He pauses, thinking.
“She works at the front desk,” I say gently, willing him to remember.
“I know that,” he says, an edge in his voice.
“She told me you think someone stole your watch.” I observe his face.
He looks up and meets my eyes, instantly angry. “I don’t think that, I know it. You’re treating me like I’m a child, Chloe, like I don’t know where my own stuff is. The people here are taking my things and I—”
I stand up and cut him off. “How about I look for it, okay?”
He makes a big show of shrugging. “You aren’t going to find anything in here. I looked already and I can tell you, it’s not in this room. Someone took it.”
I suppress a sigh and look under the bed. Behind the toilet. In the shower. All places his things have “mysteriously” ended up before. Finally, I check the fridge, and behind the half gallon of 2 percent milk, there it is.
I hold up the watch. “Found it.”
Dad squares his shoulders. “I did not put that there. Someone else must have snuck in here and—”
“Dad!” I nearly shout, before I can stop myself. “Why would someone do that? Why would one of the residents or one of the nurses come in here, find your watch, and hide it in the fridge? What kind of sense does that make?”
Dad looks away from me, toward his lap, and the expression that comes over his face is instantly familiar to me. Eyes cloudy, unfocused. “I don’t know,” he mutters, staring at his hands.
“Hey.” I cross the tiny room in three steps. “I’m sorry for shouting. I didn’t mean it, okay?”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m sorry this is happening and I’m . . . I’m just sorry I’m such a burden.”
This is the worst part, the part when he realizes what’s happening. The part when he knows he has a disease, knows that his brain tissue is shrinking and his cells are degenerating, even if he can’t say it in those words. I bite my lip and hold out an arm.
“You aren’t a burden,” I say with force, as if that will make my words stick in his brain. And I believe that. This is hard and it sucks, but if I have the choice between seeing this weird, shitty glass as half-full or half-empty, then I’m gonna pick half-full every time. Because my dad might be different, but he’s still my dad. Both of Annie’s parents are dead, and at least I get to spend time with one of mine.
“Come on over to the love seat,” I say. “I’ve got some free time; let’s find out what kind of zany hijinks Jack and the girls get into, okay?”
He smiles weakly and lets me guide him into the love seat, and I sit down next to him. We sit there, my head on his shoulder, and watch three entire episodes of Three’s Company (apparently, this basic cable channel is having a marathon), and I try my best to keep the sadness at bay and take this moment in. Because as bad as this is—as frustrated as I get, as worried as I am—it’s only going to get worse. Barring some sort of miraculous overnight medical discovery, he isn’t going to get better. He’s going to forget my name, then he’s going to forget my face, and then he’s going to forget everything.
A fourth episode of Three’s Company starts, that iconic theme song playing, and Dad leans into me. “This is the longest episode of Three’s Company I’ve ever seen,” he says, and even though I feel like crying, I can’t help laughing.
PHOTO BY ALEX WINFREY
Kerry Winfrey writes romantic comedies for adults and teens. She is the author of Love and Other Alien Experiences and Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It. When she’s not writing, she’s likely baking yet another pie or watching far too many romantic comedies. She lives with her husband, son, and dog in the middle of Ohio. You can find her on Twitter @KerryAnn, on Instagram @kerrywinfrey, or on her rom-com blog ayearofromcoms.tumblr.com.
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Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 24
