Jan 1 2010

1/1/09

Taking a shower after midnight, when I thought Dad was safely asleep, I felt a draft which turned out to be Dad opening the door. He didn't seem to realize I was in the shower, just sleep-walked to the toilet. Once he was done, he stood there staring into the toilet bowl for an extended period. “Dad?” I asked, sticking my foaming head around the curtain. “How do you make this stop?” he asked, still staring at the toilet, convinced that the water sound from my shower was emanating from the bowl.

“Dad!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the rushing water, “it's not the toilet! It's the shower! I'm in the shower!” He just stood there, trying to process, until I reached out a waterlogged hand. The touch of wet skin made the pieces comes together for him. “Oh!” he said and headed out the door.

I rushed through the rest of my shower, knowing that the unexpectedness of our encounter had probably thrown him off his routine. When I emerged, I found that he had taken a wrong turn, and, instead of heading back to bed, he was in the living room, delicately handling my discarded clothes like someone holding up a newly shed snakeskin. “What's all this?” he asked. “Those are my clothes, Dad,” I explained. “I was in the shower.” I took his hand and led him back to bed, but instead of taking off his shoes and lying down, he just sat there. “I think I'm going crazy,” he kept saying, over and over, and no wonder – how strange it must seem to have a dripping, towel-clad young woman materialize in your apartment in the middle of the night to lead you back to bed.