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He mumbled something.
“Remember Dr. Sanders said she wanted you to try the day program today?”
Dad said, “Today?” His voice was still hazy with sleep.
“Yes, she wants you there at oh-eight-hundred.” We still used military times with each other, because it was all we knew.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice clearing slightly.
“Seven. Enough time to grab a shower and a breakfast before we go.”
“We?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m driving you, remember?”
“Right,” he replied. “Wish I still had my license.” Around the corner of the door, I saw him pushing up, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I know you do,” Mom said gently.
He rubbed his face, then shuffled to the bathroom and closed the door.
Mom let out a relieved breath.
And I was relieved too, but my heart ached. Dad had lost so much.
Mom whispered to me, “Will you set his pills out while I get his clothes ready?”
I nodded, going to the kitchen and grabbing the container with his pill bottles. He took something to prevent seizures, another for nerve pain, one to prevent blood clots, another to make sure fluid didn’t build up in his brain, and another one for his mood. The pills didn’t fix everything, but when he didn’t take them, things got so much worse.
I selected the right amount from each bottle and put them in a little plastic condiment container that I carried to his bedroom with a cup of water. Mom set the pills on his nightstand by his clothes at the head of the bed, and we stepped out of the bedroom. She closed the door just in time for the shower water to stop.
We glanced at each other, and Mom held up crossed fingers. She stepped away from the bedroom door, going to stand by the front door. “Can you bring my backpack and your dad’s bag to the car?” she asked.
I nodded, taking the bags from her. “Anything else?”
She shook her head and held the door open for me. I took my time walking to the car in the driveway and popping the trunk. The only thing in there was a folded-up cane. Dad didn’t need it very often, but it was nice to have—it was easier to deal with crowds when he had the cane to remind people to steer clear, but now we hardly went out at all.
I walked back to the door, but Dad and Mom were already coming outside. Dad was dressed in a pair of newer jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. His hair was still damp, combed over slightly.
“Hey, Dad,” I said with a smile. “Looking good.”
“Thanks, kid.” His eyebrows scrunched together. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“I was so excited to see the day program, my teachers said I could come in late.” I fidgeted with the hem of my skirt. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Well, I...” He cleared his throat, glancing to Mom, who was now beside him. “I guess that would be alright.”
“Great,” I said. “I’m going to drive behind you guys so I can leave from there. See you soon.” I forced a smile, acting like everything was okay when in fact, my heart was breaking.
This would be good for him—his doctor told Mom as much—but I couldn’t help feeling like his enrollment in a day program was a failure on our part. A failure to keep him home and do what was best for him. A failure to help him heal.
I waited until I was in my car and following them to let the first tear fall, and then I wiped it away. Today wasn’t about me. It was about Dad.
We drove across town to a place with a sign out front that said The Rhodora Center. A pretty pond with a grassy park on one side separated it from RWE Memorial Hospital. I noticed two people fishing off a small bridge. Others walking the trails—some in scrubs and others in regular clothes.
It didn’t look like an institution, and that fact had me breathing a sigh of relief as I got out of my car.
Mom and Dad parked up front in a handicap spot, but they waited for me to cross the lot and reach them.
