to encompass the wreck. “Even you can see that, can’t you?”
She watched the muscles in his jaw working, but he stayed quiet.
“Dad, why didn’t you mention the fire before we drove all the way here?” Rosa asked. “You could have explained that your trailer was destroyed. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”
Manny took in a heavy breath and let it out slowly in leaky spurts, flicking a quick glance at Pike and then away. “Because I didn’t remember until we pulled up to my street.”
A child walked by holding a bedraggled kite with a tear in the middle, like a wound. The girl wiggled her fingers at Manny, who returned the greeting and ambled over. “Didja bust up your kite?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t. My mom said Gregory had to have a turn and he got it stuck in a tree. Brothers are dumb.”
“Yeah,” Manny agreed. “I had a brother and he sure was dumb. Got any tape? The clear kind that people close up packages with?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’ll fix the rip right up. Good as new.”
The girl brightened. “Good idea. But brothers are still dumb.”
Rosa watched it all with the surreal feeling that she was observing from afar. The breeze continued its capricious meanderings, as if things were perfectly normal, as if the world’s equilibrium had not just been dealt a severe blow. Though she saw the wind toying with the branches of the big cypress that sheltered the burned trailer, she did not feel it on her face. Rosa was surprised to find that Pike had stayed near. To gloat, maybe. They both waited until Manny shuffled back, having concluded his kite repair advice. “What did you mean, Dad, that you didn’t remember?”
Manny cast about for a while, starting and stopping his words, pocketing and unpocketing his hands until he finally hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “I think I’ve got something.”
“You’ve got something.” She felt slow and stupid. “Got what?”
“Alzheimer’s?” Pike asked.
“No, not that,” Manny snapped. “It’s got a different name. ‘Pick’ something.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “Here, I wrote down what the doctor said.”
He handed over a crumpled scrap of paper and headed to a bench perched in the shade of the cypress tree several yards away.
Rosa smoothed the scrap. “Pick’s disease.” She looked at Pike. “Have you heard of it?”
Shaking his head, he thumbed his phone to life and typed in the search. She watched him read, and though he kept his features in a calm, noncommittal expression, something trickled through the coffee brown of his eyes and the corners of his mouth tightened the tiniest fraction as he scrolled through the information.
“What?”
He pocketed the phone. “We don’t need to research it now. Let’s go back to Bitsy’s and you and Cy can discuss housing options for Manny.”
He turned away, but she stopped him with a hand on his biceps. “Pike, tell me.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, but stared at her fingers curled around his arm. “Rosa, I think maybe this isn’t something you should hear from me in light of...everything.”
She didn’t remove her hand and he remained there, still looking away.
“Please.”
He hesitated. “It says Pick’s disease is a rare form of dementia.”
She blinked. “And?”
“And it’s irreversible and incurable,” he added softly.
Dementia. Irreversible. Incurable. The words fell like heavy stones in deep water, swallowed by the mad, whirling rush in her head. She looked at her father, who was skinning the bark off of a stick he’d retrieved, hunched and small on the hewn wood bench, dwarfed by both the old tree and the blackened wreck.
There seemed no sense to it, that she was standing, watching her father, while being floored by a diagnosis that seemed as if it belonged to a stranger. Manny had left a long time ago, chasing some sort of mysterious, phantom dream that he could not even articulate. He had abdicated the
She watched the muscles in his jaw working, but he stayed quiet.
“Dad, why didn’t you mention the fire before we drove all the way here?” Rosa asked. “You could have explained that your trailer was destroyed. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”
Manny took in a heavy breath and let it out slowly in leaky spurts, flicking a quick glance at Pike and then away. “Because I didn’t remember until we pulled up to my street.”
A child walked by holding a bedraggled kite with a tear in the middle, like a wound. The girl wiggled her fingers at Manny, who returned the greeting and ambled over. “Didja bust up your kite?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t. My mom said Gregory had to have a turn and he got it stuck in a tree. Brothers are dumb.”
“Yeah,” Manny agreed. “I had a brother and he sure was dumb. Got any tape? The clear kind that people close up packages with?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’ll fix the rip right up. Good as new.”
The girl brightened. “Good idea. But brothers are still dumb.”
Rosa watched it all with the surreal feeling that she was observing from afar. The breeze continued its capricious meanderings, as if things were perfectly normal, as if the world’s equilibrium had not just been dealt a severe blow. Though she saw the wind toying with the branches of the big cypress that sheltered the burned trailer, she did not feel it on her face. Rosa was surprised to find that Pike had stayed near. To gloat, maybe. They both waited until Manny shuffled back, having concluded his kite repair advice. “What did you mean, Dad, that you didn’t remember?”
Manny cast about for a while, starting and stopping his words, pocketing and unpocketing his hands until he finally hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “I think I’ve got something.”
“You’ve got something.” She felt slow and stupid. “Got what?”
“Alzheimer’s?” Pike asked.
“No, not that,” Manny snapped. “It’s got a different name. ‘Pick’ something.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “Here, I wrote down what the doctor said.”
He handed over a crumpled scrap of paper and headed to a bench perched in the shade of the cypress tree several yards away.
Rosa smoothed the scrap. “Pick’s disease.” She looked at Pike. “Have you heard of it?”
Shaking his head, he thumbed his phone to life and typed in the search. She watched him read, and though he kept his features in a calm, noncommittal expression, something trickled through the coffee brown of his eyes and the corners of his mouth tightened the tiniest fraction as he scrolled through the information.
“What?”
He pocketed the phone. “We don’t need to research it now. Let’s go back to Bitsy’s and you and Cy can discuss housing options for Manny.”
He turned away, but she stopped him with a hand on his biceps. “Pike, tell me.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, but stared at her fingers curled around his arm. “Rosa, I think maybe this isn’t something you should hear from me in light of...everything.”
She didn’t remove her hand and he remained there, still looking away.
“Please.”
He hesitated. “It says Pick’s disease is a rare form of dementia.”
She blinked. “And?”
“And it’s irreversible and incurable,” he added softly.
Dementia. Irreversible. Incurable. The words fell like heavy stones in deep water, swallowed by the mad, whirling rush in her head. She looked at her father, who was skinning the bark off of a stick he’d retrieved, hunched and small on the hewn wood bench, dwarfed by both the old tree and the blackened wreck.
There seemed no sense to it, that she was standing, watching her father, while being floored by a diagnosis that seemed as if it belonged to a stranger. Manny had left a long time ago, chasing some sort of mysterious, phantom dream that he could not even articulate. He had abdicated the
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