Page 11 of The True-Blue Romance

Dr. Monroe grimaces and rocks back on his heels. “We’ve been tracking him for the past year. I know you think it’s just the alcohol, but I think his alcoholism just made it speed up, made it worse. He has the marks of a form of dementia that can be present after heavy, prolonged alcoholism. He came in here severely dehydrated, and now he cannot remember basic facts. And, Lee… he hasn’t had a sip of alcohol.”

“What?” I ask softly. Because the belligerent man I saw in the hospital room was clearly drunk.

Dr. Monroe nods, patient as always. “He’s sober. That man in there is already halfway gone.”

“But wouldn’t there have been signs? I mean, I just… This doesn’t come out of nowhere?”

“No, it doesn’t, but combined with the alcoholism… It was hard to catch early. I really think now’s the time to consider a home that’s prepared for this sort of behavior.” Dr. Monroe takes a deep breath and leans forward, his words now a whisper. “It might be time to consider a memory care facility. I can’t release him in this condition, not back to his home.”

“Fuck me.”

Dr. Monroe slaps my shoulder and squeezes, like all the older men who have known me my entire life have always done. “There’s a home over in Lafayette County that might have room. I can call in a personal favor, see what I can do. It’s up to you if you proceed. He’ll need to be evaluated still, but I can tell you he’s far enough along for it to be no issue.” Dr. Monroe starts to step away, then sends me a bittersweet smile. “Sometimes they get meaner, but sometimes they get kinder, and I can’t tell you which will be worse.”

I rub my chest and sit back down in the hard-ass chair, no longer caring about how uncomfortable it is. One of the sweet nurses comes out to check on me, bringing me a hot chocolate from behind the counter. They’ve always been so nice to me when I’ve had to come in to get Dad for discharge. I sip the hot chocolate as I consider what to do next.

When the nurse returns to the counter, I lean back hard in the chair and tug out my cell phone. My finger hovers over Joey’s name for a moment, but I can’t take his brand of comfort right now. I think his hand on me right now would kill me. So, I call Beau.

“Hey, you on your way back from the hospital?” Beau asks. I’d texted him letting him know I’d be late to work because I had to deal with Dad.

“Actually,” I say, and then clear my throat awkwardly. “Can you come to the hospital?”

“Lee?”

“Please?” I ask, voice small and frail even to my own ears.

“Yeah, give me a few. Do you want Mama to come?”

“Yes, please.”

There’s a shuffling in the background, some muttered voices, then Beau says gently, “Trevor would like to come too, if you’ll let him.”

I think about it for a moment, fighting against the urge to throw up boundaries. But I don’t know if I can afford to do that anymore with how much my life is about to change. And Trevor is kind and sweet, never anything but supportive of Beau. We’ve formed a tentative friendship over the past few months of group dinners and meetings at the farm. I like Trevor for Beau.

“Yeah, Trevor can come.”

Beau sighs in relief. “We’ll be there soon.”

We hang up and I mindlessly spin my phone around in my hands for a few minutes. The worst part is that I wish Joey was here, but in the way I want him, not in the way he wants to be here. Dreams are for fools, and I’m the biggest fool of all time. I pull up the photo library on my phone to find pictures of Savannah because that always lessens my anxiety. My favorite photo is of her in my backyard, dirty from playing in the garden, a sweet sundress on, barefoot, with a dandelion in her grips. She’s laughing as she blows the dandelion weeds because I’d taught her long ago to always make a wish on them.

“I know what I’m gonna wish,” Savannah whispered with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I’m gonna wish that you were my daddy too.”

My heart hasn’t felt the same way since. If only she knew.

Beau, his mom, and Trevor show up about thirty minutes later. Beau gives me a big hug, Ms. Cindy too. Trevor squeezes my bicep hard because I’m not sure he’s one for hugs, which I respect. Trevor’s hair is up in a messy bun, and he’s clearly wearing one of Beau’s flannels because it swamps him.

“I’m goin’ back to see about him,” Ms. Cindy says before disappearing toward the room. She hates my father—always has. It’s a shared hate between them, probably stemming from the time she and Beau’s dad showed up at our house and told my father in no uncertain terms that if he hit me again, his options were six feet under or county jail. Dad hadn’t hit me after that; not on purpose at least.

“So?” Beau asks, clearly worried, frown lines on his face.

“Dementia.”

Beau rubs his beard. “They’re sure?”

“Yeah,” I admit with a shaky exhale. “All the drinking made it harder to diagnose. Doctor Monroe said his blood results show he’s totally sober, and I guess they’ve been, like… tracking cognitive shit. I don’t know. I know last time they did an MRI, but I don’t remember why. I trust them.”

“Can he go home like this…” Trevor says before trailing off, as if afraid he’s overstepped.

I nod so he knows it’s fine. “Nope. Some representative from a home over in Lafayette County is coming to evaluate him. If he fits their criteria, he’ll go there when he’s discharged.”