Page 59 of For the Record

The call dropped, and I was already getting to my feet.

Rachel sighed as the phone fell to her lap, her shoulders drooping. “I gotta go.”

I wanted to comfort her, wanted to say it was going to be all right and that she didn’t have to carry the burden of taking care of her dad on her own, but I couldn’t. My tongue held back, the words sitting right at the edge of it like raiders trying to break down a security wall.

“I’ll drive” was all I managed to get out, reaching for my keys in the process.

She nodded without protest, and we ran out to the side door and over to my bike. I opened the extra storage, where the smaller helmet with a pink heart sticker—not my choice—sat.

“You had my helmet in there?” She pulled it out and twisted it around.

There were a handful of times in the past that Rachel had called me needing a ride, her tiny car breaking down after she pushed the limits of ‘yes, my car is on E, but how far could I really push this thing?’. Now that I had the bike, I figured it was best to always keep it on me.

My hands reached to close the compartment, but it was too late. Her eyes had already caught sight. “And my favorite sweatshirt?”

I wasn’t aware that it was her favorite, not really. But the few times she had been to my house, she had complained that I must have been cold-blooded and that my apartment was “colder than the set of Happy Feet.” This sweatshirt was the one she grabbed from my coat closet. She would settle it over her and let it fall around her upper thighs. I hadn’t considered it mine from that first day forward.

I put on my helmet, closing the shield so she couldn’t see my eyes. “Yes.”

My leg swung over the bike and I settled on the seat as I started it. Rachel was silent behind me for a moment before I eventually felt her dip onto the seat, her thighs pressing against me and warmth climbing in my skin.

Once the motor was warm enough, I looked over my shoulder as she adjusted her helmet, making sure she tightened everything correctly. My right hand reached behind me and gave two firm taps to her thigh. She returned it with her arms wrapping around my waist and a quick squeeze to my stomach. It was a silent language we’d created over the several joy rides we’d been on before.

“You ready?”

“Take me.”

I dipped my chin and let my hand rest on the throttle. Rachel’s hands held me tight.

I wasn’t sure what exactly to expect when Rachel said her dad was having a rough day. When my grandmother’s case of dementia got to be all-consuming, she was numb. Near the end, the only thing that changed her mood was music. My mom insisted on playing the soundtrack to the original Cinderella movie. Needless to say, it was a little awkward when nurses would come in to see me playing “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” by Nana’s side table. Other than that, she was barely even awake, drifting in and out of conversation like it was all a simple daydream.

But Rachel’s dad was younger, newer to all of this, and although you could see the confusion on his face, he was also strong. His military background was apparent. The guy was still built like a tank. Rachel claimed it was because he refused to sit still. She said that it helped him from focusing on the unknown too much. Apparently he was one of the very few in the complex who took advantage of the gym there. Said he usually had a few older people in the background cheering on his sets.

The odd part of it all was that every time I did come to visit her dad with her, Rachel always had this list of things to expect. She’d blabber about him not remembering names or asking how your day had been twelve times in a thirty minute span. How, depending on his day, he may have refused to eat anything and may look more drained, or he may be passed out on a recliner from overeating. She’d warn me about his eyes sometimes glossing over, like he was unreachable.

But this time, she didn’t say a word about what to expect. I suspected it was because she herself had no idea what we were walking into.

I hopped off the bike once it was parked, setting my helmet in the case on the back. Rachel took hers off, her blond hair frayed and staticky at the ends. I reached for her helmet, placing it directly next to mine before closing and zipping up the storage.

Rachel’s face was pale, her movements staggered and her eyes darting.

“It’ll be okay.” I nodded at her, needing some kind of reaction I’d recognize. She nodded back.

It wasn’t enough to make me feel better. My skin crawled when I saw her like this, so helpless. Before I could fully process it, my hands reached for her, our fingers linking together. I squeezed. She squeezed back. It still felt distant.

We walked to his complex. One nurse was standing outside the door with a clipboard. His door was slightly cracked, and another nurse was holding it open. He was grunting, mumbling something in the distance.

“Yes, sir. We understand.”

A rough groan fell on the other side of the door, and Rachel’s fingers stilled before they dropped mine entirely.

She walked inside, nodding at the younger-looking nurse there with a tight smile.

“I’ll be outside.” The nurses gave us this apologetic look, and I followed Rachel inside.

Jack was sitting in the black recliner in the far corner of his living space, next to a stack of records and a player that looked almost identical to the one in his daughter’s apartment. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, with one leg shaking. His eyebrows were lowered, his lips in this deepened frown.

“Hey, Dad.” Rachel walked around his couch, casually leaning against one arm as though this were any other visit.