Seven months sounds manageable when measured on a calendar. It is different when each day is organized around another adult’s memory. Our marriage did not become unhappy. It became interrupted.
Breakfast depended on how Frank woke. Work schedules bent around medical appointments. Grocery shopping meant checking whether one of us could remain home. Even an evening walk around the block required calculating the chances that Frank might wake confused and discover the house empty.
We tried to arrange time away.
In February, Lisa promised she would fly in for several days. Owen and I made a dinner reservation at an Italian restaurant we both loved. I bought a dress. Owen teased me for buying a dress for pasta.
The day before her flight, Lisa called.
One of her children was sick.
She canceled.
Owen immediately told her not to worry.
I watched him say it.
Afterward, he found me hanging the dress back in the closet.
“We can go another time.”
“When?”
He looked toward the hallway leading to Frank’s room.
Neither of us answered.
In April, our neighbor offered to sit with Frank while Owen and I attended a concert. She knew him. He had spoken to her dozens of times over the years. We thought familiarity would help.
That afternoon she came by early.
Frank opened his bedroom door, saw her in the living room, and panicked.
“Who is that?”
Owen approached slowly. “It’s Carol, Dad.”
“Who?”
“Our neighbor.”
Frank backed away. “Get her out.”
Carol left with tears in her eyes even though none of it was her fault.
We gave away the concert tickets.
June seemed more promising. We hired a caregiver and planned an afternoon at the beach. I packed sandwiches. Owen put folding chairs in the trunk. Frank had met the caregiver twice and appeared comfortable around her.
We drove less than ten minutes before my phone rang.
Frank had locked himself inside the bathroom.
The caregiver could hear him crying through the door.
We turned around.
After that, planning anything began to feel foolish.
There is a particular exhaustion that comes from repeatedly preparing yourself for normal life only to cancel it. Eventually you stop preparing. The disappointment becomes avoidable if you never expect anything.
Our evenings settled into routine.
Frank watched old westerns in the living room.
Owen handled his medications.
I cleaned the kitchen.
Sometimes we managed half an episode of a television show before Frank called from the hallway because he could not find the bathroom he had passed three times that day.
We were tired in ways sleep did not solve.
One night, after Frank finally settled, I lay beside Owen listening to rain tap the bedroom window.
“If you could do one normal thing tomorrow,” I asked, “what would you choose?”
He thought about it.
“No doctors?”
“No doctors.”
“No phone calls?”
“None.”
“No emergency bathroom negotiations?”
“Especially none.”
He smiled into the darkness.
“A movie.”
I laughed softly. “That’s your grand escape?”
“Big screen. Ridiculously expensive popcorn. Two hours where nobody expects anything from me.”
“What would we watch?”
“The new Spider-Man.”
I turned my head. “You’re thirty-eight years old.”
“That seems irrelevant.”
“You own a Spider-Man mug.”
“That proves commitment.”
“You also own Spider-Man socks.”
“They were a gift.”
“From yourself.”
Owen laughed, and hearing it made my chest ache unexpectedly. I had forgotten how much lighter he sounded when nobody needed him.
Then his expression changed.
“My dad used to take me to those movies.”
I stayed still.
“Superhero movies?”
“Any movie I wanted, really. But those were my favorite.”
The rain continued against the glass.
Owen stared at the ceiling.
“The theater was different.”
“Different from what?”
“Home.”
He rubbed his thumb once against his finger.
“My dad hated people noticing his temper. At home, he could yell and nobody outside the house knew. In a movie theater, everybody could hear you.”
“So he stayed calm.”
“Usually.”
Usually.
The word remained between us.
Owen turned his head toward me. “It was one of the few places I could sit beside him without wondering what would set him off.”
That changed the idea completely.
A movie was not merely entertainment. It was attached to one of the few childhood memories in which Frank’s presence had not automatically meant tension.
I reached across the blanket and took Owen’s hand.
“Then we’re going.”
He gave me the look he used whenever I proposed something that sounded simple but involved Frank.
“How?”
“I’ll find somebody qualified.”
“We already tried.”
“We’ll try better.”
“Jenna.”
“We are going to see Spider-Man.”
He smiled despite himself.
It took almost three weeks.
I called agencies, read profiles, asked questions I had never expected to ask anyone: Have you worked with wandering behavior? What do you do if somebody becomes convinced a deceased spouse is still alive? How do you respond when a person becomes frightened by a familiar room?
That was how I found Mrs. Pham.
She had spent two decades working in memory care before switching to private caregiving. She did not oversell herself. She did not say Frank would definitely be comfortable. Instead she asked to meet him several times before we left him alone with her.
During her first visit, Frank barely acknowledged her.
During her second, he stared at her for several seconds and called her by his mother’s name.
I tensed.
Mrs. Pham did not correct him.
She simply glanced toward the television and asked whether he liked westerns.
Frank immediately started telling her why modern actors could not ride horses properly.
They watched almost two movies together.
Afterward, Owen followed Mrs. Pham to the door.
“You’re sure?”
She smiled. “I’m sure I know how to call you if I need you.”
That answer was exactly right.
I booked two seats for the opening weekend.
The 8:30 showing.
Row F.
Middle seats.
The kind of seats you choose when you actually care about the movie rather than merely trying to get out of the house.
I even bought Owen a Spider-Man T-shirt and left it folded on his pillow Friday afternoon.
He carried it into the kitchen.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am deeply serious.”
“I’m not wearing this in public.”
Two hours later, he was wearing it in public.
Frank was asleep in his recliner when we prepared to leave. Mrs. Pham sat nearby with knitting in her lap. The television played an old western quietly enough not to disturb him.
Owen checked the time.
Then he checked Frank.
Then the medication sheet.
Then the door alarm.
“Owen,” I whispered.
“What?”
“We’re leaving.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been holding the doorknob for thirty seconds.”
He looked down and realized I was right.
“What if he wakes up and doesn’t know her?”
“She knows what to do.”
“What if he tries to leave?”
“The alarm is on.”
“What if—”
I put my hand over his.
“Tonight, for two hours, you are allowed to be something besides Frank’s caregiver.”
His face softened.
“What am I supposed to be?”
“My husband would be useful.”
“That sounds demanding.”
“Fine. Be a guy going to a movie.”
He glanced at his shirt.
“A guy making questionable fashion choices.”
“Exactly.”
Mrs. Pham waved us toward the door.
“Go.”
We went.
The theater parking lot was nearly full. Families crossed between cars carrying children in superhero costumes. Teenagers hurried toward the entrance. A boy in a mask pretended to shoot webs at his younger sister.
Owen stopped beside our car and looked at the glowing theater sign.
For half a second, his smile disappeared.
I noticed.
“You okay?”
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Yeah.”
I studied him.
Something about the building had changed him, but before I could ask why, he smiled again.
“Come on. If we miss the trailers, the entire evening is ruined.”
He started toward the entrance.
I followed, not yet knowing that he had left something important unsaid.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: We Reached the Seats Owen Had Waited Months For, and the Family Behind Us Began Ruining the Night Before the Movie Started
The Night We Finally Escaped the House, a Piece of Popcorn Landed Where Seven Months of Patience Had Already Worn Thin
Part 3 of 18
