Sticky Notes Page 10

  “No, Dad!” Foster would say.

  “Stay back, Fossie. We don’t know if it’s trained to attack or not.”

  The problem was made worse by their inability to keep a collar on Geraldine. Twice she’d been picked up by the dog pound man. Mom was dumbfounded by how Dad managed to get Geraldine out of the house so often without her knowledge. A neighbor would bring her back, or once a police officer brought her back, and neither Mom nor Foster had even realized she was gone.

  Mom tried showing Dad photographs of Geraldine and photographs of Dad with Geraldine. Dad enjoyed that and talked affectionately about her. But when confronted by the living beast, Dad could not connect the dots. She was no longer his Geraldine.

  Sophie suggested trying to introduce Geraldine as a new dog, a devoted companion for Dad. The problem was that by the time they had decided to try this plan, Geraldine had acquired some new behaviors of her own. She would see Dad and run for it. She even stopped coming inside the house when Mom invited her—something she ordinarily loved to do—clearly associating that with being dragged across the floor, legs akimbo, and unceremoniously booted onto the street. Geraldine got wise, and Mom got desperate.

  “I thought pets were supposed to be comforting,” she complained to Sophie.

  “This is unusual,” Sophie responded.

  “There’s a whole dang science behind it! Geraldine should be reducing his anxiety, not making it worse,” Mom said.

  “Yup,” Sophie replied. “Maybe I’ll cancel pet therapy.”

  Pet therapy was a part of Dad’s new Day Program. The way Mom, Aunty, Sophie, and Mom’s new “boyfriend” spoke about it, Foster just knew it had capital letters and was very important. Dad was to go out with Sophie twice a week and spend a few hours socializing. This was to give Mom and Aunty more of a break and to offer Dad some “Stimulating Activities in a Homelike Environment.” That was what it said in the pamphlet. Foster thought the whole thing was a bit odd, because Dad had never really liked socializing. And if pet therapy was a big thing there, they had better be prepared to lose some animals.

  They all went to see the Homelike Environment with Stimulating Activities together. Sophie had suggested it might be nice for everyone to go and visit and see what it was like. Dad was particularly compliant that day, which made getting out of the house easier than usual. There was only one trip back into the house when Mom realized Dad was wearing two pairs of trousers. He accused her of doing it but still let her lead him inside to remove the outer pair.

  For the first time, Dad had to wear a lanyard. It was only temporary while Mom organized a nice silver chain for his wrist. She had ordered one with chunky links and a blank disk from a catalog. Foster had helped her choose it. Mom said she would get it engraved later. Foster thought the lanyard looked very professional, though, and secretly hoped Dad could keep wearing it even when his bracelet was ready. It had his photograph, his name, and two phone numbers on it. It looked just like the ones teachers and even doctors wore. In very small print under Dad’s name was written “Memory Impaired.” It swung on a thick purple strap from Dad’s neck like a credential.

  As soon as they started driving, Dad began reading out every road sign he could see. Foster joined in. Foster was excited when Dad began the game. It was one of their special things, and he found himself really happy for the first time in a very long time.

  But this time Dad wasn’t doing it right. Sometimes he just kept saying the same word over and over again. When he did say a sentence, it didn’t carry on from Foster’s the way it was supposed to. Sometimes Dad called out another word before Foster had even finished making up his sentence.

  “Dad, you’re not doing it right,” Foster said impatiently.

  “Stop,” Dad read. Then immediately, “Stop! In the name of love.”

  “We’re not doing songs,” Foster said.

  “Stop! In the name of love.”

  “Stop!” Foster said.

  “In the name of love.”

  “Mom!”

  “Fossie, does it really matter? Just let him do what he wants.”

  “But there are rules! He’s ruining it!”

  “Fossie, please! He doesn’t even know it’s a game. He’s not even playing with you.”

