Kitty cat, where are you at?

“Is there any possibility of my moving down there?” Dad asks, referring to my house, making my heart sink. He’s asked this several times recently, and I haven’t really been able to get to the bottom of it and find the concern that’s making him ask. “You could,” I say carefully, “but you might have trouble finding your way around. You might be better off staying here, since you know where everything is. Is there a particular reason you think it’s a good idea?” “I could take care of the place,” he says.

I’m touched – and I wish he could. But in reality, we’d have to do a lot of construction to convert the basement into an apartment for him, although there’s already a bathroom down there – and he’d have access to a door that leads directly to the outside world, which scares me, in case he gets to a wandering stage. But if I put him in the guest bedroom upstairs, there’s the possibility of his falling down the stairs, not to mention that he might get awakened by me coming home late at night, since the guest bedroom is adjacent to mine. And the issue of orientation is a real one – I’ve seen him get turned around here, where he’s lived for 40+ years – he’d never be able to learn a new layout.

I try to distract him, “really, what I need is a wife.” “Have you ever tried to find a wife?” he asks. “It’s hard to find a woman who wants to stay home like that anymore,” – I’m trying to avoid getting into the gory details of my dating history.

“Do you have all your eyes?” Dad asks me, an odd inquiry that actually means he’s worrying about my vision. “I can see fine as long as I have my glasses on.”

I’m trying to write a note – on Dad’s table is an ancient cut glass vase full of pens, pencils, and ,uh, items. I grab what looks like a grubby grey pen and take off the cap, only to find a metal point instead of a writing tip. Pulling it further out, it turns out to be an old mercury thermometer! Apparently, at one point, they made thermometers disguised as pens – I have no idea why. Grabbing a tiny notebook off the table, I flip through, looking for a blank page. What I find are Dad’s notes, written who knows how long ago, ideas for stories and books he never wrote.

The cat comes over and hangs around Dad’s legs, so I lift her into his lap. Dad pets her and she luxuriates in the attention. “Kitty cat, where are you at?” he says softly to her several times as he pats, not so much looking for information, but just enjoying the rhyme.

Dad has been having periods lately where he gets down, thinking that the fact that he doesn’t remember anything means he didn’t do anything during his life. We’ve been trying to correct this by telling him stories, particularly of things he did with me as a child. Apparently this is sinking in, because tonight he says, “I didn’t realize that I spent so much time with you.” I affirm this, saying “we went to the beach a lot.” “Where was your mom?” he asks. “Mostly working.” “But she never saved any money.” “Nope.” My mother was freelance and lived hand-to-mouth. “And then she died.” “Right.” “What did she die of?” “Breast cancer.” “She was only 40.” “She was 56.” “I didn’t realize she was that old. It was ten years ago.” “Right.”