Confabulations

Laura startles awake when her Uber stops short. She glances out the window with bleary eyes. Traffic on the expressway had ground to a standstill, the rear lights of cars and trucks and vans glowing like embers. To her right, the sun has started to emerge, illuminating the last dregs of dirt-ridden snow grazing the flat, patchy grass. She can barely make out small shoots of crocuses peeking through the meager blades.

The Uber driver pipes up. “Yeah, just waiting for some traffic to clear,” he casually says. His dark eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror. “We’ll be moving in a few minutes. Thanks for your patience.” Laura checks her watch. Reassured that she still has plenty of cushion to make her flight, a stream of anxiety trickles through her nonetheless.

Once at JFK, she trudges through each task: passing through security, walking what feels like a million miles to her gate, grabbing a coffee. She sips her coffee while sitting at the gate and relishes the last 30 minutes in New York, her adopted city. If she hadn’t gotten the call to go back to Columbus, she would have never dreamt of returning.

She tries to read the newest issue of the Atlantic, but the words blur together, a jumble of black and white lines and curves. Her group is called and as she boards the flight, she notices that her empty middle seat is flanked by two broad-shouldered, middle-aged men wearing suits. Her heart drops slightly as she squeezes into her seat. She sits and shoves her backpack underneath the seat in front of her, then sighs and leans her head back against the scratchy wool. She motions to use the arm rests, but instead feels the soft weight of her seatmates’ arms already there. Instead, she gently places her hands in her lap and tilts her head slightly, staring out the tiny window, the city skyline glittering in the distance.

She suddenly feels an impulse to write, to purge the thoughts that raced through her mind all night, keeping her awake. There’s so much to say after nearly 10 years, and she doesn’t want to forget anything. She sits up and lunges forward for her backpack. She yanks it out, removes her notebook and a pen from the front pocket, and starts a list:

1. You essentially abandoned me when Mom died. I was only 14

2. I had to learn how to cook for myself, do my own laundry

3. I had to learn how to iron my school clothes

4. You’d disappear for hours each night, coming home reeking of booze at 3 in the morning

5. I escaped, high school graduation my freedom. Thank goodness NYU accepted me

Laura leans back to think when her seatmate peers over her shoulder. “Whatcha workin’ on?” he asks in a folksy tone. She looks up at him, friendly grey eyes squished into a doughy face. She delivers a polite smile and mutters, “Oh, going to visit my dad.” She’ll spare him the details of the phone call from her father’s nursing home, recommending that she come see him. “He’s not well,” the voice on the phone had said gently. “We think it’s time to say goodbye.”

Laura had paused for a moment before responding. Her father was the farthest thing from her focus these days, with her articles finally getting published regularly and her op-ed pieces going viral. She didn’t have the time or energy to revisit the past, all the ghosts of her childhood.

She had to admit, though, before the accident, he was a good dad, sometimes even great. During her elementary school years, he would take her to the park, or to the science center. They’d get ice cream on hot summer days and ice skate in the winter, mittened hands held while gliding on the ice. Then, as Laura progressed through middle school, he began to pull away, choosing happy hour over family dinner, Laura and her mom sitting at the table with an empty place setting, the food on his dinner plate growing cold and congealed. The accident – the impact from the distracted driver killing her mom immediately – really sealed the deal. He'd go on weeklong benders, sobering up enough to report to work, freshly scrubbed in a clean suit. Lucky for him, he had enough money saved up to pay for his care, once he got sick from the drinking. But Laura hadn't been around for that part.

The flight passes quickly, Laura dozing between lines on her list. Before she deboards the plane, she rips the list out of her notebook, folds it into a neat rectangle, and places it into the back pocket of her jeans. As she walks through Columbus airport terminal, which feels miniscule compared to JFK’s sprawling footprint, she requests an Uber to take her straight to her dad’s facility. Her body feels achy, heavy, like her legs are leaden, and she drags herself to the curbside, her backpack bulging like a turtle shell.

She grabs the Uber and they pull up to the circular driveway of the nursing home, a single-story stucco building with a peach-painted façade and neatly trimmed white overhangs. A pale sun peers out from an overcast sky, a fuzzy dove gray lightly washed over a muted blue. Spring has arrived earlier here than in New York: closed daffodils peek out from the mowed grass around the entrance, and no traces of snow remain. Laura exhales and exits the car, tipping the driver on her phone while striding towards the entrance. She looks up just as a tiny lady who appears about 100 years old emerges from the automatic doors in a wheelchair, and nearly runs Laura over. “Scuse me!” the lady yells over her tiny shoulder, and continues moving towards the parking lot. Laura, momentarily stunned, watches her roll around the nearly deserted parking lot, and eventually she turns around and heads into the lobby.

A heavy-set security guard sits at a tiny desk near the entrance. “Name?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, Laura Thompson." She pushes her sunglasses onto her head and smiles politely. “I’m here to see Scott Thompson.”

“Got it,” he nods. He points down the hall. “Scott’s on the left, room 104.”

“Thank you,” Laura says. Her pulse quickens as she walks down the hall, and obediently turns left. The numbers on the doors on her right progress from 100, to 102, then to 104. She turns to face the door, and notices that it’s slightly ajar and painted powder blue. She stops for a moment to take a deep breath, and gently nudges the door open with her fingertips. “Dad?” she calls softly.

