Brooklyn Time

By Alan Barasky
Cheryl cried at breakfast when Dad couldn’t remember how to use a fork.

And again when she told Dr. Young about it during their weekly visit.

“Forgetting how to use everyday items is to be expected in a mid-stage Alzheimer’s patient. How did he react?”

“He smashed some dishes and started screaming about finding the bus so he could go back to Brooklyn – again. All he talks about is going home to Brooklyn….”

“Where he lived with your Mom for sixty years until she passed away. That’s a powerful memory – maybe the only one he’s still sure of.” Dr. Young took Cheryl’s hand. “Cheryl, you won’t be able to care for your Dad forever. It may be time.”

Then the door to Dr. Young’s office burst open and Dad filled the doorway, wringing his hands in front of him.

“Mr. Wiseman, it’s okay”, said Dr. Young’s nurse as she gently took his elbow, trying to turn him back to the waiting room.

“No!” he shouted, eyes blazing. He seemed to notice Dr. Young for the first time. “Can you tell me where the bus to Brooklyn is?” he pleaded softly.

* * *

After his nap Cheryl found Dad pacing in the study, cradling one of the model train engines Cheryl had bought for him. Dad had always loved trains. He used to tell stories about playing on an old railroad bridge when he was a kid and insisted on using the Auto Train when he and Mom spent winters in Florida.

“Dad, how was your nap? Did you see all the new snow outside? Isn’t it beautiful? Dad?”

“Can’t stay here, can’t stay here,” he muttered, turning to Cheryl. “I have to go home. I have to go back to Brooklyn. Now.”

“Dad, you don’t live in Brooklyn anymore. You live with me. You are home.”

“No, no, NO!” Dad looked at the engine in his arms and then hurled it against the far wall of the study. Tears fell from two faces as they watched the shattered pieces of the engine spin crazily across the wooden floor.

* * *

Jeff was late because of a client dinner, so Cheryl couldn’t share her day with her husband until they were getting ready for bed. He listened in silence and then took her in his arms. “You know I love your Dad,” he said as he nuzzled her hair, “but my first concern is always you. Dr. Young may be right. It may be time.”

She was still crying when she put on her footie pajamas. But she smiled as she remembered how much Mom had loved footies and Dad’s mock outrage when he discovered that she had at least twenty of them. She could still hear Mom’s cackle whenever she wore her favorites from Arizona State with the red Sun Devils all over them. And see Dad’s eyes twinkle when he would say, “It’s the right outfit for you, woman.”

* * *

Cheryl pushed up against Jeff, sliding over under the covers until she could feel every part of her touching him. He pulled her close with a chuckle that had taken her years to understand was a sound of appreciation rather than condescension. Jeff’s touch was the quickest way to bring on the obliviousness of sleep that would finally end another gut wrenching day. But was it really time?

* * *

Cheryl woke with a start and knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until she checked on Dad. Padding to his room, she saw his empty bed in the soft glow of the nightlight. That got her fully awake, but she quickly reminded herself that he had been wandering through the house at night a lot lately.

Still, her pace quickened as she checked the study and the guest bedroom, and then got even faster as she went through the dining room and kitchen. She hurried to the front windows to see if he was on the porch and then ran to the family room to look for him in the back yard.

And there he was, slowly swaying back and forth on the swing on the far side of the deck. Cheryl opened the back door and stepped out into the snow. She hurried over to him through the drifts, ignoring the wet and cold assaulting her feet through the thin material of the footies. A train whistled and she looked up to see the light from an engine piercing the grove of bare trees that separated her house from the Union Pacific line to the east.

Cheryl moved to the side of the swing. “Dad, what are you doing out here? It’s snowing and it’s so cold. Are you watching the trains?”
He looked at the trees as if seeing them for the first time. “No, I was talking to your Mom.”

“To Mom?”

“Yeah. I thought so. He looked out past the trees again. But she’s gone, isn’t she?”

Cheryl said nothing, just leaned down and laid her head on Dad’s.

He gazed at the wind-blown snow in the back yard. “What a mess,” he sighed. “I’m never going to get to Brooklyn.” He reached up and touched Cheryl’s cheek with his cold fingers. “But I can’t stay here. It’s time.”