Flexible memory

I’m wobbly as hell and everything hurts and I’m not exactly infection-free but the infectious disease dr. wrote me a prescription for two weeks of oral antibiotics and I’m out, Thursday night. Kate S. and I walked the four blocks from the hospital to Dad’s house and got here just in time for dinner. He finished first, since he had a head start, and while we were still eating, he asked “is it time for dessert yet?” Having just come from the hospital, I hadn’t gotten anything for dessert and have no energy to make one – even typing this is an effort – but I surreptitiously looked in the freezer and thankfully, the ice cream I stashed there is still there, so Dad gets his dessert.

Dad is looking at the mirror that hangs above his dining room table. “ This one looks at that one and they see each other, if the doors are open, they do.” He means that the mirror faces one on his bedroom wall at the opposite end of the apartment. He’s said before that the mirror reminds him of an eye.

Dad says, out of nowhere, “Something that I had that was very, very good was ruined. I forget what did it.” I have no idea what he means.

Dad has eaten his ice cream and is now performing a musical number of his own creation, which involves wordless singing and using his feet for percussion. “Did you enjoy your ice cream? Kate S asks. “Yes,” says Dad “I have never, ever rejected a piece of ice cream, I think.”

I keep looking at his tiny kitchen, trying to see if there’s anywhere I can squeeze in my ice cream machine. Dad bought it for me years ago, but it was really more of a gift for him, the ice cream fan. Making ice cream at my house in Brooklyn and taking it on an hour and a half subway ride, doesn’t really work. The machine is super heavy – getting it up Dad’s stairs won’t be easy.

“You’re not going to the place where you get a lot of goop anymore. Various types of goop and gup and gap.” Goop? “ The studio?” I hazard a guess – clay can be goopy. But, no. It turns out he’s been listening to me cough and he means the shelter. Goop and gup and gap are the kids’ assorted illnesses.

Dad’s lifting his bowl with one hand and his water glass in the other. Is this a part of this or what? He asks. Kate names the items in front of him. “I’m terrified because I can’t see and I’m liable to knock anything over.”

“We’re a very silent crowd tonight,” says Dad “anything bad happen?” “No, we’re just really tired.” We tell him. “Going to bed early?” “Yes.” “At eight o’clock?” “It would be nice.” “Seven-thirty?” It’s 6:30pm and we’re at his house. “Only if we all three go to sleep in your bed, Dad.” He considers this. “I think we could make it, but we’d have to have signals, ‘OK, all roll over once.’”

“You can step into all kinds of situations and make them go bing, bing, bing, no trouble. You’ve got a marvelous personality,” he says to me. “I don’t know what you are,” he says to Kate S. “I’m a good driver,” she says. “I can’t drive at all,” he says. “Driving when you’re blind is a bad idea,” I say.

We don’t stay long. I feel bad, but I just can’t push my body anymore. I am unbelievably tired.

Quotable Dad: “I have the god-damnedest flexible memory.”