Sprint

Chapter four

My hands are slippery on the steering wheel, anxiety making them sweaty. I've been sitting in this parking lot for the better part of half an hour, trying to convince myself to go inside. Trying to keep myself from putting the car in reverse and getting the hell out of here.

Breathe, Leroy.

I should have come here a week ago when my plane landed. I shouldn't have allowed myself to hide out at Jack's. This is why I moved back to Michigan after all.

With an almighty effort, I open the car door, hurrying towards the building before I lose my nerve. This shouldn't be happening, I think. This shouldn't be my life.

But it is.

The man at reception smiles at me warmly, checking me in without asking for ID, even though it's easily been months since I was here last. My chest feels tight, and for one spiteful moment, I wonder if this stranger remembers me better than the man I'm here to visit.

I rap quietly on the door before pushing it open. By the window, a chair faces the garden. In it, a man who looks much older than his forty-nine years sits, staring intensely at a red maple tree, though I can tell he's far away in thought.

"Dad?" I ask quietly, moving slowly into the room, aware not to make any sudden movements.

One of the nurses told me he has been in a good mood lately, but her eyes were sad when she said it; we both know no amount of good days will give me back my father.

He turns, squinting. "Hello," he says eventually, nodding his head. There's no sign of the warmth he used to exhibit anytime he saw me.

I know better than to ask if he remembers me. I can tell by the polite way he offers me a seat across from him and the slightly guarded set to his mouth that he doesn't, but he's unwilling to admit it.

Like I'm an old colleague he ran into at the supermarket but forgot the name of, and not his only child.

Anger and despair stack atop each other in my stomach until I'm heavy with their weight. I drop into the chair across from him.

"How is it going?" I ask, smiling, my fingers playing with the upholstery on this chair.

"Oh, you know, fine," he says, shrugging.

"Yeah. What have you been up to lately?"

Dad shifts in his chair, frowning slightly. "Just the usual," he says, but his voice is unsure, and I know he can't remember but is yet again reluctant to reveal that.

I wonder if part of him realizes that admitting to memory loss was what landed him here in the first place.

"Yeah, I'm sure they're keeping you busy," I say, forcing cheer into my voice. "I'm busy too; I just transferred college."

"Right." Dad nods. "And do you, uh, like it?"

I swallow. No, I hate it. I'm struggling to find my spot on the new team, I keep getting lost, and my roommate is the biggest pain in the ass known to mankind. Had this been a few years ago, I'd have told my dad everything about it, eagerly seeking his advice. Now, though, I'm treating him as much like a stranger as he's doing to me.