Not Alone

TW: alludes to pedophilia

I watched my father turn the pool filter off for the tenth time this week. The chlorine tablet is absent from the buoy as well. So much for giving him small tasks. The water was cloudy and a thin layer of algae began to form around the edges. Getting to lay on a floaty in the pool with an engrossing true crime podcast was the only thing I had to look forward to when I returned home. Instead I’m left with managing a budding frog problem, dad’s hijinx, and a compounding to-do list.

“Oh, he doesn’t know any better,” responded an elderly aunt once, waiving her hand in dismissal. Another abysmal attempt to comfort me was said by a “well meaning” LPN, “It’s just the disease, dear.” The worst phrase of all, usually said to me by people who have never been in my situation, was “At least you don’t live alone.” I can’t leave the house without wrangling him with me, but at least I don’t live alone. I can’t focus on grocery shopping without worrying if he'll notice and loudly comment about the heavyset woman next to us, but at least I don’t live alone. I received one welcomed phone call since moving. And last week he attempted to dig up the dead cat, but at least I don’t live alone.

“Dad, the pool filter needs to stay on,” I sigh to him. “The water needs to keep moving.” I gesture my hand in a circular motion, hoping he gets the idea.

“Huh? This needs to stay off. It can’t be on. No.” Like talking to a brick wall.

I know I shouldn’t bother rationalizing with him. I’ve been told this many times, but I don’t see the harm if it makes no difference to him. These interactions, however fruitless, create a sense of normalcy for me. If not for these banters, I’d be driven mad.

I quit my dead-end administrative job 200 miles away to move into his house when he got his diagnosis. While it wasn't much, at least that job was in an office with people that didn't call trees “dogs”. Nowadays I’ll pick up online freelance gigs to give me some pocket money.

I try to keep my work limited to when he’s asleep, but occasionally it spills into the daytime. I’ll walk out into the living room, ask if he wants lunch or something else, and he’ll repeat his usual response of “I don’t want that,” or “I don't know what that is.” Some days I’m not deserving of a response and will only get an eyebrow raise and a twisted face. He often watches reruns on cable television, stares at a blank TV from his recliner, or looks out the window, monitoring the front yard for something new to obsess over. What a sad existence, though when I ponder this, I can’t say for certain if I mean his or mine. At night, after he goes to bed at 8:00 PM on the dot, I stay in the living room until 11:00 PM also on the dot. My routine has morphed into his. Reruns of 1980's television, flipping through channels. No new texts. I get the occasional one from my aunt, but none from those I want to hear from. Doom scroll through social media, and wish I went to sleep sooner.

It’s a gorgeous day, the kind where you hope the vitamin D from the sun will instantly cure your mood. Clear skies, a slight breeze, and shadows from the trees pepper the fresh cut grass. Naturally, this weather causes despair in my father.

“Look at that Goddamn wind!” he says as he gestures to the gently swaying branches while walking back inside. I resist the bait this time.

As I stare absentmindedly into the pool, my mind picks the first thought it can catch. I think of the lunar calendar when the pool water reminds me of alien sludge. It’s a full moon tonight and I'll get a full view of the stars if it stays clear.

As a kid, I would often climb onto the porch overhang from my second story bedroom to stare into the night. Those were the rare moments in life I would allow myself to clear my head and focus on the singular phenomenon above me. I would forget about how minutes ago my eyelids begged me to make a cocoon in my inviting bed. I would forget about my lackluster friendships and how everyone would have sleepovers or take trips to the mall without me. Most importantly, I'd forget about how gross the neighbor made me feel as he openly scanned my underdeveloped frame with his greedy eyes, probably looking for something to think about later. I once mentioned it to my father and was told that I was reading the situation wrong. I felt small looking up into the sky, but never in a negative way, like how my problems on Earth made me feel. This life and what we do in it is a microscopic drop of star dust in the universe. Why did I ever stop my nightly tradition?

I ponder the idea of star gazing tonight when I hear two male voices coming from inside the house. One is dad's and the other is the unmistakable tone of the nextdoor neighbor. Yes, that neighbor.

