Page 3

Sheena

The door to my home office creaked open a few inches, then swung wide.

I gritted my teeth but managed to tip my frown into a smile when I scanned past the photo of Bonnie and Sage hanging by the door, reminding me to be a better human.

Dad stood in the doorway, peering at me with an expression of mild surprise. Like he hadn ’ t fully expected to find me at my desk—even though we ’ d repeated this routine four times today.

He held up his arm, tapped the watch on his wrist, and grinned. “ You sure I can afford this, Sheen? My pension is pretty damn good, but not this good.”

I saved the spreadsheet on my computer and swiveled my chair to face him. Give him the answer he ’ s looking for, even if it ’ s not quite true.

“ It looks really good on you, Dad,” I told him honestly, trying to keep my voice light and neutral like his doctor had coached me. The watch was a perfect Rolex knockoff, and it did look good on him. “ You worked hard your whole life. You deserve it.”

That was true, too. He ’ d spent thirty years as a lieutenant for the Idaho State Police.

He leaned against the doorframe to my office, still holding up his wrist, where the timepiece glinted. The wry smile on his face—the same one he wore every time he asked me this question—told me he loved the expensive-looking watch to pieces. I felt guilty every time I thought about activating the GPS function. He ’ d know then that it wasn’t actually a Rolex. But with the way things were going lately, he ’ d forget just as quickly.

Dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer ’ s two years ago, five years after he ’ d retired from the force. The diagnosis itself was devastating and terrifying, but also wonderful in its own way. For the first few years, I ’ d felt like I was finally getting to know him. Not just as my dad, but as a person. While I was growing up, he ’ d always been tight-lipped about his cases and the things he ’ d seen as a police officer. But when he moved in with us, all that changed. He opened up and told stories I ’ d never heard before. “ Before I forget, Sheen,” he ’ d always say.

The person he was back then felt like a distant memory, though. When he first came to live with us shortly after the diagnosis, his forgetfulness felt like an inconvenience—nothing too scary.

For the first year and a half, we ’ d settled into a new normal that I pretended would last forever. Dad had been a huge help with Bonnie and Sage, picking the girls up after school and even pitching in to make meals—something he ’ d never done when I was growing up. Bonnie and Sage loved having Grandpa all to themselves while I worked.

But over the last few months, Dad ’ s stories had gotten repetitive to the point that my stomach clenched when he ’ d cocked his head and say, “ Sheen, I ever tell you about the time …” I didn ’ t mind hearing the stories again, but it was a constant reminder that the disease seemed to be progressing faster every day.

I ’ d stopped feeling comfortable letting him near the stove, let alone sit in the driver ’ s seat of the car. I couldn ’ t leave the girls alone with him anymore, which meant I ’ d had to send them back to after-school care—something that upset Sage so much I still felt sick when I thought about the angry tears running down her face when I first told her.

“ Dad, I just need to finish up this budget before we pick up the girls from aftercare, okay? Will you check on Karen for me?”

“ Where is that old gal hiding anyway?” His eyes lit up when I mentioned the cranky cat, and he turned to head back down the hall without argument. I breathed a sigh of relief and then went back to the spreadsheet, knowing I had twenty minutes at best before he made his way back to the doorway.

The realities of caring for an elderly parent—an elderly parent with Alzheimer ’ s—had taken me by surprise in the same way caring for newborns did. I knew it would be hard. I knew it would be a lot of work. But there was no way to prepare for the gut punch of spending your day with someone who was completely dependent on you to keep them safe, fed, and cared for. And unlike newborns, it wouldn ’ t be getting any easier with time. The disease was progressing so fast now that, even with Dad ’ s medications, it was like I could feel his memories slipping through the cracks of a crumbling dam.

A few weeks ago, I ’ d put him on a waitlist for Cherished Hearts, an expensive full-time memory care facility in the foothills, twenty minutes from our house. His pension would just barely cover it. But they ’ d warned me not to expect an opening for at least a couple of months. Until then, I just had to hang on.

I glanced at the clock on my computer and shook my head. I ’ d been planning to make a real dinner tonight. Meatballs and mashed potatoes. But I hadn ’ t even started thawing the ground beef, and pickup at Bright Beginnings was less than an hour away. I ’ d screeched into the parking lot at four-fifty-nine twice this week to find Bonnie and Sage the last kids there, waiting for me. I was earning bad-mom demerits left and right these days.

