Page 25 of Unmanageable

It’s a dance they’ve perfected, and it kills me to watch it.

“So, Finn,” Mom says. “Maeve says you’re going on a trip? A van?”

“The ‘Goalie-Mobile,’” I say, tossing a piece of bread into the air and catching it in my mouth, trying to break the suffocating tension.

It makes Dad chuckle, a brief, beautiful spark of the old man I know.

The sudden, sharp sound of his laugh echoes in the small kitchen, and for a split second, the film over his eyes vanishes. He sits up a little straighter, his fork steadying in his hand.

A small victory. I’ll take it.

“I’m taking my agent, Scottie.”

“Scottie,” Dad mutters, his voice clear. “The girl? The redhead you like?”

My heart stops for a beat. I look at him, searching for the fog, but right now, he’s entirely there. “That’s the one, Dad. She’s my agent. She keeps me in line. Even if she drives me crazy.”

“She’s pretty,” Mom adds, a devious little glint in her eye. “I saw her on that interview you did last month. She has very sharp suits.”

“She has very sharp everything, Mom. Including her tongue.”

“Just don’t fall in a canyon,” Dad says suddenly, a mischievous twinkle appearing. “Your mother would never hear the end of it, and I’m too old to come dig you out.”

“I’ll try to stay on the flat parts, Dad.”

After dinner, the house settles into a heavy, suffocating quiet.

I help Mom guide Dad to his recliner in the living room, setting the television to a baseball game he isn’t really following. We sit in silence until his chin hits his chest, his breathing slowing into the heavy sleep of the sick.

I find Mom back in the kitchen, leaning against the sink, staring out at the dark backyard where the old hockey net I used to shoot against still sits, rusted and sagging in the weeds.

“You okay, Mom?”

She doesn’t turn around immediately. She just keeps her hands pressed against the edge of the counter.

“Some days are better than others. Today… today he asked Maeve who that nice lady was in the kitchen. He thought I was the hired help, Finnian. He thanked me for making the coffee.”

The words hit like a physical punch to the solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of me.

Fifty years of marriage, fifty years of building a life, reduced to a polite conversation with a stranger.

But I don’t let it show. I can’t.

If I break, she breaks.

I walk over and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight into my side, letting her lean her weight into me.

“He’s still in there, Mom.”

“He’s disappearing,” she whispers. “And I’m just standing here watching it happen. Every single day, a little bit more of him goes away, and I can’t stop it. I can’t fix it.”

I swallow the massive lump in my throat. “Hey. Remember when he tried to fix the dishwasher and ended up flooding the basement, and he told the insurance guy it was an ‘indoor pool installation’?”

A small, watery laugh escapes her. “He was so proud of that lie. He stood down there in his rubber boots with a beer in his hand like he’d done something brilliant.”

“He’s still that guy,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “You’re doing great, Mom. Better than anyone could.”

She pats my hand, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, but the brief moment of levity quickly dissolves back into a quiet sadness. She looks over her shoulder toward the living room, where the faint sound of the baseball game is still droning through the room.