Far from the cottage on the cliff, Dad and I stroll along the peeled-back, rust-red shore. The screen-door slam carries across the water as my stepmother comes out to rest on the cottage deck. It’s a long way for them to travel from Boston to Nova Scotia, now that she does all the driving.
Dad and I walk a short distance apart, alerting each other to small treasures—shells, seaweed, hermit crab activity. There is more silence in our conversation than words these days. We used to talk about family, film, art, and the creative process. Now we talk about the weather, seabirds, and lunch.
“Look.” He plucks something from the water, brings it to me, and holds it up for my perusal. A small brown snail, with its traveling squish out. The snail sucks itself into its shell and closes the door.
“Nice,” I say, wanting to be supportive.
Reaching for the small bucket on my arm, he tries to add the snail to our collection of crab exoskeletons and clamshells.
“Oh, no—” I pull the bucket away. “It’s still alive.”
“So?”
“So I don’t think it would be nice to include a live snail in our art project.”
He rolls the snail between his thumb and index finger. “It has to die sometime.”
“True. But I don’t want it to die from being Gorilla Glued onto a wood plank.”
He frowns. “It’s just a snail.”
“Yeah. Still.”
His hand darts toward the bucket again.
“Dad!” I pull away. “I said no.”
I’ve seen the CT scans and the neurologist’s reports, but as I search his glaring eyes, I imagine we’re both wondering the same thing—how did he end up here? Eighty-two, chugging along like a cartoon jalopy with parts clunking off: first his prostate, followed by his driver’s license, his chain saw, multiple teeth—then his ability to play chess, to operate a film camera, to edit film, to ski—and lately, to remember what he had for breakfast. Now he isn’t even allowed to decide what he gets to glue onto an art project.
“Dad.” I step closer, hoping for a shift of awareness. “I don’t want to include it because it’s a living creature.”
He scowls at the snail in the palm of his hand.
“But,” I backpedal. “I mean—it’s up to you.”
“Fine,” he says, folding his fingers around the snail. “We’ll do what you want.”
What would Young Dad think about Old Dad? Young Dad: professional Alpine ski racer, multi–Emmy Award–winning sports cameraman, and documentary filmmaker—handsome, tan, rugged, jovial. Young Dad, steering the outboard motorboat to Sandpiper Island in Maine, zipping around town in his burgundy Saab, flying around the world for work. Young Dad, skillfully extracting our splinters, icing our bruises, reassuring us about hurricanes and heartbreak.
If Young Dad met Old Dad—hunched, plodding along the beach in water shoes and a straw sun hat, arguing in favor of gluing a live snail onto an art project—Young Dad would have been nice to the old guy. He would have gone out of his way for a chat. But if he discovered the old guy was him, I know exactly what he would have said: You gotta be fucking kidding me.
The sky—vast, hypnotic, perpetually shifting. The sky—brilliant, distorted mirror, fractured on the ocean floor.
“It seems like you might be upset with me,” Dad says.
I soften my face. “I’m not upset. I’m really happy to be here with you.”
He shrugs. “Alright. If you say so.”
“I love you, Dad. I love spending time with you.”
“Well, good. I love spending time with you too.”
“Great.”
He turns to watch a sleek brown dog sprint joyously across the sand flat, no owner in sight. My heart aches. I want Young Dad back.
Let him go. The old guy with the snail needs you.
I suggest we head back for lunch. His shoulders soften at the mention of egg-salad sandwiches. He turns and walks ahead. Shin-deep in water, hand clasped behind his back, he sings.
“So, my Kathleen, you’re going to leave me
All alone by myself in this place,
But I’m sure that you’ll never deceive me,
Oh, no, if there’s truth in that face.”
The melody and words are as familiar to me as his voice, as comforting as the forward-leaning, ticktock rhythm of his gait. Music will be one of the last things to go, they say. Long after he forgets stories, names, and places, he’ll be singing John McCormack, the Dubliners, and Liam Clancy.
“Hey, Dad,” I call out.
He turns around.
“Could I hold your hand?”
We haven’t held hands since I was a kid. He purses his lips, suspicious, always on the lookout for people treating him like an old man. “Hold my hand?”
“Yeah. It’s rocky here.” I point at the water between us. “Lots of seaweed.”
His expression is blank.
“You’re wearing water shoes,” I say. “I’m barefoot. I’m nervous I might cut my foot.”
“Oh!” Brightening, releasing his hand from behind his back, he sloshes back to me. “Yes, yes—of course. Of course!”
Familiar tone, soft as a bandage. Soothing as salve. My throat tightens. My eyes burn. “You’ve got to be careful, Jess. We don’t want you to slip.” Dropping his snail in the ocean, Young Dad takes my hand.