  Foster looked at Mom aghast. It wasn’t just her tone, which was rude and impatient. It was her saying out loud what Foster already knew but was pretending wasn’t true so he could have this small moment of enjoyment with Dad. “He’s not even playing with you.” Foster felt that same Big Shops humiliation roll over him like a tractor wheel.

  “Speed hump,” Dad said. “Hump means ‘sex.’ ”

  They spent the rest of the drive in silence.

  When they arrived, Sophie was already there. She must have been waiting with her nose pressed to the window, because she walked out and across the parking lot before Dad was even out of the car. Foster thought she looked more excited about this visit than any of them were.

  In the car, Dad had kept on making vague references to sex that Foster didn’t really understand, but he was pleased to see left Mom in a knot of agonies. He knew what a penis was, but the other words were mysteries. His only clue that they were inappropriate was Mom cranking up the car radio and then talking loudly over it about nothing.

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea today,” Mom said immediately to Sophie.

  “Oh, just come in and have a look around. Malcolm, you want to have a look, don’t you?”

  “Don’t know where I am.”

  “He’s not quite himself today,” Mom said.

  “All the more reason,” Sophie replied. “Distraction, distraction, distraction.” She said each word with a pat and squeeze of Mom’s forearm.

  “Where am I?”

  “Day care, Dad,” Foster said deliberately. Mom hated the Day Program being called day care. Foster had heard Aunty calling it day care and it had started a fight with Mom. Aunty had said she was just trying to be funny. Aunty hadn’t been invited to come with them today.

  “It’s not day care,” Mom said.

  “Well, no,” Dad replied. “Fossie’s too old for day care. Isn’t he? How old are you, Fossie?”

  “Not my day care, Dad. Yours.”

  “Fossie!” Mom performed an almost perfect pirouette in an effort to tell Foster off face to face, but he skulked behind Dad, avoiding her eyes. He knew he had her because she was dressed like she was coping again and wouldn’t want to give that up.

  Sophie was already leading them toward the big glass doors. They opened automatically onto a large room with a long reception desk on one side. The desk had flowers and pamphlets on it and a sign framed like a picture that read WELCOME. THIS DESK IS TEMPORARILY UNATTENDED. Dad read it out loud.

  “Yahtzee,” he said.

  “Yes, we don’t have to bother about that,” Sophie said. “Come through.”

  Farther on was another set of doors, but these ones didn’t open automatically. There was a keypad on the wall next to them. Sophie pressed some of the buttons and the doors opened with a swoosh. Foster could immediately smell that same sharp, lemony abrasive cleaner Mom used at home on the sinks. Somehow it made him feel more comfortable. As soon as they were through the doors, Sophie pressed another button and they swooshed shut.

  “Why is the door locked like that?” Foster asked.

  “We have security here,” Sophie said. “Just so staff can enjoy time with the clients without having to constantly head count.” She finished off with a laugh. Clearly she was trying to be funny. Mom hadn’t laughed yet.

  They went down a long, wide corridor with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over atrium gardens with benches and ponds. There were rooms to the right. Some had beds in them. But they didn’t stop until they got to another set of double doors at the end of the hall. This one had a sign on it that read DAY PROGRAM. Foster had been right about the capital letters.

  Inside was a calm busyness. Like the rallying point for
school fire alarms, but with old people. Really old people. Most people were doing things, or being encouraged to do things. Jigsaws, painting, board games, Yahtzee. Dad was good at Yahtzee. Foster tugged on Dad’s sleeve and pointed.

  Dad pulled his arm away from Foster and took a step toward Mom.

  “When are we going home?” he asked.

  Sophie was talking, had been talking continuously, about what they did and other services they offered. There was counseling for clients and their caregivers, cooked lunch, activities designed to work with and improve upon the skills and cognitive abilities of each client. Also, and perhaps most importantly, the opportunity to meet new people and keep up social skills that could sometimes be lost in the more isolated care situations. All this as they wandered around the room peering over shoulders and smiling at strangers. Foster noticed that the clients didn’t smile much. He also noticed that Mom wasn’t smiling much. Not real smiling, anyway. Just a lip twitch when a staff member smiled at her. The memory of a response.

