has his breakfast spread out on the writing desk that sits opposite the king-sized bed, which has about fourteen decorative pillows against the headboard even though he just slept in it. Gold threads run through the fabric of the duvet cover and the pillows, all shades of yellow, giving the room a pale glow.
Betsy opens the window shades enough to let in some sunlight, but just barely. My dad squints at the change, and I watch his face flush. Small things like this sometimes set him off into a confused state, but I know the natural light is good for him. The moment passes, and my dad seems to adjust.
“How are the cabernet vines looking? Ready for picking?” He sits in a swivel chair at the desk and folds his hands over his stomach. Betsy butters a piece of toast for him, but he glares when she slides it toward his hand. “I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”
“It’s only August, so it’s too early yet,” I tell my dad, knowing he loses track of time.
“Ah, August. So we wait. I’ll ask your brother about it.”
“Yes, Archer will be able to give you a better sense of the sugar levels.” I intentionally say his name to help Dad recall of which brother is in charge of winemaking now.
Our dad used to go into the different vineyards daily and pick a few grapes from different growing sections. He’d bring them back to his lab and test their sugar and acid levels to gauge when it was time for picking. Now that’s our brother’s job.
“Archer,” he says. “That’s not the brother I meant. The younger one.”
Beatrix and I share a look, concerned he’s getting confused. Often, when it starts, the thoughts meander even farther away, so I’m hoping we still have some time with him today before that happens.
“Archer is handling the wine making,” I tell him gently, hoping it will remind him of what he already knows rather than upset him for getting it wrong.
