The Fading

I find the door to his room unlocked, which is a new thing.
According to Kent, he doesn’t know what knocking means anymore. Nor does he know how to find the door should he want to open it in the first place. When I step into his living room he’s not waiting for me in anxious anticipation like before. Instead he is lying down in his bedroom, napping between breakfast and lunch. I slip into his room quietly so I can observe. I stand over him and watch him sleep and stare for many long minutes. I linger above him watch him quietly, like a ghost. 

His bedroom is dim and neutral. The lull of the air conditioner floats in from the other room, dulling the intermittent chatter of the staff on break outside his window. They convene for smokes two floors beneath him. Dad used to complain about the noise, but now after several minutes he forgets he’s annoyed and slips into a light sleep. When he wakes the smokers are gone, as if they never existed in the first place. We are learning that momentary setbacks have this way of magically working themselves out. If left disquieted long enough, he will forget what he was complaining about before. We have learned the trick of leaving the room, only to return 15 minutes later to a more peaceful Dad. We allow him his time to forget. The dementia haunts and heals his memory in a predictable sway, like a metronome.

The room smells of Barbasol and cranberry candles, the ones Stephany insisted Dad would use when Lois came by for romantic evenings. In reality these evenings never occurred, and the candles have collected dust around their virgin wicks, bases still wrapped in decorative raffia. In faded calligraphy the labels read Brazilian Passion.

Dad is lying above the covers, straight as an arrow on the edge of his narrow mattress. The bed is still made and unruffled, like him. His feet hang off the end with his shoes still on. He has recently gone from leather lace-ups to slip-ons, yet he still insists on wearing pants that zip and belts that buckle. It is midday and he is asleep on his back in a pair of tan cords and the plaid Eddie Bauer shirt I gave him many Christmases ago. It’s forest green, with deep blues and Burgundies, and a collar that buttons down smartly at the ends. His glasses remain perched across his nose, disappearing into graying temples. His soft peppery hair is combed neatly to the side. Where his heavy gold timepiece used to be, a thin plastic watch with an elastic band encircles his wrist. When he remembers to press the faux winding knob, a female voice chimes the time robotically: “It’s…six….thir…ty…five.” On his back my father rests, mouth agape, breathing silently. He appears formal, teetering on the verge of comfort, napping as if he were lying in a casket.

I approach him quietly and seat myself on the corner of his bed. I am gentle and slow, like an old cat. With the bend of my weight on the mattress he wakes, and blinks several times to focus. I watch him without saying a word. I want to know if he can sense me. His eyes then open widely, focusing on the ceiling as if floating on the sea, staring at the sky. 

“Hey stranger.” I say quietly.

“Hey stranger,” he repeats smiling, still fixated above. “Who is this?” He reaches out to touch my hair.

“It’s Teen. Your middle daughter.”

“Hey Teeeeen! What are you doing here?”

I move my head into his field of vision.
“I came to visit you, I missed you.”

His eyes scan the room slowly from left to right but his body remains motionless. “Oh Teen,” his eyes finally meet mine, cataracts reflecting a grayish cloud. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He is gushing with relief--As if at any moment I may disappear into thin air. 

“I’m here, live and in the flesh.” I move in to hug him, to make myself real.

“Thank God. I was real worried about you honey.”

“No need to worry.” I hugged him tighter, his bones small in my embrace. I breathed into him, taking in the faint scent of Irish Spring. Something about him was different this time. Somehow he seemed more fragile, more tenuous.

“I’m so glad…” He said, voice breaking, “I’m so glad you’re here, Teen.”

“Me too Dad.” I hugged him tightly but his body remained tense. “But why are you upset? This is supposed to be a happy time.”

I felt his arms loosen around me and I faced him, brushing a lone silver strand from his forehead. On his upper lip a grey shadow of overgrown stubble had emerged, forming the beginnings of a thick Greek moustache. He looked familiar yet unfamiliar. I have never before seen him unshaven.

“I love you honey.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

“I’m so glad you’re here" he said, finally softening. 

"I thought you were dead.”