“ Dammit,” I muttered, trying to focus on my spreadsheet again. I had to finalize the file tonight. The state budget surplus was all anybody could talk about, and I was the bottleneck to finalizing the budget proposal. Cue the bad employee demerits, too.

I pawed through a stack of papers in the filing cabinet beside my desk until I found what I was looking for, the bid for new buses that would serve ten school districts in the Treasure Valley, including Northridge where Sage and Bonnie went to school. The supplier had changed the proposal twice over the last two months, which wouldn ’ t have been such a pain in the ass except for the fact that the bid wasn ’ t just “ buses. ” It covered every single aspect of commissioning the new fleet of vehicles—including tires, engines, mirrors, new safety cameras, paint, and about eighty other line items.

I didn ’ t mind numbers. Math had always been my favorite subject. But even my eyes were starting to cross when I looked at all the rows that had to be updated, checked, and rechecked. And the fleet of buses was just one of the budget allocations. The spreadsheet itself was already up to fifty tabs. Thankfully, I had only a few more fields to verify today.

I heard a happy, chirping meow from down the hall, and then, “ There you are, Sunshine. How ’ s about a few pats for my favorite girl?” I bit my cheek and focused on the numbers in front of me. The cat ’ s name was Karen. Sunshine was the name of the cat we owned when I was Sage ’ s age.

After fifteen more minutes of frantic scanning and tapping, my desk was a mess—but the surplus budget proposal was finally, finally ready for review with the committee. And, if I put the ground beef package in some cold water while I took Dad with me to pick up the girls from daycare, I could still get a real dinner on the table tonight.

“ Dad? We need to pick the girls up now,” I called from the kitchen, rummaging through the freezer drawer until my fingers connected with a lumpy baggie of meat. I plopped the frozen hunk into the sink and started the water. “ Dad? ”

When I didn ’ t hear him respond, I shut off the faucet and walked around the couch in the living room and found Dad lying back against the pillows with Karen kneading the front of his sweater as his chest rose and fell. His gnarled hand—gold watch glinting at the wrist—rested on her orange-and-black fur. His eyes were closed, and his mouth had gone slack.

My heart twisted. The bags under his eyes, stark against the pale skin and freckles of his Irish complexion, underscored the fact that he ’ d had a hard time sleeping for the past few months. It was normal, Doctor Kitteridge said. Like that made it better.

For half a second, I thought about just leaving him here sleeping with the cat. Karen peered at me with slitted green eyes, purring softly, as if warning me not to remove her human pillow. Bright Beginnings was only fifteen minutes away.

I shook my head. Fifteen minutes was all it took for him to walk through the neighbor ’ s back gate and start harvesting the potatoes in their garden. Or for him to try to change the oil on the lawn mower—the electric lawnmower. Or ride a bike to the gas station down the road and start a fight with the cashier because of the outrageous prices. Or empty every drawer in the house, trying to find his gun and badge.

All of those things had happened.

“ Dad, ” I said again, picking up the cat instead of jostling his arm. He startled so easily now, especially when asleep. Last week, he ’ d nearly clocked Bonnie when she bounced into the living room to show him a drawing and woke him from a nap.

Dad blinked and sat up, smiling at me through tired eyes. “ Sorry, Sheen. Must ’ ve lost track of time.” He winked and nodded at the watch. “ Useless hunk of metal.”

I swallowed hard and smiled brightly. Sometimes, the moments he sounded just like my old dad hurt as much as the times he slipped away.

“ Is Jacob getting home soon?” he asked as he got to his feet and rubbed the short, white stubble on his chin.

“ He ’ s working late,” I lied, grabbing his hand to help him up from the couch. “ It ’ s just you, me, and the girls tonight.”

It was the right answer. Reminding him that Jacob and I had gotten divorced back when Bonnie was a baby would only lead to a long conversation and upset him.

“That ’ s okay. I didn ’ t much like the way he was talking to you last night,” he said, his mouth twisting into a frown. He put his hands on his hips and pulled back on my arm. “ If you wanna know the honest truth.”

I sighed, stopped trying to lead him toward the garage, and pulled him into a wordless hug.

We were going to be late for pickup for sure now.