Always the Last to Know(21)

* * *



— —

“He seems to have plateaued.”

“Well, shit,” Jules said.

We were at a meeting with the team, the therapists and doctors and nurses, Mom, Jules and Oliver, me.

“So at this point,” Dr. McIntyre continued, “because he’s doing well with the tasks of daily living, we usually send the patient home. Often, that improves their mental capacity, being around familiar things and people.”

“He can’t come home,” Mom said.

“Of course he can,” I said. “Where else would he go?”

“Rose Hill has an adult wing now.”

“No. He’s not going into a home, Mom. You have to give him a chance.”

“Rose Hill is an excellent facility,” the team leader murmured.

“But he should be home! He deserves to be home. His odds of recovering are better there, just like you said.”

“We can’t predict anything, sadly,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry, I realize it’s incredibly frustrating, but it’s best to focus on the amazing progress he’s already made and set small goals for the future.”

“Like what?” Jules asked.

“Maybe some intelligible words. Of course you want him to be the man you knew before, but right now, just saying ‘hungry’ or ‘tired’ would be a breakthrough. We have to manage expectations.”

“Won’t he need a caregiver?” Mom asked.

“Yes. He won’t be able to be left alone until his cognition is significantly better.”

Mom, Jules and I exchanged looks. “None of us has medical training,” Mom said, and I felt a guilty flash of relief.

“No, of course not. We’ll arrange for therapists and some nursing help. You’re not alone in this.”

“Thank God,” Mom said.

“But there should be a point person, someone who lives with him or very close by. Mrs. Frost, since you—”

“No. It won’t be me. I have a more-than-full-time job, and I’m seventy years old.”

Wow. I mean, yes, her age was a factor, but boy, she couldn’t get those words out fast enough.

“I also have a full-time job, plus two kids,” Juliet said. She glanced at Oliver, who nodded and smiled, the asshole.

“I live in New York City,” I said. They looked at me. “But yeah, I’ll do it.” I closed my eyes. “Of course I will. I’ll . . . move home. It’ll take me a week or two, but yeah.” Shit. But of course I would.

“Good girl, Sadie,” my mother said.

I shrugged. It wasn’t like I wanted to, but who else would take care of Dad?



* * *



— —

In the week that followed, I listed my apartment with Airbnb so it would earn me some money while Dad was recovering. Carter helped me touch it up with a new comforter and throw pillows and the like. I put my personal stuff in crates and brought them with me. Jules let me put some things in her basement.

Sister Mary gave me a leave from St. Catherine’s, and all my friends there took me out the night before I left. I tried not to cry as Alexander drove me east to my hometown.

The first couple of weeks, I barely left the house, too busy learning things from the nurses, therapists and equipment people and trying not to kill my mother.

Old Barb seemed devoid of any midwestern capability where Dad was concerned. Instead, she did everything she could to distance herself from my father, becoming conveniently invisible when my dad needed a bath, or physical therapy, or just some damn company. Jules came by and sat next to his bed, but she checked her phone constantly.

“Do you have to do that?” I snapped.

“I’m working, okay? Insurance doesn’t cover all of this, and I don’t want Mom and Dad to drain their retirement. So I’m making up the difference, if it’s all right with you.”

I sat back, chastened. “Sorry,” I muttered, ever the little sister.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We all do our part.” Gaylord had provided the names of a few occupational and physical therapists, and (I guess with Juliet’s help) we hired a physical therapist named LeVon Murphy to stay with Dad from eight until four five days a week to keep working on his improvement. LeVon was amazing, calm and funny, and all three of us Frost women loved him. He was also big and strong, so he could do things like lift Dad if necessary.

My part was the nitty-gritty, apparently. The sponge baths. The occasional change of linens when he wet the bed. “Look,” I told him the first time, LeVon looking on to supervise. “We’re both uncomfortable with this. But I love you, Dad, and you washed me when I was little, so now I’ll take care of you. And when you’re better, we can both get hypnotism to forget this.” I thought he might have smiled. Well. His mouth moved, either in horror or humor or reflex. It was hard to say.

When he looked at me, I sensed he was striving to say something. “It’s me, Dad. Sadie. Can you say my name?” He didn’t. If he grew restless, I’d hold his hand and stay positive. “You’re getting better every day. The brain is incredible. You just have to relearn things.”

It was like a bad dream. Dad, unable to talk; me in my old room, which had been redone about half an hour after I left for college; Mom and me trying not to bicker over dinner. At least Caro would pop in, alleviating the tension. My nieces would come over, Brianna a little freaked out by seeing Grampy this way, Sloane oblivious and happy.