The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 47: Christmas Gifts

She's right about the urgency to move him to assisted living. Will it be as easy as the last move? This time he has fewer belongings, but his room will be too small for more than his bed, a bureau, his recliner and a table for the television. We'll sell or donate everything else including Mom's clothes.

Her bedroom and closet remain just as they were when she went to the nursing home. When dementia set in and it was obvious she'd never come home, Dad didn't have the heart to change anything. Perhaps even now he senses her presence in her bedroom, and this helps him get through the day. Does he lie on her bed and hold a scarf or a blouse to his face? All that will end when he moves one last time.

"Those places are damned expensive," Leslie says, "but with his pension and social security, we can swing it, if we both contribute to make ends meet."

"We'll have to lie about the cost," I say, "or he'll never agree to leave. Even then, we'll have to pry his fingers off the doorknob on the way out."

We both can't help laughing. I offer a solution. "We'll forfeit his security deposit, take the apartment door off its hinges and move it with him."

"I'll start looking." Leslie is like a bulldog with her eye on a bone. She'll line up six facilities by the New Year, with a comparison of costs and amenities in a spreadsheet. I'm grateful she takes the initiative. If left up to me, I'd procrastinate hoping everything will work out for the best.

I park the car and follow Leslie into the apartment building. I wonder what she expects I can contribute 'to make ends meet.' Rachel and I are wiped out after paying for two college educations. We didn't qualify for financial help.

Leslie had it easier financially. Elaine, a high school hockey star, won an athletic scholarship that overlooked her so-so grades. Palmer, her son, attends a university in the mid-West which awards scholarships to attract students from the two coasts. I try not to be bitter, but the harsh truth is Rachel and I face retirement in five or six years.

The kids have arrived before us. I'm thankful to hear their laughter fill the living room. Their grandfather stands by his recliner, still bent from sitting. He always takes his time straightening up, afraid that moving too fast might break something.

His shirt is ironed, and his slacks pressed. The laundry delivers his clothes once a week and the son of the owner carries them up and hangs them in his closet. "And he won't accept a tip!" Dad still parts his hair in a way that reminds me of movie stars in the forties. He's shaved. Despite his neat appearance, his thinness alarms me. His shirt hangs from his shoulders as if on a hanger.

The grandchildren have kissed him and found places to sit. Leslie and I embrace him, and he sinks gratefully back into his chair.

"Rachel made up some dinners for you. I'll put them in the fridge."

He cups his hand around his ear. "Say what?"

Louder. "Rachel sent some dinners for you."

"Put them in the icebox."

Icebox? He hasn't seen one of those since the thirties. I find the refrigerator filled with food. Has he been eating?

Jon is describing his new computer simulation game. My son is tall, with dark hair, athletic, and handsome. Luckily for him, he's only like me in height and hair color. His sister and cousins fidget listening to him. Dad is enjoying his grandson's explanation and pretends to understand him but never having used a computer, he has no idea what he's talking about. I interrupt Jon by signaling him to wrap up his dissertation.

"Who wants to hand out Granddad's gifts?"

My nephew Palmer raises his hand. I pass the shopping bag to him.