Things He Repeats

In the throes of Alzheimers, details from the past swim their way to the surface and become newly fresh. They're like aging stars from a long ago closed-down Broadway play who have all been waiting backstage in the dark, for decades, hoping to be summoned for a revival.

My dad's family owned four horses and a pony when he was a boy. One of the things he repeats at random times is a list of their names:

"Prince, Rex, Hallie, and Ruby. And a pony named Nancy."

He rode the pony to school, tied her to a post outside all day, then rode her home. This sounded mean to me, but I guess it was normal back then.

His joke about Rex is this: "When I used to ask Rex if he wanted some more oats he said 'a f-e-w-w-w-w-w-w'" (this part is an airy fart sound).

Other things on his list of recitations:

His serial number from World War II

His social security number

The parts of Australia he visited during the war

The length of time he served (3 years, 4 months, 16 days)

The names of his four aunts: Minnie, Idie, Frankie, and Annie.

And the Most Frequently Repeated two questions to me when I'm visiting:

"Candy, where do you call home?"

I tell him "Phoenix."

"Oh? Do you live in Phoenix?"

Yes.

"Do you like it there?"

No.

"How come?"

And then I tell him one of my usual answers, such as, it's too hot, too far away, or too much like Mexico.

And then he asks that question so very many more times that sometimes when he gets to "Do you like it there?" I say "Love it. Living a dream." or "If I loved it any more, I would shit myself." This makes my mom laugh. Which is why I do it. That and being afraid my head will explode if I repeat the same answer one more time.

Mom gets exasperated, and gets afraid that he will drive me insane. And she says "Freddie, stop asking her that!"

"OK," he says. "No further questions."

Ten seconds pass.

"Candy, where do you call home?"

When I get out of bed when I'm staying with them, I drag myself like a zombie across the kitchen to the coffeemaker. I am so tired it feels as though parts of me are falling off with each step. By the time I get to the coffee, I'm only a torso and a head. This makes it difficult to hold a cup. My eyes are squinty and burning. My dad is seated at the kitchen counter, in his pajamas, waiting for Mom to put his breakfast in front of him. His hair is sticking up in Einstein directions. He sees me.

"Candy, where do you call home?"

I use my newly developed answer, which is looking at him, cocking my head, and raising one eyebrow.

"Phoenix?" he says.

Yes.

"Do you like it there?"

No.

"How come?"

(He got the "how come" from one of my nieces, who used to "how come" you to death about everything when she was little. It is now something stuck on the edges of Dad's sense of humor like a sponge on a fish hook. He doesn't know why it's there, but it's there.)

Mom gets out his breakfast, always the same breakfast, Shredded Wheat with fruit on top. He calls these his bales of hay.

Before he gets the first spoonful into his mouth, question number two is asked:

"Candy, weren't you the valedictorian?"

Yes.

"How come?"

My answers have varied: Because I got A's. Because I had a smart mom and dad. Because I slept with the principal. Because there was only one in my class. Because they couldn't find anyone else. Because I wanted to make you happy.

Because I wanted to make you happy.