She finds her father in a hospital bed. The metal guard rails reflect the meager sunlight beaming through the window along the back wall. His head leans slightly towards his right shoulder, and his eyes are closed, his short-thinned eyelashes fluttering. An aide, a young woman with curly black hair wearing maroon-colored scrubs, sits to the left of the bed in a tall-backed chair, holding an open sudoku book in one hand and a pencil in the other. She looks up and stands as Laura enters the room, resting her book face down on the chair. “You must be Laura,” the aide says. “I’m Amaya, your dad’s sitter.”

Laura blinks. “Sitter? What does that mean?”

Amaya shrugs. “It’s my job to stay with him and make sure he’s comfortable, doesn’t get too agitated, try to hurt himself or something. Calm him down. You know, make sure he stays safe.”

Laura nods. “Okay, great, thank you for that,” she says evenly. “How long have you two been working together?”

Amaya thinks for a moment. “Maybe, 3 years? Something like that.”

Laura considers this. “And you’re here every day? All day?”

Amaya nods. “Well, I get the weekends off. There’s another sitter on Saturday and Sunday.”

Laura purses her lips. “Okay.” Laura has to appreciate the irony: her alcoholic father, her absentee parent, has someone care for him all day. “So, how’s the dementia progressing? Can I ask you that, or do I need to talk to a nurse or something?”

Amaya starts towards the door. “I’ll go find Nancy, his nurse. I’ll be right back. You can talk to him, see if he’ll wake up.”

Laura agrees silently and walks towards the bedside, reaching into her pocket for her list. But before she can withdraw the piece of paper, she inspects her father’s frail and weathered face. In his best years, he had thick brown hair, and solid arms and chest muscles that she’d grip onto during strong hugs. Now, wisps of gray hair fall flat across his otherwise bald head, and his deeply wrinkled face appears gaunt. His collarbone juts out from the loose neck of his hospital gown, and his arms are thin matchsticks lying limply at his sides. She gasps, and understands why the facility called her to come.

Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them away. “Hi, Dad,” she says, her voice quivering. “You okay?”

His eyes open for a second, then close again. His lips move as if trying to speak, but no sound emerges. She gently shakes his right shoulder, the sharp knobs of bone jutting into her hand. “Dad?”

He wakes with a startle. He looks directly into Laura’s face, his deep blue eyes brightening. “It’s you,” he croaks, his voice raspy. “My baby.”

She smiles and blinks back tears. “Yeah, Dad, I’m here,” she manages. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he says with a smile. “I got it all here.”

Laura laughs a little and sniffles. “I can see that,” she agrees. “Amaya seems nice.”

Her dad smiles and closes his eyes again. “She’s wonderful,” he asserts. “Just wonderful. Just like your mom.”

Laura stifles a sob. She excuses herself and finds some toilet paper in her dad’s bathroom. She tears off a long sheet and carries it back to his bedside with her.

She hears a throat clearing behind her. She turns around to find a tiny Filipino lady wearing navy blue scrubs. “Laura?” she asks. “I’m Nancy, your dad’s nurse.”

Laura wipes her eyes and nose quickly, then approaches. “Oh, hi, thank you for coming to speak with me,” she starts. “How’s he doing?”

Nancy grimly purses her lips and shakes her head. “Not too good, I’m afraid. He’s not eating much, and he can’t get out of bed by himself. We’re not sure what’s going to happen. Sadly, he may not recover from this.”

Laura nods. “I’m grateful that you called me,” she says. “Thank you.” She turns back to her father when she hears him whispering something she can’t quite catch. “Dad? What is it?” she asks. She feels Nancy approach behind her.

“Remember how good of a dad I was? I was a great dad, I know it. Taking care of you, even after Mom was gone. And your high school graduation, it was me, and Mom, and we were taking all those pictures of you. We were all so happy then.” His eyes close and he seems to doze off.

Laura shakes her head, confused. She looks at Nancy. “What is that? None of that happened.”

Nancy nods sympathetically. “Yes, these are called confabulations,” she explains. “It’s part of the Korsakoff dementia. They make up stories to fill the gaps in their memory. It’s like a Swiss cheese brain.”

“Oh, I see. He’s allowed to believe whatever he wants,” Laura responds. While I still carry the burden of reality, she thinks to herself.

He clears his throat. “Laura? Remember the state fair?”

“Yeah, Dad, I remember.” She feels something solid behind her and turns around to see Nancy’s hands on the back of a visitor’s chair. Laura pulls it closer and sits. “What a fun day, right?”

Her father nods dreamily. “Yeah, such a fun day. You were so cute in your overalls. You were 4. We rode those janky carousels and that Ferris wheel, and you wanted a funnel cake.” A smile plays on his lips. His eyes are still closed as Laura's memory flashes to that day. The blazing midsummer sun, the sky a brilliant cerulean. The laughter jangling in the air, carousel music chiming nearby. She can taste the powdered sugar, the sweet crunch of the dough.

Her memory is interrupted by Nancy’s voice, soft behind her. “Is that true? Did that really happen?”

Laura smiles and nods. “That’s true, yeah.” She looks back at her father.

“Hey, kid?” Her father opens his eyes and looks at her, his blue eyes watery.

Laura’s voice cracks. “Yeah, Dad?”

“Let’s ride the Ferris wheel one more time, yeah?”

She nods. “Okay, Dad.”

He drifts away again, and Laura turns to face Nancy. “I think I’ll sit with him for a bit, if that’s okay.”

Nancy nods. “Of course. You can stay all day if you’d like. Dinner’s at 6.” She smiles and leaves the room.

Laura turns back to her dad and takes his hand. She cradles it gently, a tiny bird in her palm. They sit in silence, and the dusty red Ferris wheel slowly spins in her mind, cars swaying in the clear blue sky.