The Dinner Date

Trigger warning: dementia, grief The bird feeder is extraordinarily busy today. The birds are fussing terribly and tossing seeds in all directions. Some days I remember the names of the birds – jays, cardinals, wrens, bluebirds, all in their colorful feathers. Other days it is enough just to know they are birds at the feeder.

The birds are very entertaining. I enjoy watching them. My chair sits by a picture window that gives me an excellent view. Sometimes a cat joins me there; it enjoys the birds as well.

Whoever keeps the bird feeder filled has quite a task. The birds are hungry and there appear to be a lot of them. I am grateful for the spectacle, as is the cat. It must be me, filling that feeder, though I have no memory of it. I see no one else in the room. There is just me, and the cat, whose name escapes me. It is just the cat, though I am happy for the company.

A stray thought suggests the cat is female. I am not convinced. The thought is too ephemeral. It passes through my mind and does not stick. I cannot grasp it. I cannot be certain. I don’t know why I think that. It’s distressing.

Surprised by this emotion, I frown and shift in my chair. The cat, disturbed by my movement, leaps from my lap and stalks away, tail held high. I hear the birds and turn my attention back to the window. They flutter and feed. I watch, distracted. The unexpected emotion passes.

There is someone in my room. They appear from the right, with a tray holding something I cannot distinguish. They set the tray down on a round table in the center of the room. The cat, to my surprise, follows them and twines about their legs. I am alarmed at this intrusion and demand to know who they are.

The person comes closer. I see a man of middling height, with short gray hair, thinning. He has kind eyes and a face that has seen some years. He is a stranger to me. “It’s all right sweetheart,” he says warmly. “It’s dinner time. Are you hungry?”

At first, I can’t understand him. Language escapes me, which brings more distress. I have a stranger in my room. Fear grips me and I cannot speak. I dig my nails into the arms of my chair and my muscles tense, ready to flee.

The stranger had been coming towards me as he spoke. Seeing my distress, he stops. He speaks again, but I do not comprehend. There is only terror. Out of nowhere, the cat appears and leaps into my lap.

I swallow hard and tentatively reach for the cat, running shaking fingers through its thick fur. A word comes to mind, and I grab it before it can escape. “Cat!” I exclaim, triumphantly.

“Cat,” he agrees, smiling tenderly “Sophie,” he adds. “Sophie-Cat”

“Sophie-Cat,” I echo, as my age-spotted hands stroke her. I had been right. The cat was a girl. I resolved to remember her name the next time we watched the birds. But this stranger knew her, name and all. The cat knew him; had been friendly to him even as she was with me. I frown, trying to make sense of this new information.

He derails my thinking by asking again “Are you hungry? I got your favorite – onion rings.”

I do not remember onion rings, but I smell something savory in the room. My mouth waters and a peculiar noise comes from my midsection. I swallow and look over at the table.

“You are hungry. Good,” the stranger observes, with a chuckle. “May I help you up?” He reaches for my cane, which I now realize is next to my chair. “You’ll need this.”

Simultaneously I grab for my cane, knocking his hand away. The cat leaps down again as I lever myself to my feet. Once upright, I waver and plant the cane for balance. “Where am I going?”

“Just to the table here, sweetheart, “he replies. “Here, take my arm.”

He extends the arm nearest to me and I consider it, suspicious. I meet his eyes. They are still kind, but I see a shadow in them. I do not understand what he wants and frown at him.

“Take my hand, sweetie,” he coaxes me. “I’ll support you and we’ll walk together.” He comes closer and slips his arm around me. His other hand stays open by my free hand, the one without the cane.

His hand fascinates me, all knotted joints and spots like my own. I stare at it, feeling his arm around me. His familiarity freezes me. I don’t know what to do. Suddenly, his fingers close gently around mine. I am still immobile, but something thaws. Walk. I know that word, though I can’t say how. I begin to shuffle forward.

“That’s it!” The stranger encourages me as he matches my pace and speed, keeping me upright. “This way for onion rings. We’re almost there.”

We stop several times so I may get my bearings, but soon we are at the table. The stranger releases me long enough to pull out a chair, though he makes sure I am stable before he does. I still do not remember onion rings, but the smell from before is stronger now and an unfamiliar feeling is surfacing. I want whatever smells that good.

The stranger helps me to a chair and pushes it to the table. He sets my cane within reach, but I forget it once it is no longer in my sight. Placing my hands on the table, I wait, mouth watering. I twine my fingers together, trying to keep my hands from shaking.

The stranger sits across from me and smiles. He places his hands over mine and the shaking eases somewhat. “There now,” he says. “Isn’t this nice, sweetie? Just like our first date.”

I peer at this stranger, speaking and acting with such familiarity. “Have we met before?” I suddenly think to ask. The heartbreak in his eyes perplexes me, but I reflexively apologize. I must know this man, but I cannot think of his name. His name is the key. Suddenly I am certain I would know everything we are to one another if I could remember his name. I try to focus through the returning brain fog, but my efforts are fruitless.

He shakes his head at my apology and busies himself with a brown paper bag on the table. I do not notice whether he looks at me; all my attention is now riveted on the bag. Soon there is a pile of something in front of me, with a cup of something else to one side. These could be the fabled onion rings. They are round, textured and awash in the savory smell from before.

He flourishes something white and papery as he offers it to me. “Your onion rings, madame. Enjoy.” He has another sort of pile, long, thin and lighter colored. He also unwraps a…burger…the word comes from a great distance. Those other things he has are fries, I think. He takes a bite while I puzzle over these mysterious onion rings.

I poke at the rings before me. Covertly, I glance at him, seeking a clue. He seems to be ignoring me, but he takes a…fry and dips it in the small cup before him. Then he eats it. That looks easy enough, so I mimic him, only with the rings and cup before me. The first taste is unexpected, but oh, so good. I lack words anymore for how my mouth feels, I only know that I want more.

Soon we are both finished eating. The stranger makes the trash vanish. “Can I help you back to the window?” he asks. “I’ll bet the birds are still there.”

I look around for the window, but I see no birds. “Do you see birds?”

“Not from this angle,” he reassures me. “You’ll be able to see them from your chair.”

“Ok,” I agree. I attempt to stand, but I wobble and fall back into the chair. Clutching the table, I manage to hoist myself to my feet.

The stranger comes to my rescue, slipping my cane into my hand. He also slides one arm around me and takes my free hand. “Let’s turn. This way.” He guides me with gentle pressure and a memory of dancing floats unbidden to the surface of my mind. We shuffle together to the wing chair by the window, and he gently settles me into it.

Once in the chair, I grip his hand, refusing to release him. “I’m Kate,” I insist, in a rare moment of lucidity. I squeeze his hand urgently.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m Will.” He squeezes back, not hard enough to hurt, just a return of pressure. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it gently. I do not understand this gesture, but something about it is so familiar.

“Will,” I echo, staring intently at him. With his name, the fog lifts, ever so briefly. “Sweetie,” I name him, suddenly certain.

“Yes, my love,” he replies, with the tender smile I remember from years of marriage.

There is a commotion outside. The birds are there, making a fuss. The moment of clarity vanishes and I drop his hand, my focus elsewhere now. I barely notice when he brushes the remains of my hair back and kisses me on the forehead. I do not see him leave, though the cat returns. I wish I could remember its name.