what part of you is me?

As I was leaving last night, Dad walked over to the refrigerator, put his hand on it, and said “do you need to get into the elevator?” His building doesn’t have an elevator.

Dad fed the Kristen-the-cat blueberry pie! Normally, I would be laughing at something like this, but I’m kind of annoyed – I didn’t bake that pie for the cat (and she didn’t eat it anyway).

“Where’s kitty cat?” Dad wants to know. “Asleep on her bed,” I tell him. “Cats rest a lot,” I say. “Yes,” he says, “Cats rest a lot. That’s why they look so good. They hardly work at all.”

“Do you want some applesauce?” I ask Dad. “What’s applesauce?” he asks. “Apples, cooked and mashed up,” I tell him. “Never heard of it. A brand new thing,” he says. When I was a kid, our “cherry” tree suddenly grew green apples (my mother had misunderstood the old Italian neighbor who gave it to us as a stick). Dad and I harvested them and he taught me how to make applesauce. Now I’m teaching him about applesauce.

Reading Ruth Reichl to Dad, chapter by chapter, I am reminded of the last weeks of my mother’s life. I read Ruth Reichl to her, too, as she lay dying in the hospital, surrounded by elderly roommates who were too far gone to even notice me reading, never mind complain. At the time, I felt like the book had magical powers, like she couldn’t possibly die if there was another chapter to be read. I wonder if I’m doing it again, trying to stall Dad’s deterioration, sentence by sentence.

Dad is washing dishes. It’s a task he can still manage, but I suddenly notice that he seems distressed. I go over and he says “Where’s the soap?” Indeed, the bottle of dishsoap I handed him when he was getting started is nowhere to be found – not in the sink, or the dish drainer. I even checked the garbage. I can’t imagine what happened to it, but luckily we have a new bottle, so I get that out and Dad goes on washing.

“What part of you is me?” Dad asks me. “How do you mean that?” I ask him, but he can’t explain. “You’re my Dad,” I offer, but he still wants more. “You’re my Dad, so 50% of me is you,” I tell him. “Is it the good part or the rotten part?” he wants to know. I let myself laugh. “The good part,” I tell him.