  “Why do you call them clients?” Foster asked. Mom cast an eye at him. She could really cast too. Foster felt the hook of it. He was embarrassing her.

  “Well, a client is a person who needs a service that we provide,” Sophie said.

  “I know what a client is,” Foster said. “My dad has clients, and they don’t look like this.”

  “Foster!” Mom said.

  “When are we going home?” Dad asked again. “I have clients to call.”

  “Well,” Sophie continued. “There are all sorts of clients and all sorts of services. For example, your dad can come here for just a couple of hours to watch a movie, or he can come for the day and do all sorts of different things. Whatever he wants.”

  “Or he doesn’t have to come here at all. He can stay at home with us,” Foster said.

  “Oh, Fossie, please stop,” Mom said.

  “It’s all right,” Sophie said reassuringly to Mom. “It’s a huge adjustment, and no decision has to be made right away. We just want to provide you with options and support.”

  “I appreciate it,” Mom said. “I really do. It’s a lot, you know? I’d like to bring my sister-in-law to have a look if that’s okay?”

  Foster was stunned. He looked up at Mom and could see she was quite sincere. But she hated Aunty. They were always fighting. Aunty was always upsetting Mom and leaving the house annoyed and muttering. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt like he was losing a bit of footing.

  “Of course that’s okay,” Sophie said. “I was half expecting her to come with you today.”

  “You’re not leaving me here, are you?” Dad asked.

  “Not today, Malcolm. Let’s go home for now.” Then she said to Sophie, “It’s a beautiful facility.”

  “Well, it’s here for you,” Sophie said. “Come, I’ll let you out.”

  Sophie walked them back the way they had come, all the way to the keypad door. As she pressed the special numbers, Foster said, “If you have to be let out, you’re a patient. Mom was a patient once.”

  Swoosh.

  Of all the social workers and home aids who came into the house, Foster liked James the most. James was New Home Aid Man. They’d had to get rid of Old Home Aid Man because Dad wouldn’t let him in the house anymore.

  Dad had been asking Mom about her boyfriend for a while. In keeping with Sophie’s “distraction, distraction, distraction” line of attack, they had all ignored it and talked about something else. Aunty had even gotten Mom to have a bit of a laugh about it. No one knew Dad was brewing a rage. It wasn’t real, after all.

  Old Home Aid Man had arrived as usual on a Tuesday morning. Foster had never seen him before, but it was school vacation. The most boring school vacation he’d ever had. So a visit from a stranger was at least a temporary, hopefully entertaining, diversion for Foster, who spent most of his time stuck in front of the TV with Dad.

  When Mom opened the front door, Dad had stood up immediately. Old Home Aid Man went to shake Dad’s hand, but Dad kept his hands at his sides, fingers coiled into fists.

  “Why are you here?” Dad said quietly. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Malcolm?” Mom said. “Malcolm, you know—”

  “Your boyfriend? Yes, I know all about your boyfriend.”

  Foster had been dumbstruck by Dad’s tone at first. It was nasty. Foster had never known his dad to say or do anything vicious, so he had been immediately frightened by this unrecognizable thing coming out of the person he loved. It had taken a few seconds for the sentence to slowly untwist itself until it rang like an echo inside his head.

  It had taken less than a minute. Dad had started roaring at them, saying they were having an affair. Foster didn’t know what an affair was. Then Dad lunged forward. Mom screamed. Foster slapped his palms over his ears and wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but he couldn’t. He just kept watching, all the while listening to the distorted mishmash of muffled bawling, coming from who knew where, mixed with the blood pounding in his ears.

  Old Home Aid Man was smaller than Dad, but he was fast. He blocked Dad’s flailing fists with his arms and at the same time managed to get a solid grip on Dad’s wrists. Then he firmly pressed Dad up against the front door. Foster gently released the pressure on his ears. All the screaming had stopped.

