Walk the Dog

by Isabel Jolie

  The familiar streets of New Orleans pass by as Mom continues about this annual conundrum and how retail stores are rushing all the seasons. On the bright side, it sounds like I’ll be home to help decorate the tree. I haven’t done that since college.

  The conversation has shifted to plans this afternoon, and how she hopes to throw a ‘welcome home’ party for me. Of course she does.

  I interrupt her as she asks if this weekend is too soon. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like celebrating. Not right now. You understand, don’t you?”

  She swallows and stares at the road. Her slim, pale hand flexes on the steering wheel. I’m all down for her denial. I get where she’s coming from. It’s always been easier for me to smile and put a bounce in my step than to explain to someone else what I’m feeling, to share anything other than a happy face. But I can’t be the happy she hides behind. She’s going to need to launch a new gardening club initiative or volunteer to be on the decorating committee for the Annual YaYa Arts Center Christmas Gala.

  We pull into our driveway, and I watch the front door, willing it to open so I can lay eyes on Dad, see him and wrap my arms around him. Pull him into his study and find out everything Mom can’t bear to say. If it’s cancer, I’ll need to evaluate his doctors and make sure he’s on the best treatment plan. If it’s some strange disease, it’s the same strategy. Google the hell out of it until answers, or at least experts, are found. Maybe we can get him into a medical trial.

  She parks in the driveway and pops the rear open. We each lug a heavy suitcase out and onto the pavers. Dad still hasn’t come out. One glance at Mom, and it’s clear she’s not expecting him. Either he’s not home, or he’s incapacitated. This is not the Dad I grew up with. He’s always the one to pick me up at the airport. “Is Dad at work?”

  “No. He’ll be home for lunch. He had something to do this morning.”

  Mom leads the way around the side to the carriage house, intent on getting me unpacked. Marie, my Mom’s faithful, cheery assistant, greets us. Marie has worked for Mom for at least fifteen years. She works Monday through Friday and oversees all things to do with our home, from the cleaning of it, to the outside gardening, to helping Mom plan social events.

  She wraps her arms around me as she beams. “Welcome home, Miss Delilah. It’s so good to see you.” She pulls away and pinches my cheek, a move that used to annoy me to no end. “I was absolutely delighted when your mother told me you’re returning home. I’m gonna get you unpacked, okay, dear? I have the master bedroom outfitted for you, but if you want any changes or need anything at all, you just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Marie. Has your granddaughter arrived yet?” Mom mentioned Marie’s daughter had announced the gender of her baby, and Marie was over the moon with excitement about her new grandbaby’s upcoming arrival. Mom disappears as Marie and I lug the heavy suitcases up the narrow staircase to the upstairs bedroom.

  “You go spend time with your mother,” Marie tells me. “I’ll get you unpacked and settled.”

  I give her a hug before departing. “You’re the best, Marie. Thank you.” Unpacking happens to be one of those activities I rather dislike, so I’m quite happy to leave, knowing she’ll iron any clothes that are wrinkled and restock any items she believes I need more of. Growing up, all my clothes were perfectly ironed and my closet expertly organized. She’s a wonder, and I’ve no idea how much my parents pay her, but it most certainly isn’t enough.

  Downstairs, I notice the fresh vase of hot pink roses on the circular kitchen table. There must be thirty-six flowers in the vase, and on a whim, I snap a photo and text it to Mason.

  Me: Home. Please share with Kara. These flowers remind me of her.

  I step outside, taking a moment to stretch as I meander around the swimming pool. The French doors in the main house are open, and white gauze curtains hang straight, flapping slightly from the breeze of the overhead fan on the wide porch.

  I enter the house, calling, “Mom?”

  She rounds the corner, arms full of newspapers and mail. “I’m going to put this down in your father’s office. He’ll want to go through it all when he gets home.”

  I follow her into the office. It has a distinctly different design aesthetic from the rest of the house. My mother loves bright colors and wallpaper, and my father lets her decorate however she desires. However, he designed this room. The walls are painted a forest green on the top half, and the bottom half is a dark mahogany. Dark leather club chairs and a sofa fill one side of the room, and his commanding walnut desk almost fills the other side. That desk serves as command central.

