Page 150 of Cakes for the Grump

“I’ll take you.”

Good thing we’re close by. It’s only a ten-minute walk back to the apartment. If I take him through the back, no one will see him like this. I can get him to bed and then come back.

“Rita.”

That’s Luke. I’ve almost forgotten he’s here. His expression is so open and kind that I want to hide.

“You can go back to the party,” I tell him.

“I won’t be doing that.”

Dad, in an attempt to stand on his own, trips forward, hopping sloppily on his legs. Before I can blink, Luke has his arm around him and has given him his own shoulder for support. From personal experience, I know the rotted fermented smell that must be coming off my dad. The sweat that gathers on his brow is rubbing all over Luke’s suit.

“You don’t have to do this,” I try one last time.

Luke doesn’t deign to respond to that. All he says is, “Lead the way, I’ve got him.”

As quickly as possible, I guide them home. I’m rushing so much, and mybody is turned inward as if rejecting any kind of talking, which is why we don’t speak on the way there, the way up the elevator or when I’m opening the apartment up with my key.

Once inside, Luke breaks the silence.

“What happens next?”

“I take him into the room, put the bucket out that’s in the closet, hand him some clothes to see if he will change, and then bring in a cup of water from the kitchen.”

“You get the water, I got the rest.”

“You don’t have to.”

Luke is already helping my dad into the bedroom.

I find myself walking to the kitchen. I fill a steel glass with water, then bring that glass to my forehead. My eyes close.

Dr. Mangat said a relapse was possible during this stage. She also gave me a mantra to use for myself in one of our individual sessions.Don’t make him the center of your life. You are the center of your life.

I repeat it a bunch of times. It helps better than the cold steel against my forehead.

When I go back towards my dad’s room, I hear voices coming out of it.What could they be talking about?

“Y-you look like you have money.”

I cringe. That’s my dad talking.

“I do.”

His pleas are broken, but their meanings combine to say:Take her away from here. Take her away from me.

A pesky corner of my heart fractures. I’m stuck holding this glass of water, my feet not responding to orders.

Luke speaks. “I would never take her away even if I could. She loves you.”

“I’ve mezz—messed up a-again. Take her aways.”

“Rita is the strongest woman I know, and it is up to her to decide what she wants to do. I respect her too much to make any decisions for her.”

“Pyar karda?”

(Do you love her?)