Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 45

The next few weeks fly by in a pleasant flurry, and it feels as though life is moving toward something good. Max and I get together every few days—sometimes we go out, but he is also game for coming to my house when I need to keep an eye on my father. He is always solicitous about chatting with my dad, even when the conversation circles back on itself. There’s a steadiness between us, and I am increasingly confident that he likes me just as much as I like him. Then there’s Nina, whose due date is approaching; I keep my phone with me at all times in case news should arrive. And as far as the oracle at Catwood Pond is concerned, demand continues to surge. Our wait list balloons, and at one point, I find a gaggle of uninvited TikTokers “creating content” in our driveway. Carl’s role quickly evolves into that of bouncer, and we guard our schedule closely, refusing to accept unscheduled visitors so as not to overburden my father. But on a quiet morning in August, we make an exception.

It’s just after lunch when a woman arrives at our door. She introduces herself as Anita and explains that she had been on our calendar in June, but had had to cancel because of a complication with her chemotherapy.

“Anita, yes, I remember,” I say. I can see that she is not well.

“I’m sorry to just show up, but I happened to be passing through town this weekend, and I was hoping to speak with the oracle if he has time,” she explains.

“Of course.” I don’t hesitate, and I lead her into the great room where she takes a seat in one of the armchairs. “Can I get you something? Water or tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she says. “And I won’t stay long. I just … well, I’m on something of a pilgrimage, traveling while I still can. My cancer is spreading and no longer operable, so I decided to stop treatment a few days ago. I just need someone to talk to. And it’s funny, but the first person I thought of was the oracle.”

“Well, I’m sure he would be honored to know that,” I say. Normally, each session begins with Paula leading her meditation, and I am wondering if I can approximate it when I hear a shuffling behind me.

“Hello, hello!” says my father. He carries Dominic, whose fluffy body is so relaxed that it droops into the shape of a horseshoe. Anita’s eyes are lively with anticipation as my father approaches and takes a seat.

“I used to have a cat just like that,” she says.

“Did you?” says my father, giving Dominic a firm pat on the head. “This is our little Dawn.”

Given the gravity of her situation, I am nervous about what Anita might expect from him, and whether he can deliver it. For a moment, I feel the need to mediate their conversation, to somehow ensure that we make this worth Anita’s while. But I decide to put my faith in my father’s abilities, and as they begin to talk, I leave the room so as not to interfere.

I wander into the kitchen, where my phone is on the counter. I have a missed call from Nils, and I immediately call back.

“Cricket?” It’s Nina who picks up the phone.

“Yes, hi. What’s happening?”

“The baby is happening. I’m in labor,” says Nina, sounding uncharacteristically rattled.

“Oh my god,” I say. “Are you okay?”

I can hear her breathing through some pain. “I’m trying to be. Mom is getting a flight, and our doula is on the way.”

“Nina! This is really happening!” I scream. Then I try to calm myself. “You can do this. You were born to do this.”

“I sure as shit hope so.” She laughs briefly and then growls in pain. “I need to go. Nils will keep you updated.”

With that, she’s gone. I look at my watch: 2:00 P.M. here, so 8:00 P.M. in Stockholm. I’ve heard that first babies can take a long time to make their entrance, so I take a deep breath. But how can anyone be Zen at a time like this—when there will soon be an entirely new person in the world?

I pause and turn my attention back to the conversation happening in the great room.

“It’s odd. Now that I’m dying, I feel more alive than ever,” says Anita, tearfully. “I just keep wondering, what will happen to me? Where will I go?”

“You will go somewhere much better,” says my father, in a voice that sounds grounded and certain. “A place that is so beautiful, you can’t even imagine it.”

“How do you know?”

There is a pause, and then my father says, “I’ve been there. So have you. It’s just that, here, in this human form, we forget all the things we inherently know. I am just now starting to remember.”

“What is it that you remember?”

“That life gets much, much bigger on the other side. That there is absolutely nothing to fear.”

