I nod. “Thank you.”
Then, I climb into my car, start the engine, and shift into drive, all while trying my hardest to ignore the biggest mistake I’ve ever made as he watches me pull out of the parking lot.
***
I guess someone wheeled Dad to the cafeteria, because he’s already eating by the time I arrive.
“Hi, Daddy.” I lean down and kiss my father’s cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
I flop down in the chair next to him, then glance down at his tray.
“Meatloaf again?”
“Yup.” He chews, swallows, takes another bite. “What can I say? It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m going to go grab a sandwich, okay?”
“Sure, princess.”
I hang my coat and bag on a hook by the door before getting in line at the food bar. Mr. Anderson, one of the older residents, is in front of me in line, and he gives me a warm smile when I grab a tray.
“Hey, Cyn—how’s student teaching going?”
The last thing I want to talk about is my job, but I give him the most sincere smile I can muster. He really is a sweet old man, and I know he doesn’t mean any harm.
“Great! Thanks, Mr. A.”
“Glad to hear it, honey,” he says, smiling back at me.
As we move forward, Laverna, one of the cafeteria servers, hands me my turkey sandwich and apple. She’s a resident, too, but she loves to cook, so the management lets her work the dinner shift a few nights a week.
“Here you are, dear.” Her voice is a little raspy today and I give her a concerned look.
“Are you using your nebulizer, Miss Laverna? You don’t sound too good.” She shrugs, giving me a guilty smile. “I might not have used it last night. I fell asleep early.”
I shake my head and cluck my tongue. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to start coming down here every night and make sure you use it.”
She chuckles and waves me down the line.
“You act like that’s a threat. Your daddy would love it if you were here that often. So would the rest of us.”
I hold in my sigh. “Yeah. I know.” There are a lot of things about Holly Fields that I’m grateful for. Dad gets great care here. The nurses are wonderful and he’s made a bunch of friends. Of course, he’s lost a few along the way, too—part of the collateral damage of living in a place like this.
The truth is that I never wanted Dad to have to live here. For a long time after his car accident, I was able to manage—he’d lost the ability to use his legs, but he was still completely alert and capable. He collected disability and we managed.
But when the strokes started, in the middle of my freshman year of college, he needed constant care. After the second one, his face slacked to one side and never really returned to its former glory. He’s still able to feed himself most of the time, and he can usually dress himself on his own. But there’s no tying shoes or driving vehicles or opening jars in his world. No two-handed tasks, not without a nurse. Or me.
Still, he’s the one who insisted on Holly Fields. I was adamant that I could take care of him and go to school. I was on scholarship, so tuition was covered. We could make it work. Then, about a year ago, I got home on a random Tuesday and he was sitting in the kitchen, in his wheelchair, with his bag packed.
I don’t think I’ve cried that hard before or since that day. And I know I’ve never felt so much like a failure. Irrational? Maybe. But, since my mom disappeared when I was still in diapers, I’ve been the only constant in Dad’s life. The only woman in his life, too. At least since he started getting sick. And, likewise, he’s my guiding compass. My North Star. In the end, I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of leaving Dad on his own or if the reverse was more terrifying.
Now, though, I try to push that thought out of my mind as I make it back to Dad’s table. He’s flanked on both sides by his two closest friends here—Rocky and Wyatt. Holly Fields is the kind of facility that houses people of all ages and all states of health. My father made quick friends with two guys who, like him, were a lot younger than one would expect a person to be who’s in an assisted living facility.
“Gentlemen,” I say, grinning at them. “Am I interrupting or can I join you?”
“Of course, Cyn. You’re the only reason I eat with this bum anyway,” Rocky says, nudging my dad with his elbow.
Rocky has been here for a year or two longer than Dad, and he’s sort of like the Holly Fields mascot. Everyone loves him. His diagnosis—ALS—is a scary one, but every time I see him, he couldn’t look happier or more pleased with life. He prides himself on being “on the right side of fifty with a full head of hair,” and he’s always asking me to bring my friends with me when I visit. I have a feeling he was quite the ladies’ man back in his prime.
Wyatt, on the other hand, is much more quiet, much more reserved than Rocky, despite being decades younger. He turned twenty-six last month, and he hasn’t been here long. The accident that caused his injuries happened only six months ago, and he was in a coma for about two months after that. Dad says he’s heard the doctors say that he’s recovering nicely.
“Hey, Hyacinth,” Wyatt says, smiling up at me. His dark brown curls have really filled in over the last few weeks—I can hardly see the scar from his operation, which usually crests, angry and red, over his left ear like a cursive letter C. Brain surgery is about as complex as it gets, and Wyatt was lucky to survive his injuries at all, let alone the surgery that came after.
Now, he scoots his wheelchair over to the side so I can slide my chair in.
“Turkey sandwich again?”
“You know it.”
He manages a jerky nod and I give his shoulder a squeeze. There’s still a remarkable amount of muscle tone in his body, and both his arms are a riot of colorful tattoos. Dad told me he was a pretty successful musician before his accident—a drummer, I think. Then again, most of the men and women in Holly Fields were something great before they got here.
As we begin to eat, I make myself focus on my sandwich and not on the men around me, all of whom tend to struggle at mealtime. Sometimes, it’s hard to block out the obvious—my father feeding himself with one hand, his other lying lamely in his lap; Rocky’s hand trembling as he tries to hold a spoon or a cup; and Wyatt, who will sometimes stare down at his food as though willing it to rise up and feed itself to him. I know he is trying to get his body to work on command—he’s just not quite there yet.
“Do you need help?” I ask him quietly. But he shakes his head, giving me a rueful smile.
“Tell me a story instead,” he suggests. “How is your teaching going?”
I glance up at the ceiling, then back down. “Honestly?”
“Sure.”
I look at Dad, who is stirring his potatoes with his fork and biting his bottom lip in concentration. “I think I screwed up. I’m not sure what to do about it.”
Wyatt, who finally manages to place a hand on the table next to his tray, stops to look over at me.
“I have a hard time believing that, Cyn,” he says softly. His gray eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I shake my head.
“There’s someone at the school who I—I know from before. I’m not sure he saw me in the best light. I’m thinking it might make more sense for me to transfer to a different school.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything at first. He’s too focused on trying to pick up his fork, and I have to literally hold my hands in my lap to stop myself from helping him.
“Do you like the school you’re at?” he asks, finally managing to get a hold of the fork. I watch him spear a cooked carrot and slowly bring it to his mouth.
“I do—I mean, Dad would rather I wasn’t at Franklin. He thinks it’s not safe. But when I knew I wanted to teach high school and that I had to student teach, I always wanted it to be there. I don’t want to just camp out at a cushy private school with a bunch of privileged kids with trust funds. I want to be useful.”
Wyatt nods, chewing his carrot. “Yeah. I get that.”
I look down at my tray, then pick up my sandwich and start eating it. Dad is watching me now, and I don’t want him to think I’m upset.