The Things We Keep

The nursing home smelled of antiseptic and banana bread, a disorienting combination that made Marie's stomach turn. She adjusted her father's baseball cap — the Mets one he'd worn to every game since 1986 — and tried not to notice how his hair had thinned underneath, how the cap sat differently now than it had when she was small.

"Dad? It's Marie."

His eyes cleared for a moment, recognition flickering like a candle in drafty room. "Marie Bear," he said, using the nickname he'd given her when she was five. "Your mother had that teddy bear at the hospital when you were born. Said it brought luck."

She nodded, throat tight. "That's right."

"Where's Buster?" He glanced toward the door.

"Buster died, Dad. Six years ago. Remember?"

The confusion returned. He'd forget the dog's death by morning, maybe sooner. Marie ran her thumb over the worn brim of the cap, thinking: I can't do this anymore. The weekly visits, the groundhog day of grief, watching him shrink while her own life stretched empty before her — no children, no partner, just this dutiful pilgrimage to a man who sometimes didn't know her name.

But then his hand covered hers, surprisingly strong. "You wear it now," he said. "The cap. Looks good on you."

She touched the brim self-consciously. It was hers, actually — she'd started wearing it after he moved into assisted living, as if carrying some piece of him might keep him from disappearing entirely. Or maybe from letting herself disappear too.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Baseball tonight," he said, though it was morning. "We going?"

She could explain. Or she could say yes.

"Yeah," Marie said, leaning back in the vinyl chair. "Yeah, Dad. We're going."