  I settle into one of the well-worn club chairs and watch her arrange the mail neatly into specific stacks. “Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad?”

  Her shoulders lift, and her busy hands pause for a second, then she resumes her work. Once she’s satisfied with her stacks, she sits back into Dad’s office chair. The desk envelops her slight frame. She bows her head, stands, and moves over to the club chair near me.

  “Your father has multiple sclerosis.”

  The name of the disease doesn’t mean much to me. I sit there trying not to twitch. The name of the disease doesn’t register, but my heart still thumps in my chest. I’ve donated for MS events before, if I knew someone running or biking a race, and an image of someone in a wheelchair comes to mind.

  “We were going to tell you when you came for the festival. Then we were going to tell you at Thanksgiving.” Her tone smacks of a reprimand. I deserve it. I’ve been canceling visits with increasing frequency over the last couple of years. Thanksgiving was a big one. She smooths the fabric on her skirt flat as she sits with perfect posture. Her lower lip trembles, the one visible sign she is struggling to hold back her emotions. I lean over and reach for her but can’t quite touch.

  “The disease, right now, it’s not bad. We were shocked by the diagnosis. I went to my first support group last week.” Her voice cracks as she weeps, the same tears she cried in my apartment, and I come to her, scooting her over to make room for me in the club chair and I hold her as she cries. She sobs into my chest, and I run my fingers through her hair to soothe her. She pulls a tissue out of her skirt pocket, and once the tears have stopped and she has her emotions in check, she curls the used tissue in her hand and continues. “Sweetie, it’s going to get bad. So bad. Thank you so much for coming home. I can’t do it on my own.”

  “Mom, of course I’m here. You don’t have to do anything on your own. But I don’t know anything about MS. I can Google it, but what did his doctor say?”

  She dabs her nose with the tissue. “When the disease progresses, it will be bad. Wheelchair, maybe confined to bed. He’ll need help with basic care like dressing and feeding and...toileting. Oh, honey. This support group. A lot of them are men. MS strikes more women than men. You should have heard their stories. I’m so scared. So scared. And your Dad, honey, he’s in denial. He’s working less and playing more golf. Which I suppose is good. He should do that while he still can. But it’s like he’s refusing to believe he has this disease.” Somehow, hearing that Dad isn’t being the ideal patient doesn’t surprise me. I can help with that. Dad and I are similar in nature, and when Mom gets to be too annoying and doting, which is what Dad might be reacting to, I can whisk her away.

  Mom pulls my arm away from my face, and it’s not until her hand closes around mine that I realize I’ve been chewing on my thumbnail. “Okay. So, what did the doctors say? What is his life expectancy?”

  “Oh, honey, they don’t know. They don’t know.” Her voice quakes, and I hold her and kiss the top of her head.

  The click of the front door opening sounds, and I leave my mother to compose herself as I go to see who is entering our home. My dad beams when he sees me. He’s in full-on golf attire, but his right hand rests on a cane. “Dad?”

  “Delilah! When did you get home?”

  “Just now. How are you?”

  “Good. Tony and I hit the back n
ine this morning after a breakfast meeting at the club. Your mom tells me you’ve had enough of the Big Apple and you’re moving home. Come here and give your old man a hug. I knew you’d get sick of the big city one of these days.”

  He steps forward to wrap me in his arms, and I gladly go to him, but I can’t stop staring at the cane and the trembling, veiny hand pressing on the cane. For the first time in my life, or at least the first time I’ve ever noticed, he gives me a one-armed hug, and the entryway blurs as my eyes fill with tears. I swear the man has shrunk.

  “Come with me, sweetheart. Let’s catch up.”

  My heart cracks as I study my father. He’s lost weight, and the lines on his face seem deeper. He doesn’t look like he’s going to die tomorrow, but something in his posture or demeanor paints an older, more frail appearance. With each slow step, his hand wobbles on the cane for support on his left side.

  I follow him to his office. My mother stands by the door, watching us approach. When I enter the room, Dad steps behind me, his body blocking my view of my mother. “Let me spend some time with my daughter, Melinda. You picked her up from the airport.” I can’t see her reaction.