  Old Home Aid Man was speaking softly, gently, “There you go, Malcolm. It’s all right now. Ease off. There you go. I’m going to let go of your wrists now. Can I let go of your wrists now? There you go.” He slowly allowed Dad’s arms to drop to his sides, but kept a loose hold of them. It looked like they were holding hands. Then Dad began to cry. Foster felt a stinging in the back of his throat and swallowed hard.

  “Mrs. Sumner, are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Mom said. That was when Foster realized she had been crouched on the floor. Foster had missed her ducking to avoid getting hit, but the thought of it then seemed very funny. He didn’t want to laugh, though. Almost as much as he was determined not to cry.

  Mom took Dad by the hand and sat him back down. Dad looked wretched.

  “Please don’t leave me,” Dad said.

  Old Home Aid Man sat on the arm of a lounge chair, where Mom said you weren’t supposed to sit, and watched Dad and Mom. Then he touched Mom on the shoulder before walking outside. He made a phone call from the driveway. Foster watched from the family room window. While Old Home Aid Man talked into his phone, he glanced occasionally at the house.

  By the time Sophie arrived, Dad had calmed down. It was as if it had never happened. Except it had. Sophie had brought James with her. As soon as Sophie sat down, Foster whispered, “I think that man hurt my dad.”

  Sophie stroked the top of Foster’s head and said, “No, I don’t think so. I think everyone is okay.” Then to Dad, “Malcolm, this is James. He’s a friend of mine. I was hoping he could watch TV with you.”

  “I need a shave. I’ve got to get to work.”

  “No problem,” James said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  As they left the room, Dad said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m James.”

  “James! For goodness’ sake! I haven’t seen you in years. How’ve you been?”

  Sophie had brought some paperwork in a file with her and asked Mom a lot of questions. Was this the first time Dad had become violent? Were his responses to being upset or confused changing? Did Mom feel she and her son were unsafe? All three questions followed one after the other with unfilled pauses between, pauses Foster assumed were supposed to be filled with answers from Mom. But she was quiet. She just sat in a chair swinging her legs as if the chair were too big for her. Sophie had to lean forward and touch Mom’s wrist to get a response.

  “No, no,” Mom finally said.

  “No to which question?” Sophie asked. “Shall I start again? Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Foster, go and play in your room,” Mom said.

  Foster did go and play in his room. It was one of the few times he
actually didn’t want to hear what the grown-ups were saying. He had to think about things first. He had to not cry.

  Dad used to talk a lot about positions. Financial positions, political positions, legal positions, ethical positions. The word position became fascinating to Foster, far more so than the word preceding it. A position was clearly an important thing. Foster would listen to Dad talking on the phone after dinner, listen to him arguing a position or sharing a position, and without asking for a definition, Foster was pretty sure he had worked out the gist. He had to have a position. He wasn’t sure why he felt he had to have one, or even what his position would be, but he knew what a position was and that having one would take away the awful fidgetiness in his chest.

  Foster remembered the first time he had ever taken a position and won with it. It was a school night, and when Mom told him to pack up his drawing and get ready for bed, Foster said no. Mom was accustomed to Foster’s delay tactics and bargaining for more time, but he could see she was unprepared for an absolute refusal. She laughed a little as she said, “What did you say?”

  “I said no.”

  Dad was interested now. He looked up from his laptop and said, “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m taking a position,” Foster replied.

  There was a brief pause before Dad started laughing. Big delight-riddled guffaws. He wasn’t laughing at Foster. Foster could tell. Dad seemed genuinely interested when he said, “What are you taking a position on, and what would that position be?”

  “I’m taking a position on bedtime,” Foster replied solemnly. “And my position is that I’m not tired, so I will draw for fifteen more minutes and then go to bed without a story to make up the time.”

  Foster waited and watched Mom and Dad looking at each other.

  “I can’t argue with that position,” Dad said. “That is a reasonable position, well expressed.”