Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 46

By the time I go to bed that night, Nina has been admitted to the hospital in Stockholm, but there is still no baby. I am buzzing with anticipation, but I tell myself I have to sleep. I send Max a text, promising to keep him updated, and then turn out the light. I lie in the dark, letting my senses adjust to the blackness. There is no moon tonight, and the loons are making a racket. I now know that they have multiple calls. There is the playful cackling that evokes a cocktail party. There is the agitated wail that sounds territorial. There is the gentle calling to locate a nearby mate or loonlet. And then there is the mournful, middle-of-the-night song—the one that feels like a meditation unto itself, otherworldly in its timbre. That’s the one that is in my ears as I drift into sleep.

I have the dream again. This is the third time, and it begins much the same way—with me coughing up my own heart and catching it in my hand. It thuds urgently, and when I look up, the crowd has thinned and Seth is standing right before me. I hold up my heart as rivulets of blood begin to trickle down my forearm. “Do I still need this?” I ask.

Seth crosses his arms and says, “You tell me.”

I jolt awake with a feeling that something has happened, and I paw around for my phone. There is a text from Nils:

He’s here! Everyone doing well. Call us when you can.

I FaceTime Nils and he doesn’t respond. Then I try my sister. No response, so I leave a message. I think about calling my mom, who must be there by now, but I’d rather hear the news from Nina. I tell myself to be patient and go downstairs, where I find my father rummaging around in the cabinets. He has completely emptied one, and its contents are all over the counters.

“Where do we keep the waffles?” he asks in frustration.

We haven’t made waffles since I moved back, but now that he mentions them, I’m in the mood as well.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I say, closing the cupboard to put a stop to his raid. “We don’t have waffles here, but I know where we can get some.”

We get dressed and head to Lorne’s for breakfast, where I try not to obsess about hearing back from Nina. She’s learning how to navigate a newborn, after all. We play tic-tac-toe as we wait for our waffles to arrive, and as I am contemplating my next move, a little girl walks up and pats my father’s elbow, smiles, and then runs off. A moment later, her mother comes up to us and says, “Sorry about that. She just wanted to touch your arm.”

“Very good,” says my father, affably.

As the family files out the door, I hear her explain to her little one, “Yes, that’s the oracle. But you should always ask before touching people…”

The fact that my father is a local celebrity never ceases to surprise me. He finds it amusing as well.

“What’s next, a paparazzo waiting on the curb?” He laughs as I pay our bill. It’s not as unlikely as he thinks, if we continue at our current clip.

We get in the car and drive the short distance to Deb’s to get some groceries. We could have walked, but my father’s hip has been bothering him more and more, and I do my best not to overexert him. Once inside, I head for the dairy aisle and my father browses the cereals. I am contemplating a pack of shredded cheese when my phone finally lights up with a FaceTime from Nils.

I answer the call and the screen fills with my sister’s bleary but beaming face. “Look who’s here!” she sings as the camera moves to a swaddled lump in her arms. The lights are low where they are, but I can make out the outline of a sleeping baby with squinched eyes and pouty lips.

I squeal from inside the door of the cheese refrigerator. “Nina, he’s magical! Do we have a name?”

“We do. Anders Arthur Gunnarsson.”

“Now we’re talking,” I say. “I’ll have to let Dad know he has a namesake. But first, tell me everything. Are you okay?”

For the next ten minutes, Nina regales me with the details of her delivery, while I alternate between shock and admiration. As has so often been the case, Nina has crossed a major threshold and left me on the other side in awe. While I am in no rush to pursue motherhood, I do envy whatever it is I think I see in her eyes—a mixture of pride, joy, relief, and peace. Eventually, she needs to attend to her son’s squeaks, and when we hang up, I have to lean on the refrigerator door to steady myself. I am an aunt.

After a moment, I walk to the cereal aisle to tell my dad the news, but it’s empty. One by one, I check every aisle, then each corner of the store. I hurry over to the cashier woman.

“Have you seen my dad?” I ask. “Old guy. Wispy hair.”

“The oracle?” she says. “Yeah. He stepped outside a while ago.”

I drop the basket of groceries I’ve been lugging and run out the door. The asphalt is cooking in the noon sun, and I sprint to our car. It’s unlocked, but he is not inside. I dash past the gas pumps and then around to the back of the store, where there is nothing but a dumpster. I scan my surroundings. My dad has wandered off before, but usually stays within my line of sight. This time, he could be anywhere. Finally, I run back into Deb’s and inquire about him again.

“Haven’t seen him,” says the woman, finally showing a modicum of concern. “Not since before.”

Now I am starting to panic. Whichever way he went, he is now getting farther and farther from me. If he turned left, he is likely wandering in town. If he turned right, he could be in the woods or maybe even down by Locust Lake. And if he went straight, he might be in someone’s yard by now. I start to run one direction, then change my mind and go the other. Finally, I realize I need to call for help so I can cover more ground, more quickly. Carl will know what to do, and I can always call Max. But as I fish around for my phone, I realize I must have left it in my grocery basket. I circle back and enter Deb’s one more time.

“Still no,” says the woman. I riffle through my discarded basket, find my phone, and start to call Carl. But then I notice a woman in the parking area, holding her keys and staring through her car window in confusion. I run out of the store toward her, and sure enough, my father is there in her passenger seat, calmly eating a stick of beef jerky that he must have stolen.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” I say to her. She’s clearly a tourist and seems totally discombobulated.

“Is that the oracle?” she asks.

“He has dementia,” I explain, opening the door and startling him. “Dad! Dad, this isn’t our car.”

He looks at me as if he doesn’t believe me, then looks around at the interior of the vehicle.

“Come with me.” I help him out and lead him to our Subaru, where I buckle him in. But even after I crawl into the driver’s seat and start the engine, he still doesn’t seem convinced he is in the right car—or with the right person.

There is something off, and not in the usual way.

“Dad?” I say. “Arthur?”

But by now, his face looks slack, and I know something is wrong.