15

If you are towing another vehicle, make sure the tow bar is strong enough.

We stop at the Visitors’ Center so that Iris can use the facilities, Dad can have a cup of tea and a slice of Bakewell tart, and I can study the information panels on the walls, where I learn much, most significantly:

• The cliffs are made of chalk and are constantly crumbling;
• One must NEVER walk on the edge of the cliffs because they’re made of chalk and are constantly crumbling;
• It’s a long way down. Three hundred and fifty feet to be precise.

On a map, a trail is shown, leading east from the Visitors’ Center to the South Foreland Lighthouse. Too far for crutches. And for Dad with his recently acquired shuffle, as if he’s wearing slippers that are too big for him.

I look over at him. He has cut his tart into minuscule pieces and has corralled them on the edge of his plate. He ushers one of the tiny pieces to the center of the plate with his knife, lances it, and guides it towards his mouth. He used to wolf his food.

“Dad?” He looks up, his knife midway to his mouth with its little cargo of cake. I start most of my sentences to him with that word. Dad. So he will know. So he will remember that I am his daughter.

I try to imagine me, forgetting Anna or Kate. I can’t imagine it. And it’s not just because I have a poor imagination. They are hot-wired into my brain, my children. There are certain things that people can’t forget. Like Dad, with rules of the road and his Frank Sinatra story—although that never happened, obviously. He made that up after he began displaying symptoms. The consultant said that can sometimes occur. Even so, it is a story that Dad believes to be true and knows by heart, just like the lyrics to all his favorite songs.

My daughters are my lyrics. My rules of the road. My memories of them must surely be safe. Outside the reign of this disease.

“Oh. Hello,” Dad says. “When did you arrive?”

“Just now,” I say. There was a time when I would try to encourage him to remember.

“Dad, I need to make a phone call,” I say. “I need to phone Brendan.”

“Brendan?”

“My husband.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” I used to hate it when he pretended to remember. Now, it makes me glad. It’s like an effort that he makes, just for me.

“I’m going to go outside to phone him. There’s better reception outside.”

“Okay.”

“So, will you stay here? Until I get back?”

“No sweat,” he says, which is one of his old expressions and I study his face to see if I can glimpse him there, but he just smiles and says, “When did you arrive?”

“I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

The tiny parcel of cake drops off the blade of his knife and he chases it around his plate, spears it, guides it to his mouth.