  In a low murmur, I hear her respond, “She needs to be here, Hoffman.” In a louder tone, directed at me, she continues, “I’ll knock when lunch is prepared.”

  My father closes the heavy solid maple wood door and makes his way to a leather wing back chair, his left hand vibrating through the entire journey. I watch his progress, stunned.

  Before he has situated himself into his favorite office chair, I ask, “Dad, Mom has not been a good source of information. Can you tell me more about MS? About what your doctor is saying?”

  He gestures to his liquor cabinet, a massive built-in that features a full bar and a glass pitcher of fresh water at all times. “Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

  I get up to pour him a glass, deliver it, and sit on the edge of the chesterfield leather sofa. He drinks the cool water, and I tap my toes, impatience building. My mind is a blur. I need Google.

  “Sorry, sweetie. Yes, you see, your mother and I were going to tell you, but then you didn’t come home.”

  “Tell me what, Dad? About MS? Mom was crying so hard when she came to visit me, I couldn’t get any info from her. She said you are dying.”

  He grimaces as I tell him about Mom, swallows, and tells me, “I’m not dying. Any more than you are. But, if you remember, I’ve had some strange symptoms for years. Tired, and your Mom was convinced I was working too hard. I’d fall down. Strange falls. At times, it felt like my muscles weren’t responding, but my blood pressure and cholesterol were good each year. Then my vision, well, I started having problems. Some pain too. A few months ago, a brain scan confirmed I have multiple sclerosis, but multiple sclerosis hits people differently. I didn’t have any symptoms at all until my late forties. And my flareups, that’s what they call it when the disease acts up, have been pretty far apart. Far apart and mild enough that I’ve been able to ignore it for a long time. Until my vision issues. Now I’m on medication. Here’s the thing I need you to understand, sweetheart. Your mom, she’s worried. She went to a blasted MS support group, and I think they scared her out of her cotton-picking mind. Dr. Steiner had no business sending her to that group, but what you need to know, sweetie, despite what she seems to believe, it’s not a terminal illness. On average, an MS person’s life expectancy is maybe five to ten years shorter than a non-MS person. They make treatment advancements every year. More medicines are available. If I take care of myself, I might never be as bad off as some of the spouses in your mom’s support group.”

  “But you don’t know?”

  “No. But, honey, I could be in a car crash next month too. So could you. Life is full of unknowns. For my part, I’ve decided to live more while I can still walk. I play golf almost every day. I’m stepping down as CEO. I’ll still have a seat on the board. Now that you’re back here, we can find you a role that you like in the company. It’s time to implement the succession plan.”

  My forehead rests in my hands, my elbows on my knees, as I absorb everything he’s telling me. “So, you call it Mom’s support group. Is it a support group for caretakers?”

  He swallows his water, licks his lips, and nods.

  “What about you? Do you have a support group for people with MS?”

  His hand trembles on the top of the cane, and he kicks his right leg out straight and shifts, grimacing as if his hip is hurting. “Dr. Steiner recommended one. I haven’t been yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Honey, I don’t need it. I might not for another twenty years. And look at your mother. She’s been a train wreck since she went to that damn group.”

  The library door swings open, and Aunt Josie, a tall, beautiful woman with thick, long, mahogany hair, bursts in. “There she is. Come give me a hug!”

  I step to her, and she wraps me in her arms then pulls back and glances at my father as she squeezes my hip. “What’s going on here? Why the serious faces?”

  “Dad’s telling me about his MS.”

  Dad speaks up. “Melinda told her I’m dying.”

  Aunt Josie’s mouth drops open. “No. She. Did. Not.”

  I hug her more tightly because her expression is what I’m feeling.

  “Josie, what are you doing here?” Mom’s shrill voice rings behind her.

  “Melinda, what have you done?” Aunt Josie places both hands on her hips as if she’s scolding one of her kids.

  If Mom’s eyes were loaded with bullets, Josie would be on the floor in a puddle of blood. “We need her here. Do not interfere, Josie. I’m sure one of your three children or your grandchildren could use your services, so why don’t you run along to where you are needed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom. I haven’t seen Aunt Josie in a year. Can you stay for lunch?”

