Over the next week, Jules found a rhythm. Despite longing for the ruminative space of his back deck and the familiarity of his kitchen, Jules eased into comforting new routines. After an early breakfast, he read. He took a morning walk with Charlie for an hour. As the mercury dipped and the morning breeze brought a chill, the cafeteria began to serve soups. He and Charlie might part ways after the walk and then reunite in front of the soups. Tomato bisque. Spicy corn chowder. The chicken tortilla soup was Jules’ favorite. The aroma of garlic and jalapeno sizzling away in the pan delighted him. The sandwiches were better than Jules expected. A Cubano, then a Rueben. Jules and Charlie would sit for a moment in silence, offering gratitude for the various offerings. Afterward, Jules headed back to his room to read and nap.
The afternoons were messier. Jules woke up from his nap bewildered. The confusion led to irritability. He often called Reva. Back in Philly, Reva would be finishing up her day, heading to the market or home to cook dinner.
On this particular Thursday, Jules was especially out of sorts. He walked over to the refrigerator, where the phone numbers were listed on an index card. Reva, Becca, Seamus, Ako and Ruby. Holding his cell phone nervously, Jules dialed Reva’s number. When she picked up, he could hear the car rumbling along the road.
“Hi Reva, Where in the hell am I?” Jules whispered into the phone.
Reva paused to collect herself. This was the second time this week. “You’re in your new home. You’ve been there for almost one month. Your condo at Woodhaven. Didn’t you see Charlie this morning after breakfast?”
Jules took a moment and considered it. He had seen his new friend Charlie. “Yes. We walked after breakfast.” Jules felt his chest loosen. “It was chilly.”
“Well, great!” Reva replied, surprising herself with her enthusiasm. “And what did you have for lunch?”
Jules had no idea. He wasn’t hungry, so he must’ve eaten. “I don’t know,” he replied.
The idea that he’d eaten lunch but had no sense of what it was caused Jules to flush. “I really don’t.”
“That’s okay, Dad. As long as you’re not hungry now,” she added.
“I think yesterday was ham and cheese,” Jules said.
“Well, want to hear about my day?” Reva asked.
“Yes. How is the teacher? Students behaved today?” Jules asked.
Reva bit her tongue. She’d been a superintendent for eight years, after serving as a principal for six. She hadn’t taught a high school class since 2009.
Reva hesitated, then went with it. “The teacher is doing fine. Class went well.”
Reva couldn’t decide whether to conjure up a story from her classroom days or provide an actual update for her Dad. He was calming down now. That was more important than the correction. Reva rarely lied. She recalled her last session with Tina. Reva had taken in Tina’s rhetorical advice. “What’s more important? Being correct? Or bringing the confusion down? Play the “Yes… and” game with your dad.”
Reva began, “We’re doing a Gothic unit. Today we read Poe’s The Raven. I found a reading by Neil Gaiman, who some students had heard of.”
“Way to go, teacher!” replied Jules. “Bring the past out into the light!”
Reva didn’t want to progress deeper into the mirage. “So how are the nurses treating you, Dad?”
Jules couldn’t recall any of the nurses specifically. There were several who worked the morning shift and others who helped out in the lounge area in the afternoons and evenings. A woman named Gladys often knocked on his door to remind him it was dinnertime. Jules wasn’t sure what to say. “Fine, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve asked for much help,” Jules replied.
Reva pulled into the supermarket parking lot. Her fridge was bare except for a half-filled bottle of wine, some cheese and a few slices of deli turkey. “Alright, gotta go, Dad. Love you,” Reva said, noticing the weight upon her chest. Her own discomfort with Jules’ discomfort.
“Okay, love you, too,” he responded.
Reva texted Becca. “Dad called. Forgot where he was again. Getting worse.”
Becca replied, “I’ll head up to see him after my exam Friday.”
“Thanks, honey. Love you,” Reva replied.
Becca was curled up on the couch, watching a cooking video with Marisol. A cheerful woman was whisking eggs slowly in a saucepan, describing tips for making the creamiest scrambled eggs. Reva’s text interrupted the culinary lesson.
Becca leaned back on the couch and threw her legs onto Marisol’s lap. Marisol removed Becca’s socks and began massaging her feet.
“Jules doesn’t know where he is. In the afternoons he wakes up from his naps and might as well be on Mars,” Becca sighed.
“How long has he been in the new place?” Marisol asked.
“About a month I think,” Becca replied.
As Marisol continued with the foot massage, she explained the complexity of seeing her own Grandpa slowly forget most of life’s details. Marisol’s mom and aunt had taken turns caring for him until a heart attack ended his life. For Marisol, she could sense the relief her mom had felt at the funeral, relief mixed with melancholy. Becca’s access to her own emotions was complicated. She noticed sadness, but stayed on the surface with it, forming logical conclusions rather than emotional judgements. It was part of what she loved about neuroscience. The way our brains behaved was fascinating, and it was an avenue toward curiosity and away from the control of emotion.
Becca considered Jules’ fading memory. Her adult life would be a mystery to her grandpa. He might not live to see her become a mother, to see his own great-grandchildren.
Though it was something Becca wanted, she was sure she’d wait at least another decade, maybe two. Becca had always been adaptable. She understood what was needed. Jules needed comfort and companionship. Becca imagined holding his old wrinkled hands and saying, “I’m your granddaughter. I’m Becca.”