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When we made love, I took control, guiding him, holding him close, making sure he felt every bit of the strength I wanted to give him. I held his hands, our fingers laced, grounding him, letting him know he didn’t have to be alone.
He clung to me, his breath hitching as we moved together, his body trembling under mine. I whispered soft words of comfort, promises I’d stay tonight. And when it was over, and he lay in my arms, spent and vulnerable, I stroked his hair, easing him into sleep.
“Go to sleep, babe,” I whispered, pressing a final kiss to his forehead. “I’ve got you.”
His breathing evened out, the tension slipping away as he drifted off. I held him close, and with him safe in my arms, I slept as well.
My last thought was that I hadn’t told him that people in town knew we were having athing.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to share the news that might upset Neil.
He really needed to sleep.
Chapter Twenty
NEIL
Dr. Bennington’soffice was almost too quiet as Mom, Bessie, and I sat there waiting for him to come in. The walls were lined with certificates and diplomas, a testament to the man’s expertise, but none of it made this any easier. Mom sat beside me, holding a rumpled envelope. She’d carried it everywhere for weeks, unable to let it go or open it. Bessie was on her other side, pale but determined, my sister’s eyes flicking between the door and the letter as if she couldn’t decide which was scarier.
Dr. Bennington came in, and his expression was a mix of professional detachment and the kind of sympathy you only get from someone who’s had to deliver bad news too many times. After the usual stilted pleasantries, he opened Dad’s file, the nameGARRETT WINDHAMin big bold letters on the front.
“Let’s talk about Garrett’s condition,” Dr. Bennington began, settling into his chair. He glanced at the file in front of him, then back up at us. “As you’re aware, the bullet fragment that remained lodged in Garrett’s brainhas been causing increasing problems. Initially, it was stable, not moving much, but it’s shifted over the past few months.”
He paused, letting that sink in. I could see Mom’s grip tighten on the armrest of her chair, her knuckles white. I knew she was already aware of this, but hearing it laid out so clinically made it all the more real.
“The fragment is pressing against critical areas of his brain,” Dr. Bennington continued, his tone even but heavy with the weight of his words. “This pressure has led to a decline in cognitive function, contributing significantly to his symptoms. We’re seeing more frequent and severe strokes as a result of this pressure. Each one takes a bit more from him.”
I swallowed hard, feeling a lump forming in my throat.
“And then there’s the dementia,” Dr. Bennington continued, his gaze steady as he checked in with each of us. “As you know, Garrett’s dementia is what we call mixed dementia. It’s primarily vascular dementia caused by the mini-strokes, but it’s also compounded by brain injury from the bullet fragment. It’s progressing more rapidly than we typically see because of these factors.”
He paused again, giving us a moment to digest everything. “The dementia affects his ability to process information and understand what’s happening around him. His short-term memory is deteriorating quickly.”
“He’s having trouble recognizing familiar faces and places,” Mom said. “Keeps talking about things that happened a long time ago.”
Dr. Bennington nodded. “His brain is essentiallyreverting to what it knows, what’s deeply embedded, and letting go of the present.”
I could feel my heart sinking with every word. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t noticed the changes in Dad, but hearing it laid out in such stark terms made it all the more devastating. We were watching someone we loved slip away, and no matter how hard we tried, we could do nothing to stop it.
“There’s something else you should know,” Dr. Bennington said, his tone softer now, more compassionate. “The combination of the bullet fragment and the dementia means that Garrett’s condition will continue to decline. We can manage the symptoms, but we can’t reverse them. The strokes will likely continue, and his cognitive abilities will keep deteriorating. It’s important to understand that the Garrett you knew…”
“Isn’t coming back,” I finished for him.
Dr. Bennington nodded, his eyes full of understanding. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy to hear. But you must understand what’s happening to make the best decisions for his care.”
I glanced at Mom, who stared down at the envelope, her face a mask of barely contained grief. Bessie’s eyes were red-rimmed, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as she tried to hold herself together. I knew I had to be the strong one for them, but damn if it wasn’t hard.
“We’ll do what we have to,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “For him and us.”
Dr. Bennington gave a slight nod, acknowledging the weight of that statement. “The next step is to transition Garrett into the assisted living facility. They’ll be able toprovide the level of care he needs as his condition progresses. It’s not an easy decision, but it’s right.” Dr. Bennington handed us some papers and information on the assisted living facility they’d been discussing—the place where Dad would spend the rest of his life.
I glanced at Mom again, who finally met my gaze, her eyes filled with unspoken pain. Dad had written the letter she held in her lap a long time ago when his memory had started playing tricks on him, and the first scans showed the damage and confirmed it would only deteriorate.
“I’ll leave you to talk,” the doctor said.
I didn’t even hear him leave—it was just us three remaining in the room.
“Mom,” I said gently, “maybe it’s time to open Dad’s letter.”
