“Dad!” I shout, my frantic stomps matching the thumps of my heart. “Daddy!”
I hear my mom shout my name, but my strides remain strong. Even with the half a dozen men removing childhood memories from my home making a ruckus, my dad heard my shout.
“Ruth?” he calls back, his voice echoing out of his room at the end of the hall.
Tears drop onto my white cheeks as I increase my strides. His voice—thank god. I was afraid my mother’s return would coincide with me never hearing it again. I was petrified he was gone.
“Daddy,” I choke out via a sob when I enter his room.
He is standing at the foot of his bed, his face as tormented as ever. “What’s happening, Ruth? I don’t understand.” His words sound as exhausted as I feel.
The last six months have been tough on us both, but with Willis agreeing to be his fulltime caregiver, the transition wasn’t as daunting as expected. My father may not remember my name, but he has never forgotten my face. That means we’ve racked up a lot of Skype minutes since I left for Cornell six months ago.
The moisture slipping down my cheeks is absorbed by my dad’s shirt when he tugs me under his broad arm to comfort me against his chest. The wild beat of his heart causes more tears to topple from my eyes. He is as scared as me, but acting brave not to startle me.
This is definitely the man I know and love.
“I don’t know what is happening,” I admit, my voice showcasing my bewilderment. “But I’ll find out. I promise you, I’ll find out.”
My pledge has barely left my mouth when my dad stiffens. His fingers dig into my arm when he spins me around, sheltering me from the person I hear scuffling across the hardwood floor with his body. My tears flow more freely. Even with his mind destroyed by a horrible disease, it can’t stop his protective nature. It is as naturally engrained in him as it is in Ryan.
“Thorn,” whispers a tormented voice, one I would have given anything to hear years ago, but will give anything to silence now. “You know me. You just don’t remember.”
My spine straightens, expecting my father to react negatively to my mother’s remark. Displacement issues are my dad’s biggest trigger, but being told he can’t remember is a very close second. He can handle prompts, but if you straight up tell him he can’t do something, you’re set for trouble.
My stomach continues receiving blow after blow. My dad doesn’t react as I am expecting. He doesn’t scream, yell, or even clench his fists. He doesn’t do a single thing. This is as abnormal to me as seeing my parents in the same room.
My mom smiles, pleased by his lack of aggression. “Every rose has its thorn. Just like every thorn needs a rose. I’m your Rose, Thorn.”
The wind is knocked from my lungs, shocked by the sweetness of her voice. It is brimming with love and admiration, a stark contrast to the one she used when placing the blame for her extramarital ways on my dad’s shoulders years ago. She wanted the world but couldn’t understand that he had to work relentlessly to give it to her. She used his absence as an excuse, failing to see that if she weren’t so greedy, he wouldn’t have worked sunup to sundown.
“I still remember the first time you said that . . .” She sighs as if recalling fond memories. “. . .and the millions of times that followed.”
I shake my head while pulling away from Dad’s grasp. The extra beat his heart gained during her disclosure reveals a truth I don’t want to face. He is remembering her—the woman who betrayed him time and time again.
I lift my eyes to an equally unique pair. “You can’t believe her, Dad. You don’t know what she did. How she hurt you.”
My lungs hunt for air when he stares at me, somewhat confused. I grab his hand and run it down my cheek like he always does. “It’s your Ruth. You can trust Ruth.”
I stare into his eyes, allowing mine to speak the words my mouth will never be able to say. Nothing’s changed. I couldn’t tell him years ago about her deceit, and I can’t today either. I will not break his heart for anyone’s benefit, not even mine.
I inhale my first breath in what feels like minutes when my dad briefly nods his head. “There’s my Ruth,” he mutters as his thumb traces the indent in my cheek.
“Yes. Here I am,” I reply, nuzzling into his hand.
Hating that the torment in his eyes grows from spotting the moisture brimming in mine, I aid him into his bed. My mom’s breaths are so ragged, I hear every inhalation. She isn’t gasping for air because she is surprised by our closeness—there isn’t a father/daughter bond in the world that can compare to the one I have with my dad—she is just shocked seeing the man she once loved stare at her as if she is a stranger.
I can imagine her pain. I pray every day for that day toneverarrive. The day my dad forgets who I am will be my most painful day. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone. Not even the woman who broke his heart.
“Savann—”
“No,” I interrupt my mom, my tone stern like I am the parent in our dynamic. “Not in here. You have no claim to anything oranyonein this room.”
Pretending I can’t see my dad’s confusion growing from my mom calling me my real name, I smile at him before asking, “Orange juice?”
His eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Please.” His love for his favorite drink is all over his face.
“I’ll be right back.”
