1
BELLE
On some days, Dad thought I was my mother. On bad days, he thought I was the nurse who stole his pudding in 1987. Today, I was “Bells.” I loved the days when he remembered me. It was such a necessary comfort I didn’t know I needed until it was gone.
“Bells,” he said when I stepped into his room at Long Creek Memory Care, squinting at me like I’d just materialized out of thin air. “You cut your hair.”
“I did not,” I told him, dropping my bag on the chair. “The lovely ladies in the salon did on Thursday, and you are as handsome as ever.” I lowered my head to kiss him on the cheek.
He chuckled, which felt like winning the lottery.
Long Creek wasn’t much to look at. The halls were a shade of beige that had given up on life sometime during the Obama administration. But I made sure his room was cheery. He had the quilt from home. The framed picture of us when I was a little girl, and one of him winning first prize at the Ohio State fair for his automated football thrower. The little wooden clock ticked too loudly when everything else went quiet.
He needed more brightness in here, or maybe it was me who needed it bright. That’s really neither here nor there. The point is that I tried to make it a little slice of home for both of us.
“How’s my favorite girl?” he asked.
“I am your only girl.”
“Still counts.”
Sometimes I could see the fog roll in behind his eyes mid-conversation, like someone slowly dimming a room. But today the lights stayed on. He even remembered the Grimm Reapers’ name without prompting.
“Still knocking girls down?” he asked.
“Only recreationally.”
“That’s my girl.”
He squeezed my hand. His grip was still strong, which always surprised me. The body didn’t always match the brain’s retreat. He looked solid and present. I could still see the man who liked tinkering in his garage and yelling at the news.
We played two hands of cards. He cheated. I pretended not to notice. When I stood to leave, he held onto my fingers a second longer than usual.
“Oh, I brought you something. Bread Zeppelin has a new croissant,” I said as I took out a bakery bag from my purse.
He split it in half and gave me one, just like he always did.
“You’re doing okay?” he asked.
There it was. The rare clarity question.
I smiled automatically. “I’m always okay.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he knew that wasn’t a real answer. But then it passed, and he was waving at the television remote like it had personally offended him.
“I’ll see you Thursday,” I promised.
“Bring another croissant.”
“I will if you behave and stop pestering Mrs Miller down the hall,” I reminded him.
“She loves it,” he said with a smile I recognized, even if I didn’t see it much anymore.
I walked out smiling.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, already mentally calculating gas mileage on my way back to the van. I had enough gas for the week, and if I skipped the fancy coffee and pretended tap water was a personality trait, I just might make it to the next payday.
“Belle?”