On one hand I am grateful to have him take dad for drives during the day, but on the other I never want to see his face again. I feel as though I am stuck between two opposing forces - one making me want to run from the house, and another keeping me inside.

I crumple a little at the thought of making small talk with him, but thankfully he takes dad without a word to me. I figure I have 30 minutes to an hour before they return. Do I fix the pool while dad isn’t here to undo my work, tend to one of the other countless household and legal chores, or take a nap? I opt for the nap.

When I wake up, I notice a change in the shadows outside the window and see the start of dusk. More than an hour has passed, I think. When I check my phone, I see four have gone by and I have several missed calls. The neighbor. My heart sinks and I frantically throw the blanket off. Where is he? What happened? Possible scenarios in my head range from dad getting hit by a train when out for a walk because he was confused about the tracks, or the neighbor revealing his elaborate long-con to kidnap him for ransom, or to say they are stopping for ice cream and having a pleasant evening. The last thought was really more of a hope to calm my nerves. I didn't really believe it. I hit redial and the other end is answered within a ring. Before I can spew out my line of questioning, the neighbor speaks first.

“He’s okay,” the neighbor says. “We were in a little fender bender and he hurt his neck. The nurses here are having a hard time getting him to cooperate. Not much I can do since I ain't the health care proxy-something, whatever they call it.”

“Where?” I say as short as possible.

I search the hospital name on my phone, gather the essentials, and put the car into drive as soon as I'm halfway in the car.

It's a busy night in the ER, probably on account of the full moon. I usually let my superstitious side creep out in moments of vulnerability or desperation. The employees at the check-in counter are busy typing, answering phone calls, and trying to keep professional faces as they deal with lunatics screaming why they haven't been seen for their cold yet.

I park myself at the back of the receptionist's line, praying I remain invisible to the overly-animated (or possibly high) people to the side of me. My eyes wander around the waiting room and I cannot help but notice that everyone appears to be in pairs. People comforting each other, an arm across a shoulder, or even supportive silence as they study the floor together. I glance at the mother and toddler duo sitting across the room. Well, more like the mother is trying to sit and the toddler is vying to escape her grasp at any opportunity. She looks exasperated and I can tell she is hoping nobody notices her, but I do.

I reach the front of line and say, “Hi, I'm looking for my father. He was checked in a couple of hours ago. He has dementia, and his name is -”

Before I can finish my sentence, she picks up the phone and calls someone. Within a minute I am gestured into the back area by some man in baby blue scrubs. I look back to give a gesture of thanks to the receptionist, but she's already onto helping the next person.

The man, who I assume is a nurse, navigates me around a series of corners and we come to a room with a divider in the middle. We walk towards it and he pulls across a stained curtain to reveal my dad in a collar, lying back on the reclined bed. I can't help but think of dogs with cones around their necks after they've had surgery. Under any other circumstance the imagery would make me chuckle.

Exasperated, the nurse says, “He had some minor abrasions and neck trauma. We had to sedate him because he wasn't cooperating with us. I expect he'll be coming out of his fog in a couple of hours. I'll get you directions for care and discharge papers,” and was half way out of the room before I could speak. Dad definitely put this guy through the ringer.

At first, I was annoyed at his insensitivity. Then I see dad laying straight ahead, nodding off, so peaceful and not wound up like an over-screwed toy for once. His body was relaxed and he had a faint smile on his face. If it wasn't for the circumstances that put him into this newfound nirvana, I'd be happy for the guy.

I take a seat by his hospital bed next to a window and bring my face close to the glass. Through the streaks and smudges on the glass, I see the fuzzy image of the full moon. No stars because of all the lights, unfortunately. Back at the house the sky would be crystal clear enough to see a ehole mess of stars. Maybe I'll stay up after we get home to gaze at the sky before having to face my new challenge of getting him to ingest whatever pain killer they are prescribing him.

I look back at dad, peaceful, and think everything will be okay. I didn't even notice the neighbor dozing in the corner.