Baby Under The Mistletoe

felt.

“I did an internship that involved visiting nursing homes while I was working toward my master’s in social work. I know a few things to look for, to see if they’re a good facility, I mean.”

West sighed, his stomach twisting up at the thought of putting his dad in this place.

This was not a fitting setting for the last years of a great man’s life, or at least it didn’t look like it judging by the squat stucco structure. The building seemed nice enough, spread out before them like a ranch house on steroids. The lawn and trees were carefully groomed, dotted with benches where residents could sit and enjoy the scenery. Except no one was outdoors, and everything was eerily still, as if death hovered nearby, waiting to claim its next victim.

“Come on,” Soleil said, placing a hand on his thigh to shake him out of his stupor. “We’re here. We may as well get out of the car and see what it’s like in there.”

West blinked, looked down at her hand, then up at her. She gave him an encouraging smile.

“If we sit here much longer,” she said, “we’re the ones who’re going to be spending our golden years here, not your dad.”

He was suddenly overcome with gratitude that she’d agreed to come with him. It had been a long time since he’d had someone in his life he could rely on in tough times, and he’d never felt about one of those people how he felt about Soleil, the woman who was carrying his child.

Okay, this wasn’t exactly the time to let his thoughts go off in that direction.

He got out. When they entered the building, a scent of air freshener mingled with urine and cafeteria food assaulted them, and West had to force himself not to turn and walk out the door. To the right was a reception desk, where a blond woman had her head bent over some work, and to the left was a lobby and sitting area, where a television squawked, its volume up a little too high, to accommodate the hard of hearing, presumably.

Elderly residents in various phases of immobility were scattered about, arranged either facing the TV or facing the large picture window that looked out on the parking lot. A few people, not in wheelchairs, had clearly gotten to the lobby by their own means or with the assistance of walkers. These would be his dad’s peers.

West approached the reception desk, but Soleil spoke for him.

“Hi,” she said. “We’re here to take a tour of the facility.”

West looked around as she continued talking to the receptionist. His gaze landed on a man sitting with his back to the rest of the people in the room. He was the only person not looking at the TV or out the window. Instead, he was staring somewhat vacantly at West, as if he recognized him but couldn’t quite place him.

“Hi,” West said, taking a few tentative steps closer. “Do I know you?”

“You’re Michael,” the man said. “My great-grandson, right?”

This man was probably twenty years older than West’s father, at least. In fact, most of the people here looked ancient compared to the General. It was some kind of cruel joke that his mind was failing him so early, while his body was still relatively strong and healthy.

West sat next to the man. He still had a bit of something white and crusty on his lower lip and chin, probably from breakfast, and up close, he smelled as if he could use a bath.

“How do you like living here?” West asked, ignoring the case of mistaken identity.

“In this shithole?” the man said. “When are you going to get me out of here?”

West wasn’t quite sure how to answer that one.

“You know,” the man continued. “They steal my stuff. My gold watch disappeared last week, and a couple of months ago my wedding ring vanished from my nightstand. How do you like that? First you take away my house, and my car, and you put me in this goddamn prison-”

“Mr. Doran,” a nurse said, approaching from the hallway. “Is there a problem?”

“This is my great-grandson,” he answered, introducing West.

“Actually, I’m not related to him. I’m afraid it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

“Oh? Are you my tour?”

West nodded. “West Morgan,” he said, standing and extending his hand to the nurse.

She shook his hand, looking puzzled. “Susan Lieberman. I’m the assistant director here. Didn’t you bring your father for the tour?”

“That would not go over well. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s and is generally resistant to anything new.”

Susan nodded sympathetically. “Say no more. It can be difficult helping a resistant family member transition to a new living situation, especially when dementia is involved.”

A new living situation was about as euphemistic a way as she could have said it. Transitioning to life in prison without parole would have been more accurate.

Soleil, who’d disappeared into the restroom next to the reception desk, returned. She searched West’s gaze to see how he was doing, and he felt instantly comforted that she was there, looking out for him. It was kind of ridiculous how much one little look from her could bolster him.

“Shall we get started?” Susan said.

She and Soleil introduced themselves, but when it was time to follow Susan down the hallway, he couldn’t make his feet move. He looked over at the man next to him, Mr. Doran, the nurse had called him, and he tried to imagine his father sitting there instead.

No, he couldn’t.

He shook his head.

Soleil caught his eye, her expression growing more concerned. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

“I have to get out of here.”

She frowned and placed a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said to the nurse. “We’re going to have to come back another time.”

West didn’t hear what the woman said next because Soleil was escorting him out the door, into the cool air that thankfully smelled nothing like urine or cafeteria food.

She guided him to a bench, where he sat gratefully.

“You looked like you were about to pass out in there.”

“I-I can’t put my dad in that place.”

“Are you sure? It may not seem ideal, but trying to care for him on your own might be more difficult than you can imagine right now.”

“I’m sure.”

They sat in silence, staring across the empty lawn, as the people inside were probably staring at them.

“Thank you,” West finally said.

“For what?”

“For being here, for dragging me out of there, for keeping your head when I lost my cool.”

“That’s what friends are for,” she said.

Friends. Not lovers, but friends. Any other time, he might have taken offense and pouted at the distinction, but right now he understood that Soleil was a friend. If that’s what she wanted to call herself, it was fine by him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE DAY OF HIS MOTHER’S Christmas party, West was stuck alone with his dad all day. His two brothers had arrived in town, but they were busy visiting friends and had predictably bowed out of Dad Duty.

“Where’s Julia? Why isn’t she here? She’d know where the book is.”

His father glared at the bookshelf, intent on finding a title he couldn’t remember. He pulled a book down, grunted in frustration, then put it back. On and on this went, as West looked over the work file he’d brought along with him.

A folder containing a review he needed to write of one of his subordinate officers sat open on his lap. He hadn’t had time to get to it yet, it was due as soon as he got back, and he couldn’t force his brain to focus on it. Instead, he could only dwell on the fact that he wasn’t fit to write reviews of other officers, when his own personal life was so screwed.