I lean against the wall as I eavesdrop, hoping that what my father says is true—and hoping even harder that he has learned these truths from Seth, who is already in this bigger, better place.

“But is it lonely there? Once I’m gone … will I be lonely?”

“Just the opposite, Anita.” He uses her name as if he has known her forever. “And you won’t be gone. No one is ever truly gone.”

After Anita leaves, I join my father in the great room. He is running his hands along the cribbage board as if trying to recall something. He was still capable of playing the game when I moved back here last year, but now he can no longer remember the rules. At some point this winter, we must have played our final game without even realizing it.

“It’s a beautiful day,” I say. “Shall we go sit by the water?”

I help him up, and we walk out to the porch, where we ease our way down the stairs toward the path. It’s slow going, and my father leans on me more heavily than in the past. I’m keenly aware of his frailty lately. Even a year ago, this walk used to culminate in a swim or a canoe ride. But my father has not wanted to swim this summer, and he doesn’t have the dexterity to get in and out of boats anymore. So we just walk down and sit on the dock, which is enough of an adventure for now.

“What a day, what a day,” my father says once he is seated in his rusted folding chair. Alzheimer’s may have eroded his sense of context, but it has given him the gift of extreme presence. “The happiest day of my life…”

I wait for him to go on, curious as to when that day might have been. When he stays quiet, I ask, “When? When was the happiest day of your life?”

“Today, I think.”

“Today is the happiest day of your life?” I look at him, wondering if he can somehow sense that he is soon to become a grandfather.

He closes his eyes and lets the sun hit his face. “I can’t see why not.”

I happen to know that he has difficult days—hours when he is disoriented, worried, frustrated, or uncomfortable. When he gets agitated with me and I lose my temper with him. But he sheds them easily and we try to revel in his better moments. If he says these are his happiest days, I have no reason not to believe him.

The loons are back this year. At least, I assume they’re the same ones who laid claim to the pond last summer. They have a new loonlet with them this season. In June, when we first spotted them, the baby was always riding on its parents’ backs. But before long, it began to swim and keep up with them. It has spent the summer absorbing as much wisdom as possible before it is left to make its own way.

Last year, it was a shock to me when the adult loons took off at the end of the summer and left their baby behind. I was frantic, thinking they had made a mistake, but it turns out this relinquishment is how loonlets come of age. Left to their own devices, they must survive on their own and, ultimately, figure out how to make their first migration solo. It seems too much for a three- or four-month-old to manage, and yet, they do.

I look at my father as he watches this year’s loonlet pass our dock unaccompanied. It navigates the waters with eagerness, and after a few minutes, its mother surfaces beside it.

“They’re such good parents—the loons,” I say. “The way they guide the baby with such a soft touch.”

“Indeed.” Then he looks at me quizzically. “What about you? Are you a parent?”

I smile. “No. Maybe someday. Although it seems like a hard job—especially the teenage years. I wasn’t exactly an easy child.”

“No? What were you like?”

It’s clear he has no idea that he raised me, but I go with it. “Well, as a little kid, I was inventive and exuberant and rambunctious. I loved animals and I wanted to be a veterinarian, and my father always encouraged me in that idea. I was very close with him. He taught me how to do everything.”

The two loons turn a large circle in the water, and as they swim back toward our dock, the male joins them. After a moment of preening, they increase their speed and glide past us as a threesome.

“But once I became a teenager, I was a little more ornery and wild.”

“Ha!” My father seems to appreciate these qualities.

“I thought I had life figured out, as teenagers do. But then there was an accident, and a friend of mine died. After that, my parents got divorced. I was very mean to my father, and we drifted apart. Then he got sick, and I still feel guilty for how absent I was.”

“Oh, dear. You should talk to him about it,” says my father.

I feel a tear slide down my cheek. “You’re right. I should, but after all this time, he may not be able to forgive me. He may not have the capacity.”

“Of course he does,” my father says with conviction. “I would have forgiven you long ago, if you were my child.”