  “I only had lunch prepared for three,” Mom says, her lips in a tight scowl. Dad, Josie, and I stare at her. She adjusts the glasses on her nose. “I’ll have an additional place set. Of course, you’re welcome to stay, Josie.”

  My gaze follows Mom’s retreating back. She’s on a roller coaster of emotions, evident by all the tears. I have more to research, but it does seem she’s latched onto the worst-case scenarios. She could also be correct that Dad is in denial, and whatever just happened between Aunt Josie and Mom, I can’t even process. Those two are inseparable. My sleep-deprived brain is on overload, smooshed down and trampled.

  “Well, I’m home. Let’s go get lunch. Aunt Josie, I want to hear all about the new school you’re working on opening.”

  Holding her hand, we walk together to the screened-in porch by the pool where my parents love to take lunch. My father ambles to the kitchen, presumably to find Mom. Marie steps onto the porch to offer us a beverage, and a young girl I’ve never seen before steps out to add an additional seat at the table. For a moment, I wonder what Mason and Kara would think. Setting the table, or at least the silverware and placemats, is Kara’s responsibility at home, and my lovely mother has hired help to do almost everything.

  Lunch passes with small talk. Mom’s garden club is still struggling with the strange rose disease that travels from bush to bush. My aunt has broken ground on the new art school she’s been advocating for years. The school will use art and music as therapy for children with developmental issues. Dad and I eat quietly, listening to the two women as they dominate the conversation.

  In one tense moment, Aunt Josie asks me to tell her about New York. My mother interrupts in a clipped tone. “Instead of talking about the past, let’s talk about getting her settled here. Why don’t you ask her what neighborhoods she might consider moving into, so we can keep our ears open?”

  I remain silent as they go back and forth. I need a nap.

  When our plates are cleared, Dad asks if I’d like to go sit out in the yard with him. Toward the back of our property, behind the carriage house, my parents built a fire pit surrounded by
a brick patio. Spanish moss falls from the tree limbs in long, graceful streams. The tree line camouflages the alley that runs behind our property. Dad and I each take a seat in the comfortable chairs, and he pulls out a joint.

  I sputter. “Dad? You smoke pot?”

  He shrugs. “Medicinal purposes. Technically, the prescription is for the MS, but I find it helps me to better deal with your mother.”

  As he lights up, I pick up my phone. I’ve missed a text from Mason.

  Mason: Flight okay? What have you learned?

  Since my father seems to be somewhat preoccupied, I respond.

  Me: He has multiple sclerosis. Do you know much about it?

  Mason: A little. Is he in the middle of a flareup?

  Me: No. He’s not on his deathbed. Did I mention my mother can be a drama queen?

  Mason: So, he’s okay?

  Me: I think? I’ve still got a lot of questions.

  Mason: Can we talk tonight?

  Me: Yeah. I’ll be here. Smoking medical grade ganja with Dad.

  Mason: I’ll call later

  Dad watches as I type into my phone. When I set it down, he asks, “Who’s that? The young gentleman you’re seeing?”

  “Yeah. I mean, for now.” I reach out to take the joint from my Dad and suck on it, inhaling the sweet aroma.

  “Your mom guessed something was different about this guy. That’s why she pulled this stunt of hers.”

  “Dad, it’s not really a stunt, is it? Yes, it sounds like she greatly exaggerated the situation when she flew down and told me you’re dying. That’s a bit of a pisser. But she’s genuinely terrified. And you don’t seem bothered at all. I’m having a hard time figuring out exactly what the fuck is going on. Unless you start telling me more, I’m going to spend the night on Google, and then I’ll probably be more terrified than Mom is.”

  Dad scratches his leg. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But, honey, if you moved back home because of my MS, then you didn’t move back for the right reasons. Yes, our dream is for you to move into a house nearby so we can see our grandbabies each and every day. But the last thing I want is for you to be my caretaker. And to be frank, if it comes to me needing a caretaker, Melinda is not going to be my nurse. We’re lucky. I have money to hire whatever help I need, plus long-term care insurance. The absolute last thing I want is for my disease to become a burden to you. Or your mother.”