The Story My Father Couldn't Tell

"Didn't you just read that?" I asked.

He smiled. "Yeah, but it's a really good book."

I thought it was odd at the time, but you often don't piece everything together till the end.

It's my father's wedding. He's nervous. His heart is racing as the ceremony comes to an end and he is finally allowed to kiss his bride. Unlike his wife, he's an introvert and the weight of everyone watching him is difficult to bare. At the conclusion of the ceremony he runs down the aisle dragging my mother in tow.

It's my wedding and the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. I'm terribly nervous and feel my heart racing as the ceremony progresses. I too feel the desperate desire to gallop down the aisle at the ceremony's conclusion. My father cries during the ceremony. This is something he says he'll never forget.

My father stands by my exhausted mother in the delivery room. He's fifty years old and he worries if he'll be up to the task of parenting. As he holds his son for the first time, all of these fears disappear. All he can feel is pride. The son is named after him.

I have my first book published. He will not read my book. He's stopped reading. It no longer interests him. I know now something is seriously wrong with my father. This I think is the saddest experience I could ever have with my father, but I am wrong about that.

It's a few years after my parents got married. My father, a hobbyist by nature, has taken to breeding Asian fighting fish. The entire basement has been consumed by this activity. The fish need to be kept away from each other or they will fight to the death. As a result the entire basement is littered with fishbowls. My mother tells my father either the fish have to go or she'll leave. Thankfully my father chooses to get rid of the fish.

My mother and father have another meeting with the social worker. They ask my father what he would do if the house was on fire. My dad replies that he'd try to call me. They tell my mother he can no longer be left alone by himself; that he's operating at the level of someone who is five years old.

My father takes me fishing. We are casting our lines into the surf. I reel in a fish. He tells me it's just a little guy and helps me unhook the poor thing. We throw the fish back in the water and continue our quiet time together.

It's Monday night and I'm babysitting for my mother. That's what we call it, babysitting. My dad is planted in front of the television. I offer to make him a tea. I wait a little for a response. He's slow and confused but eventually he says, "Yes that would be nice." When I bring him the tea he asks me how I'm doing. He doesn't realize that this is the tenth time tonight he's asked that question.

"I'm ok," I respond half-heartedly. It would be impossible to be any better than ok. I put a war movie on. He loves war movies. He remarks that he's never seen the movie before. I bite my lip. We've watched the movie together at least fifteen times.

In his young teens my father is startled awake by the sound of an air raid siren. His parents scream at him to get to the bomb shelter. My father wants to ignore it and keep sleeping. His mother pulls him out of bed and starts hitting him across the back of his head with her open hand. My dad runs crying to the bomb shelter. The crackle of explosions can be heard off in the distance.

My father enters a day care program. It's to give my mother a respite. He is requiring more and more care and attention. It's hard on her and I can see this. My father works at a jig saw puzzle and listens to old music.

I'm going through my angst ridden teenage years. I'm screaming at my father at the top of my lungs. He yells back at me and when he gets angry his Scottish accent returns. I'm told to go to my room. I slam the door so hard that the house shakes. I hear my father tell my mom "I don't know what to do about that kid."

My mom calls me. She's just been to take my father to the doctor's. "It is Alzheimer's," she tells me. The news only affirms what we already expected.

"How's Dad taking it?" I ask.

"He's upset."

"How about you?"

There is a pause before my mother speaks. "Oh, I'm doing everything I can to stop myself from falling apart."

I watch as my father takes a photograph of a flower. He is only inches from the bloom when he snaps the photo. We have many of these photo's hanging on the walls of our home. Flowers and sunsets, that was the subject of his photography.

I arrive at my parents for dinner. I see my dad and he is looking at me strangely. It only takes me a moment before I realize he doesn't recognize me. I feel my heart sink. I now know I was wrong about his inability to read my novel. It was not the saddest moment I could have with my father. Being forgotten is worse.