“That’s it, turn around, okay now, lift your arms, yes, good, now turn back to me, perfect, great, that’s it.”

I hand him the shampoo and he looks at the bottle, then tilts it towards his mouth. I grab it off him before he has a chance to drink it, squirt some onto the palm of my hand. “Bend your head towards me, Dad,” I say, but he doesn’t. I try to reach his head, but I can’t. In the end, I take my sandals off and climb into the bath with him, grateful that I propped the back of the chair against the door handle.

I’m sure Madame Lalouette won’t mind me hanging my clothes on the line I spotted in the garden. Or perhaps it is Monsieur Lalouette I should ask. The garden seems to be his territory as strictly as the house is hers. The lines of demarcation are clearly drawn between them.

I go to town on Dad’s hair, using the tips of my fingers to massage the shampoo in. The girls used to complain about my industry when it came to washing their hair. And fine combing it afterwards.

But I had to be vigilant, with the regular letters about head lice from the school.

Dad doesn’t complain. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. He stands still with his eyes closed as I have instructed, so that the shampoo won’t breach them.

I hand him a cake of soap and tell him to wash himself.

He slides the bar along his arm before he drops it.

I pick up the soap.

He stands with his back to me, arms by his sides. “Are you okay, Dad?”

“Yes.” His voice is as small as he has become.

I wash his neck, shoulders, arms, back. I squat down and wash his legs. He laughs when I get to his feet. I’d forgotten that. His ticklish feet.

“Don’t fall,” I tell him, but he can’t hear me, he’s laughing so hard. So I tickle them some more even though the bath is slippery now and he could fall and...

The sound of his laughter is as contagious as chicken pox. And it’s big. Bigger than him. It fills the room like steam. I’d forgotten that too. The sound of his laughter. Or just the fact of it. It’s like dementia is catching. I find myself forgetting the person Dad used to be.

He used to be someone whose laugh made you laugh. And I’m laughing now. We both are.

A knock at the door. “Terry?” It’s Iris. “Are you okay?”

“Eh...yes.”

“Oh good. It’s just... I thought I heard shouting.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your dad’s bedroom door is shut. Should I check on him?”

“No, he’s...having a lie-down,” I say. I don’t know why I lie. It won’t bother Dad if I tell Iris that I’m washing him. Perhaps it is because of the sound of his laugh. The fact of it. He is still here, my dad. Some essential part of him that makes him who he is. I forget that sometimes. I talk about him in the past tense. Or as though he’s not in the room.