Dellio’s had been a favorite of hers in high school, and while she didn’t do cheeseburgers anymore, their fries could still taunt her from half a mile away. Melba salivated. “I don’t eat meat. Anymore, I mean. And I can’t really leave Dad.”
He paused for a moment, then checked his watch. “I’ve got twenty minutes. They make a mean grilled portobello for you veggie types. I could have it and fries back here in fifteen for you if you want.”
Melba blinked. The Clark Bradens she remembered was not the kind of guy who played fetch out of sympathy. Then again, the Clark Bradens she remembered would have been the last man she’d have expected to put on a uniform for the Gordon Falls Volunteer Fire Department—especially with his dad as chief. The margins of far too many high school notebooks were filled with odes to Clark’s wavy red hair and dreamy green eyes, but attributes like “responsible” or “civic-minded” never seemed to come up. He’d been the kind of bad-boy motorcycle rebel that mothers warned daughters about, known for luring cheerleaders to their doom.
The man before her didn’t look anything like that. Oh, the handsome hadn’t left, but the dark edge was long gone. Or maybe she was just tired. His smile was almost sweet, bearing a touch of the weariness she felt down to her bones this evening. Who cared about moral fiber when the man was offering Dellio’s fries? Life had handed her too many reasons to crave them today. “I’m in.” She dug into her wallet.
Clark pushed her wallet back down toward the handbag. “I’ll spring. They give us a firefighter’s discount anyway. Give me your dad’s room number and I’ll bring it up.”
“Really?”
“Think of me as the Gordon Falls Welcome Wagon.” He nodded to the machine of questionable sustenance behind her. “Or just a guy who’s eaten too many of those.”
Melba was too hungry to refuse. “Room 614. You just became my hero.”
“Shh...” Clark gave her the wink he was known for back in the day. “Don’t let that kind of thing get out.”
* * *
Melba heard her father’s agitated voice as she got off the sixth floor elevator.
“Calm down, Mr. Wingate, she’ll be back in a moment.”
“Where is she? Where’d she go?” The angry, confused panic in her father’s voice was a knife to her chest. She clutched her handbag to her side and took the hallway at a jog, only barely catching the resigned look from the station nurse as she turned the corner.
“We need to tell Melba.”
Dad had been doing so well this afternoon. She tossed her bag onto the vinyl chair and grabbed her father’s hand. “Hey, I’m right here, Dad.”
“Don’t leave like that, Maria. Don’t do that.” The knife buried in her ribs twisted harder when he called her by her mother’s name.
“He was fine until a minute ago, really,” the nurse said.
Melba nodded, shifting to place herself in her dad’s line of vision. “I’m here. I just left for a second but I’m back now.”
Her father’s eyes found her, the trembling grip on her hand tightening. “Maria.”
Melba swallowed. It seemed so cruel to correct him when he got like this. “It’s okay,” Melba whispered to the nurse. “I think he’ll settle down now.”
She felt the nurse’s hand on her back. “He is better than he was yesterday, remember that.” They’d done this more than a few times since Mort had been admitted with fevers two days ago. “I’ll come back with the evening sedative in about an hour.”
The nurse left and Melba sank onto the bed’s edge, weary. She stroked her father’s right hand, hating the blue-black bruises. They’d moved the IV needle to his left hand yesterday when he’d pulled it out of his right hand.
“I’m sick.” His voice took on a frail, childish quality that opened a black hole in Melba’s stomach.
“Well, yes, you caught some kind of bug, but the fever’s almost gone so you’ll go home soon.”
“It’s wrong, Maria.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Dad. You should go to the hospital when you’re sick. It’ll be fine by tomorrow, you’ll see.”
“Maria, I’m telling you, it’s wrong. She needs to know.”
She dismissed the useless reply of “But I’m Melba, Dad,” and kept stroking his hand instead. “Tell her what?”
Dad grew agitated, his mouth working for the words. He seemed to lose words so much more now, and that seemed so cruel—he was still two years shy of sixty. “I hate that she’s not mine.” He moaned it, as if the words broke his heart in half. Melba froze, the strength of his regret grabbing at her, forcing her attention as much as the clutching grip he had on her hand. “She ought to know she’s not mine. It’s wrong. It has to be fixed. We need to tell her, Maria.” Anger narrowed his eyes and he shook Melba’s arm with every word.
Melba’s blood ran as cold as her father’s hand. Not mine? What did that mean? He couldn’t possibly be saying what she thought, could he? The knot of worry in her stomach hardened to a dark ball of suspicion, but she tried to push it away. Such a thing wasn’t possible. Dad wasn’t himself. She shook it off, just as she’d shaken off the irrational fear that he’d somehow not survive a simple bout of the stomach flu. The man in front of her was Dad. Weak, confused, but Dad all the same.
“Keeping it from her was a mistake.” The bark of command came back to his voice, iron-strong out of a man who had looked yesterday as though he were made of paper. “Why can’t you see that?” He rattled her hand for emphasis. “Where’s Melba? Find her. I’ll tell her myself if you won’t.”
The dark suspicious knot began to pull tighter. This was not one of Dad’s “wanderings,” the wishful conversations Mort invented with Melba’s mom, gone two years now. He’d gotten angry before, but it was always a generalized, frustrated anger, never clear and pointed like this. This had another tone altogether. It seemed almost like he was remembering a real problem he and her mother had struggled with—an argument they had actually had. But the things he was saying didn’t make any sense. She had no idea what to do with his strange actions or his words.
“I’m here, Dad, I’m right here.” Melba peeled the clenched gray hand off hers and stroked it until the fist softened. She needed this strange tormented man to go away, needed Dad to come back and tell her that nothing was amiss. “I’m your daughter. I’m Melba. I’m right here.”
Her voice saying her own name seemed to pull him from the fog. Dad’s narrowed eyes softened in affection and recognition. His whole countenance changed as if the last thirty seconds had happened to someone else. As relieved as she was to see the change, it disturbed her, too. She’d done loads of research, trusted Dad’s doctors, and had three friends whose parents were living with the same disease. She’d thought she was prepared. Still, the split-second change of his emotions always pummeled her. Alzheimer’s was like an invitation into a house of mirrors, never knowing which face belonged to the Dad who loved her and which belonged to the fast-aging man who didn’t recognize her. There had been days lately where it seemed he lost his bearings midsentence.
“Where’s your mother, Melba?” His kindness and clarity startled her—where had it been a moment ago? Why now and not the dozen other times she’d told him who she was? “I need to talk to your mother.”
He’d become reconnected and yet still not quite back to reality. The emotional whiplash rattled her again, compounded by what she’d just heard. Or thought she heard. Or shouldn’t hear. She wanted to throw her hands up in panicked frustration,