Sunday Drive

There are two ways of dying.

That was the thought I was thinking as I glimpsed my father shuffling around the corner of the old house. His steps were tiny. Quick. A shuffle. The wheels of the walker made a scraping noise as they moved across the gravel of the drive. Emily is about ten steps behind him, with a frantic look on her face, calling his name. "Mr. Marley, you need to come back in!"

She caught up and lunged ahead of him, trying to block his progress. Dad was not having any of it. He kept bumping the walker into her, but she stood firm.

I raised from under the hood of the Cutlass and quietly walked over. My arm reached out to catch him just before he stumbled into the propane tank. Urine mixed with sweat filled my nostrils. Dad needed a bath. Again.

“You are okay," I said. “Stretching your legs a bit?”

Dad shook his head. “Get the cows fed. A storm is coming.”

“No, I got them fed already,” I said, knowing I had just lied to my father. The few heads of stock he owned were long gone. I had sold them over a year ago.

Emily threw her hands up in the air.

“You deal with him. I cannot keep up with his wandering all the time.”

Then, she marched back toward the house. The baby was crying.

“Come on, Dad. I gotcha.”

Gingerly, we made our way to the door of the barn, step by baby step. I pulled out a lawn chair and gently helped him down.

“I have been working on the Beast,” I told him, then asked. “Tell me a story about mom.”

Thinking about my mother seemed to help Dad stay mellow. I suppose he liked tapping into the memories of her, and these days he was more combative than calm. My mother, Mary, had passed in her sleep some twenty years ago from a heart attack. She kissed my father good night, went to bed, closed her eyes, and never woke up. Unfortunately, my father had too much fight in him to die peacefully. Even after the stroke robbed him of who he was, Dad was still fighting God every tiny step of the way.

Yep, two ways to die. Fast or slow.

I turned back to the engine and torqued down a couple of bolts on the pride and joy of my father; a 1968 Cutlass 442 convertible. My Dad had bought it as a project and spent a long time tinkering on it. Night after night after supper, he would wander out to the barn, raise the hood, and let the wrenches fly. Eventually, he got it running the way he wanted.

Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, when the weather was nice, he would take Mom and me out for a Sunday drive. Always with the top down, so that the breeze was blowing through our hair. I remember my mother used to giggle like a little girl every time the Beast lurched forward up the pavement. Good Times.

Dad was up again, headed toward the road. The Beast would have to wait.

After I fed and got him down for a nap, I wandered into the kitchen. Emily was sitting at the table, half watching some soap opera. There was an awkward silence between us. I glance over toward the corner, where the Chihuahua from hell was staring at me. Around him are the remains of a Depends diaper again. The chewed white cotton fibers litter the floor.

Emily has the mail scattered over the table. I spied a disconnect notice on the top one.

“You gotta do something about this.” She starts. “We cannot keep living here with no income coming in. How are we going to pay the bills? Tell me how we are going to do this, Robert."

I shrugged. My passiveness is a problem.

“I have been trying to be understanding. I have. When your Dad got sick. When you had to quit working to take care of him and the farm. I understood that. Supported that. I did, really:” She was angry, raising her voice. “We need stuff. Formula. Diapers. Did you realize that? I went all the way into town to grab some things that your son needs, and do you know what I find? I get up to the checkout counter and pull out the bank card. And lo and behold,. . .declined! DECLINED!! Do you know how embarrassing that is? For goodness sake, Robert, we cannot even buy formula for the baby. This has to stop. Now!”

The accounts had been in overdraft for a few weeks.

Emily kept right on.

“So, I figure there has been a mistake. I figure that surely, my husband would not let the bank account get to zero! Surely, there ought to be enough to get a few things for Jimmie, but no. I go to the drive-thru at the bank and ask them for the balance. It is a -$563.14! Overdraft fees, they say. NSF FEES! I was so ashamed.”

“Use the food stamp card,” I mumbled.

“All gone for the month,” Emily yelled as if she were scolding a toddler. “It loads back up next week. In the meantime, we need diapers and formula. You need to get them.”

“Honey, please be patient,” I told her. “I am doing the best I can. I am thinking about renting the back forty out to Old Man Tucker. That should give us enough to get by for a little while.”

“That is not the point!” She stood up to face me. “I hate it here!” Her face is flush with emotion now, going full-blown neurotic. “There is nothing to do. Nothing to engage me. No internet. No wifi. No cable. Boring as hell. I am going to live with Moma.”

