« He did. Fifty years ago. »
« He told us stories about his ship. We called every couple hours. Kept the facility updated through Dale, the truck driver who’s been coordinating. And every time we’d suggest turning around, he’d say ‘not yet. Just a little longer.’ Like he knew this was his last chance to be himself. Not Robert with dementia. Just Robert. The guy who loved motorcycles and his wife and open roads. »
I felt tears building. « He used to ride. Before I was born. He and my mom had a little Honda. They’d go all over the state. »
« He told us, » Rabbit said. « About a trip to the mountains. Camping under the stars. Your mom holding on tight and laughing the whole way. »
« I should be angry, » I said. « You took my father. »
« You should be, » Hank agreed. « And if you are, I understand. »
« But I’m not. Because he’s smiling. »
« The dementia’s bad? »
« Very bad. Most days he doesn’t know who I am. He gets angry. Scared. The doctors say it’ll only get worse. »
« I’ve seen dementia before. My mom had it. But on the bike, your dad was clear. Present. Kept saying ‘faster.’ Laughed the whole way, like a kid on a roller coaster. »
