Always the Last to Know(20)

The baby makes noises, but John knows they are not words, and it’s such a relief, letting the sounds just be sounds, and nice sounds at that. Happy sounds. Then the baby puts his head against John’s shoulder, and John’s eyes get wet, because he remembers this feeling. He had a baby once, too. Maybe more than one. He knows how to hold this baby, yes he does. One arm under the baby’s bottom, one hand resting on his back, feeling the breath going up and down, up and down.

Then those thoughts are gone, and there’s just the baby, and the smell of his head, and the feeling of his dark silky hair, and the soft, sweet warmth of his weight as the baby breathes. Up and down. Up and down.





CHAPTER EIGHT





Sadie


Moving back to Stoningham was not something I’d ever wanted to do.

But move back I did. Who else would take care of my father? Jules was too important and busy and had Brianna and Sloane and Oliver. Mom was first selectman, and the truth was, I think she stopped loving my father decades before. Maybe before I was born, aside from one obvious coupling.

I couldn’t leave him alone. He stayed in the critical care unit at UConn for ten days, then was transferred to Gaylord, a specialized rehab center, where his healing would really begin.

It became apparent that Dad wasn’t going to die, despite being seventy-five years old and all that had gone wrong. In addition to the stroke, he’d had a bad concussion. It was complicated, the handsome neurosurgeon told us. Only time would tell, which, you know, I’m glad Stanford and Johns Hopkins had taught him. Only time would tell, huh? Great. Try not to overwhelm us with complicated medical terms, Doc.

I mean, I understood. Of course I did. Words like apraxia, aphasia, neuroplasticity, executive functioning and hemiparesis became part of my daily vocabulary. Dad had all kinds of therapy at Gaylord—physical, speech, aqua, occupational, community reentry, where they’d take patients to the grocery store or a restaurant. There was a robotic suit of some kind that helped him relearn to walk. He was given an iPad, which he didn’t understand, even when the therapists guided his fingers.

What I wouldn’t give for an e-mail or message from him saying, “Don’t worry, sugarplum. I’m in here. Just give me a little time. Love, Dad.” Instead, he stared blankly, then turned his head to the window.

I came every day, driving back and forth from the city every night, practically living in my rental car, which was full of fast-food wrappers and half-drunk coffees from Dunkin’. Sometimes Alexander came with me, but it was generally easier if he didn’t. He was one of those guys who didn’t know what to do around a sick person. He was a peach, though, always ready to take me out to dinner or sending me flowers, checking in during his travels.

Dad started walking again, first with one of those belts and a walker, then with crutches, then on his own, though he tended to list to one side. He could almost dress himself. He could hold a fork, but not always on command—apraxia, the PA told me, where the messages between his brain and muscles got scrambled. He tried to talk a few times, but only managed strangled, labored noises, which broke my heart.

It was wrenching. There was no other word for it. My father had always been so smart, so playful in his dry way, open for anything. All the times he’d come down to the city to see me over the years, doing anything I suggested, from going to a performance where the woman drenched herself in what she said was menstrual blood and Dad and I had to sneak out the back because we were laughing so hard, to taking the Staten Island Ferry back and forth for the view. We’d ridden bikes along the Hudson River Greenway, eaten street meat with gusto and gone to a scotch tasting that left us both tipsy and giggly. He’d even taken me for a carriage ride in Central Park. “You’re my princess, after all,” he’d said, and we snuggled under the blanket to the sounds of the horse’s hooves.

He was my hero.

“He would hate this,” Juliet said on a day when we happened to be visiting Gaylord at the same time. We were waiting for Dad to come back from the pool with one of his therapists, both of us itchy and tired. “Sometimes I think it would’ve been better if he—”

“Jules! That’s our father! No, it wouldn’t have been better if he’d died! He’s getting better every day.”

She sighed, sounding exactly like Mom. Speaking of Mom, she was down the hall making a phone call. Whenever she was here, she spent as little time near Dad as possible.

“Here he is, and he did great!” said Sheryl, wheeling Dad back into the room.

“How was the pool, Dad?” I asked. “The pool? Did you like it?” Keep it simple was one of the things we’d learned.

He didn’t answer.

“Hey there,” said a woman. Janet, the sister of another patient. “How’s it going, John? Did you eat that chicken for lunch? It was pretty good, wasn’t it? I liked the spinach. Nice touch. How you girls doing? You doing okay?”

I liked Janet. Her brother had had a traumatic brain injury and was a patient down the hall. She was devoted to him, visiting every day. But she also wandered up and down the hall when he was sleeping or in therapy. Janet dressed in overalls most of the time, granny glasses and big, clunky clogs. She chatted to my father like he was an old friend.

It was strange, the unwilling little community of family members, all of us here for shitty reasons. My mother spent most of her time talking with them, and Jules was fairly helpless. But I didn’t mind the nitty-gritty of helping my father. While it broke my heart that he was struggling, I knew he’d get better. It would take time and work, but he was on his way. I had to believe that. A life without my dad—the old dad—was not something I was prepared to imagine.