It doesn’t have the appearance of a hotel one would book in advance, and I am unsurprised when we are offered three rooms by a small, squat man behind the desk with a solitary tuft of sandy hair clinging to the top of his forehead. He looks at me, confused when I shake my head. I sift through what remains of my French vocabulary, untouched since my schooldays, and endeavor to ask for one room with three beds. I don’t want to let Iris out of my sight, and Dad could also be a flight risk, left on his own.

The room is really a twin room into which three single beds have been crammed. A swift glance beneath the beds reveals a careless attitude to vacuuming, and the bed linen is congested with pilling from the weight of too many unfamiliar bodies and excessive laundering at high temperatures. Still, it smells clean, and the bathroom stands up to brief scrutiny. I do not allow myself to dwell on the shower tiles as I will be certain to see something I will not be able to unsee.

Best not to look.

“Come on, Dad, time for bed.” He stands obediently in front of me, holding his arms up when I ask him to, so I can pull his jumper off. He looks different in his pajamas. Older and frailer. A watered-down version of himself.

I leave his socks on for comfort. I hold out my hand. “Your teeth, good sir,” my comical tone hopefully masking the revulsion I feel when he wrestles them out of his mouth, sets them in my palm. I know it is unkind, but I have never grown accustomed to the slimy warmth of them.

I rinse the dentures under the tap and drop them into the plastic tooth mug, fill it with water, and set it behind the shower curtain so Dad won’t see the dentures and try to hide them.

Mostly I don’t notice how crazy dementia is. And when I do think about it—why on earth do people with dementia hide their dentures?—there are no answers. Not from medical professionals, not from books or articles or research studies or television programs. Nobody can come up with an explanation for why demented people hide their dentures. Perhaps that’s why I don’t think about it. Because there are no answers.

It’s the disease, is all anybody can come up with. The bloody disease.

I look at myself in the mirror above the sink, but it is stained and difficult to make me out. Just as well really.

Back in the bedroom, Dad is asleep. Which isn’t a surprise. It’s been a long day.

What is a surprise is Iris. Her eyes are closed, her book is facedown and open across her chest, and her glasses are perched on her nose. I approach carefully. I don’t want to wake her. I lift her ancient copy of The Secret Garden and memorize the page number she’s on before I close it. I take her glasses off and pull the duvet over her shoulders, tuck it under her chin. I hesitate before I kiss her. We are not kissers, as a rule. But even though it’s been a long time since I tucked anybody in, old habits die hard I suppose. Iris’s cheek is soft and warm. In her sleep she smiles, then turns over onto her side. She looks happy and peaceful. As if we are not in a shabby hotel room that feels like a million miles away from home, where housekeeping is not a priority.