Things That Hollow Us Out

The silver hair at his temples was the only thing that remained unchanged. Dad sat in the wheelchair by the window, staring out at nothing — or perhaps at everything he'd forgotten. Three years of Alzheimer's had carved him out from the inside, leaving something that looked like him but moved like a puppet with cut strings. A zombie of a father, animate but absent.

"Ellie," he said, not looking at me. "Ellie brought the dog."

My mother. Dead fifteen years. The dog, Buster, dead five years longer than that. But there they were, alive in the hollow spaces of his mind.

"No dog today, Dad," I said, touching his shoulder. He flinched.

The nursing home smelled of antiseptic and coffee left too long on the burner. I'd come straight from the office, still wearing the heels that pinched my toes, still carrying the weight of the presentation I'd give tomorrow. Climbing the corporate pyramid had seemed important once. Each promotion a step closer to something — what, exactly? I couldn't remember anymore.

Dad turned then, eyes suddenly sharp. "There was a fox in the garden last night."

"A fox?"

"Red as a fresh wound. Standing by the roses like it owned the place." He leaned closer. "Smart creatures. They know when something's dying. They come for the weak ones."

I thought of my father — the man who'd built an empire from nothing, who'd never been weak a day in his life until his own brain betrayed him. I thought of myself, thirty-eight and successful and hollowed out in ways I couldn't name.

"He's having a good day," the nurse had told me at the desk. "Enjoy it."

"Dad," I said. "I got the promotion."

"Ellie," he said. "Ellie's brushing her hair."

Down the hall, someone screamed. A television laughed. Somewhere, a fox moved through the darkness toward something dying, something that used to be whole.

I stayed for another hour, holding the hand of the man who used to know my name.