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I came home Monday afternoon to a strange house. A confused woman who does not know me had been wandering its rooms, but now sat quietly, staring into space. Another woman that I barely know busily cleaned one room, shaken by what she'd witnessed, and a little old man hobbled in the living room. In the back bedroom, a young giant slumbered in clutter, and the family cat did not peep from behind the kitchen's bay window curtains to see who'd come to visit. Neither did the family dog bark in the backyard as he usually does when anyone arrives.
As I parked my Toyota Corolla in the front drive and left the car, I spotted our cat, a little, tortoise shell, house kitty, outside, creeping across a ledge in the garden, her tail slightly puffed. Not all that surprised that she'd escaped from the house, I called to her, but didn't expect her to come. However, she took a few steps toward me in consideration.
I mused that the Louisiana sun might cook me and registered that the cat looked spooked, but I figured she'd come home later looking for water. More than likely my 86-year-old father left the door cracked when he went to pick up the daily paper, the cat had slipped out and had since seen something she didn't like.
I unlocked the front door, walked inside, and a stench accosted me. I saw my father walking away from "his side of the sofa," and I figured he must've gotten up when he saw me pull into the driveway. He headed out of the living room toward the the back of the house, limping slightly, his skinny, frail, 5'6" frame partially supported by his steel cane. His bony brown thighs protruded from the wide circles of his khaki Carpenter shorts, and he could easily wear a smaller size of the navy blue golf shirt he wore. He'd purchased both items of clothing at the dollar store around the corner the day before.
"I see the cat got out," I said.
"Yep. You had a black snake in your yard, V.," answered my father.
"What!" I'm no fan of snakes and thought I wouldn't see any now that I no longer lived in New Jersey next to a nature reserve. Well, let's say I hoped I wouldn't see more because I'd moved back home and since I grew up in New Orleans and never saw a snake then, I'd hoped not to see any now, at least not around my own house. But I'm not quite in the city anymore. Denial paints powerful delusions.
I considered, then, that the cat's puffy tail and the black snake may be related.
My mother, 81, sat quietly on "her side" of the sofa. She wore one of her sweat suits, the plain gray one.
"Hey," she called to me, "I was just wondering where you were." It's her common greeting. I think I look familiar to her, but she has no idea who I am. She suffers dementia. "You always look so good," she said.
"Thank you, Mom." I smiled. My mother started complimented people more after her dementia worsened.
I concluded my dad was the source of the smell. He usually is, and he raced, I thought, as best he could, toward the bathroom.
Looking around the room and seeing no one else, I thought the caregiver had not reported to work, which happens sometimes. I didn't recall seeing her car when I drove up or when I called to the cat, but now I saw her large black purse on the love seat opposite the sofa.
Nervous about the source of the smell that was getting stronger, I followed my dad as he made his way through the tiny den. The den is an oddly-placed room with a door that leads to the back yard, and we only have a few items in it, a cherry wood chest of drawers, a small TV atop that, a large, deep blue recliner, and my dad's exercise bike. You must traverse this room before entering the hallway.
From the den I saw light streaming from the bathroom into the dimly-lit hall, and I cringed at the fecal smell strengthening. I hoped my dad would make it to his destination. If he didn't, I would lose at least an hour of my day to a duty I dreaded.