“Please,” I am pleading with her, almost sobbing. I pulled a twenty I found in the bedroom. I try to hand it to her, but she refused it. “I can make this better. Just wait. You know, if this were your mom, I would be there, helping, supporting you. Standing by you.”

She glares right through me.

“You need to get your Dad to pay some bills. Keep the lights on. He needs to do something!”

“I cannot get him to pay,” I explained. “He has dementia. Paranoia. He thinks we are out to take his money and the farm away from him. There is no power of attorney anyway.”

“Then get it!”

“How? This place is his, not mine. Anyway, I want him to be independent.”

“Then, he needs to be in a nursing home. Let him be someone else's problem.”

“Have you seen the shit holes around here? I would not put a dog in one of those places.” I point at the demon puppy, who lifts his head again. “And anyway, they would take the farm away from him just to pay for it.”

She walked by me. “You stay here. You play nursemaid.”

“So, you leaving?” Now, I am the one raising my voice as she scoops up the baby. I tell her to go. Screw her. Within minutes, she walks to the Camry with the baby in one arm and the dog in the other. The Toyota backs down the drive and heads over the hill. I watched it go. Then I walked back into the house. Dad is still sleeping. I can hear him snoring from the bedroom. I sit down in the Lazy Boy, snap on the tube, and close my eyes. Exhausted. Within minutes, I am asleep myself.

A couple of weeks have passed since Emily left. Dad has his nights and days mixed up. He sleeps for a couple of hours each afternoon, but that is all. The rest of the time, my father just mumbles to himself. Drooling all over. Every few minutes, he hollers for me until I race to his bedside. Bathroom. Fluff the pillow. Sit me up. Change my underwear. Mostly, he is just cold, wants a blanket wrapped around him. A thousand times a day, he seems unsettled by everything. Afraid to be alone. Shaking all the time.

I am a full-time caregiver. Exhausted beyond belief.

What can I do? This man is my father.

I can tell Dad is getting weaker. Losing weight. I try to fix meals he likes, but at the most, he eats a couple of bites and then refuses the rest. I moved the Lazy Boy into his bedroom. It is cramped, but we make do. Most days, I take solace in the little victories. The small glimmers of recognition. The moments that he is coherent. The smile when we talk about Mom.

I work on the Beast when I can. Just here and there, mostly. Usually, I plant Dad in a chair near the door of the barn so he can supervise.

Finally, the day comes for us to turn the key and see what happens.

“Dad, you ready?” I asked him as I sit in the front seat. I turned the key, and the car sputters. The car turns over. No start.

“The carburetor!” He chimes in. The words pour out of him like a dam bursting. “Spray the cleaner down the barrels.”

He is right, of course.

The moment I grab the can, lean over the hood, and give the 4-barrel a long couple of squirts, he smiles and nods. I walk back around and turn the ignition key. This time, the v8 rumbles to life. Before I know it, the car is idling like a crouching beast, waiting to spring out to the open road. I look up. Dad is smiling. Ear to ear. Small victories.

“Okay, Dad.” I help him up as we move forward. “Time for a ride.”

I steady him over to the passenger door, open it, and surprisingly, Dad is already lifting himself in. He plops his butt down, swings his legs in. I fix his seatbelt. Top-down, I hop behind the wheel, throw the car into gear, and we head down the drive toward the highway. I glance over.

Dad is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

We drove for about an hour before I pulled into the Tasty-Freez in town. I order a couple of dishes of soft-serve ice cream with chocolate sauce.

“Hi, Mr. Marley,” the woman in the drive-thru recognizes him. “You boys out for a Sunday drive?”

I nod. My father leans forward and looks over. “This is my boy.” He states, plain as day. “Robert.”

“Hi, Robert.” The lady hands us a couple of dishes of ice cream. “Nice of you to take your Dad for some fresh air. Been praying for him.”

My Dad cradles the dish in his hands, not quite sure how to get the spoon to his lips.

“Robert is a good boy. He is my son.”

The lady smiles. “Yes, he is. A very good boy. Loves you a lot.”

We parked under the shade of a nearby oak for a bit, and I fed Dad a few bites while mine melted on the dash. Dad never said another word the whole time. He just slurped up the white cream, the chocolate dripping from the corner of his mouth.

When I finished cleaning him up, I fired the Cutlass up. Dad felt the rumble of the engine, and I could see his eyes begin to water. As I turned the wheel toward home, I realized that there are two ways to die, but truth be told, there are also two ways to live.