just sit with him and talk. I wish we had longer, I wish he would never go to sleep and this day would never end. We talk for more than an hour, about life, my work and the kind of deals I do. He’s surprised to hear that my training is complete.
“I’m so proud of you, Scarlett. You’re a wonderful, clever young lady. I wish I could remember everything you tell me.”
“I never tire of telling you things, Dad. It doesn’t matter that you forget them. They don’t mean anything.”
“But they do. I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. And this,” he says, prodding his temple repeatedly with his index finger, “this can’t have helped at all.”
“Stop that,” I say, pulling his hand away from his head. “I get my work ethic from you.”
I return his faint smile with my own and swallow the tears that form a lump in my throat.
“You keep working hard,” he says. “You deserve all the success in the world.”
He holds his next blink for seconds. His eyes are distant and sleepy when they reopen.
“Time to stop fighting and go to sleep,” I concede, kissing his forehead.
He nods his head and lifts his arms to me, asking for a cuddle. I turn out the lamp on his bedside table and climb onto his bed, settling into his embrace, resting my head on his chest. His heart beats come slower and his breathing calmer.
* * *
My head cracks off the floor after he pushes me from his bed, screaming for help.
“Dad!” I say, trying to control his arms as they swing for my face. “It’s me. It’s me, Scarlett.”
“Help!” he screams. “Help me, somebody!”
He swings for me again and this time his fist lands on my temple before I can grab his arms. I fall to the floor again. Sandy bursts into the bedroom and restrains his arms but he keeps screaming and kicking his legs.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I cry.
“Call the doctor!” Sandy yells at me above my father’s cries for help.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I leave the room.
* * *
The doctor injects my father’s leg with a sedative. It shoots straight into his bloodstream, taking hold in seconds.
“My hands won’t stop shaking,” I say to the doctor as he sits with Sandy and me in the lounge.
“You’ve had a shock,” he tells me. “You should have a cup of tea with some sugar. If you can’t settle later I can give you something.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need anything. I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I fell asleep in his bed. It was stupid. Now look what I’ve done to him. Look what I made him do.”
“It is nobody’s fault, Scarlett,” the doctor tells me. “Your father is very, very sick. His rate of deterioration seems to be increasing.” He places a hand on my wrist and waits until he’s certain he has my full attention. “It will only get worse.”
My sobs become more violent and Sandy moves to the sofa next to me to hold me still.
The doctor places a prescription for sleeping pills on the coffee table. “Just in case.”
He pulls up the footstool and sits down in front of Sandy and me, his legs spread in his mustard cords. Sandy grips me tighter. We both know what’s coming. She shakes her head.
“I think you need to consider alternative options for caring for your father,” he says to me. “He’s becoming too sick for just the two of you to take care of him here. He needs full-time support from people who can control him if necessary.”
“Give him shots you mean,” Sandy snarls.
“If that’s what’s necessary, yes.”
“I can’t,” I say. “We can’t.”
“Please, just think about it. I could suggest some very nice places where you could see him whenever you like. You could both visit and meet the staff first, make sure you like the place. Just think about it.”
Sandy shows the doctor to the door then makes us tea, which she carries into the lounge on a tray with yesterday’s leftover cake. We talk and watch television as my father rests in his sedative-induced sleep,
“I’m so proud of you, Scarlett. You’re a wonderful, clever young lady. I wish I could remember everything you tell me.”
“I never tire of telling you things, Dad. It doesn’t matter that you forget them. They don’t mean anything.”
“But they do. I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. And this,” he says, prodding his temple repeatedly with his index finger, “this can’t have helped at all.”
“Stop that,” I say, pulling his hand away from his head. “I get my work ethic from you.”
I return his faint smile with my own and swallow the tears that form a lump in my throat.
“You keep working hard,” he says. “You deserve all the success in the world.”
He holds his next blink for seconds. His eyes are distant and sleepy when they reopen.
“Time to stop fighting and go to sleep,” I concede, kissing his forehead.
He nods his head and lifts his arms to me, asking for a cuddle. I turn out the lamp on his bedside table and climb onto his bed, settling into his embrace, resting my head on his chest. His heart beats come slower and his breathing calmer.
* * *
My head cracks off the floor after he pushes me from his bed, screaming for help.
“Dad!” I say, trying to control his arms as they swing for my face. “It’s me. It’s me, Scarlett.”
“Help!” he screams. “Help me, somebody!”
He swings for me again and this time his fist lands on my temple before I can grab his arms. I fall to the floor again. Sandy bursts into the bedroom and restrains his arms but he keeps screaming and kicking his legs.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I cry.
“Call the doctor!” Sandy yells at me above my father’s cries for help.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I leave the room.
* * *
The doctor injects my father’s leg with a sedative. It shoots straight into his bloodstream, taking hold in seconds.
“My hands won’t stop shaking,” I say to the doctor as he sits with Sandy and me in the lounge.
“You’ve had a shock,” he tells me. “You should have a cup of tea with some sugar. If you can’t settle later I can give you something.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need anything. I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I fell asleep in his bed. It was stupid. Now look what I’ve done to him. Look what I made him do.”
“It is nobody’s fault, Scarlett,” the doctor tells me. “Your father is very, very sick. His rate of deterioration seems to be increasing.” He places a hand on my wrist and waits until he’s certain he has my full attention. “It will only get worse.”
My sobs become more violent and Sandy moves to the sofa next to me to hold me still.
The doctor places a prescription for sleeping pills on the coffee table. “Just in case.”
He pulls up the footstool and sits down in front of Sandy and me, his legs spread in his mustard cords. Sandy grips me tighter. We both know what’s coming. She shakes her head.
“I think you need to consider alternative options for caring for your father,” he says to me. “He’s becoming too sick for just the two of you to take care of him here. He needs full-time support from people who can control him if necessary.”
“Give him shots you mean,” Sandy snarls.
“If that’s what’s necessary, yes.”
“I can’t,” I say. “We can’t.”
“Please, just think about it. I could suggest some very nice places where you could see him whenever you like. You could both visit and meet the staff first, make sure you like the place. Just think about it.”
Sandy shows the doctor to the door then makes us tea, which she carries into the lounge on a tray with yesterday’s leftover cake. We talk and watch television as my father rests in his sedative-induced sleep,
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