“Just ask and see,” he insists.
“Sure, Pa,” I concede. “I’ll ask.”
I know what Tristan’s answer will be. I also know what his reaction will be if I bring this up with him again.
Unfortunately, Pa still suffers from the delusion that he and Tristan are friends. I’ve tried to explain to Pa that he and Tristan were never friends to begin with. But that conversation didn’t go well.
You can’t argue with a man in denial. And denial has been Pa’s best friend since Mama died.
I slip out of his room, feeling that guilty tug every time I say goodnight to him. But the guilt has an edge to it now. And it’s starting to feel a lot like bitterness.
I love my father. Deep down, I know he loves me, too.
But if love is measured in sacrifice, then the scoreboard reads something like “SAOIRSE—Infinity, PA—Zero.”
And it’s not gonna be changing anytime soon.
I walk down to Mrs. Filan’s room and knock on her door.
“Sara?” comes her warbling voice.
I sigh. “It’s Saoirse, Mrs. Filan.”
I push open the door and walk in. She’s sitting on her bed in a ratty old bathrobe that she supposedly knitted herself when she first moved in here decades ago.
It’s a believable story, mostly because the robe looks like it’s been through multiple world wars. The weave is coming loose, holes opening up in all manner of unsightly places.
She wobbles upright so I can help her to the bathroom. “Where’ve you been?” she barks at me as we shuffle across the tile floor together.
“Sorry, Mrs. Filan. I was—”
“Down the hall with that no-good father of yours,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes at me.
I fill the tub with lukewarm water and then help her out of her robe. “I just had to make sure he took his pills,” I reply once she’s settled in. “And I wasn’t that late.”
“A few minutes late is still late.”
“I can’t argue with that,” I admit. “You’re absolutely right.”
If my life were a movie, then this job would be romanticized accordingly. I’d come here every day and get to give help and comfort to the sweetest elderly people. The kind who’d fall in love with me at first glance. Who’d share stories about their youths and give me advice that would help shape my life.
But unfortunately, my life is no movie.
And the men and women I take care of? They barely tolerate me, much less love me.
Mostly, they just use me as punching bags to vent their frustration and despair.
It’s not like I can blame them. It’s not easy getting older. It’s not easy having to depend on other people for every single thing you do.
I get it. I really do.
But there are some days when it’s so fucking hard to be patient.
“You got a fella?” Mrs. Filan asks suspiciously as she leans back in her tub.
“No.” My answer is immediate. I don’t even think about it.
She frowns. “Your father claims you’re married to some good-looking cop,” she says, looking at me oddly.