[photo by Annie Spratt from Unsplash]

My grandfather lives in an assisted living facility. Dad says it's one of the nicer ones but I don't like going there. More than that, I don't like that Gramps can't get in his car and leave anytime he wants. So I try to break him out at least once a week.

I park way away from the entrance and fill my lungs with fresh air before I pass though the sliding glass doors. I could puke all over again just thinking about the stink I encountered the first time I came here. And I guess that was just a really bad day because most days the place smells okay. But today, I hold my breath all the way to the stairwell. Today, I'm not taking any chances.

I walk through his door and Gramps smiles. "The Hero has returned," he says, lifting both arms up over his shiny bald head. I don't get annoyed when he calls me that. I'm usually too busy celebrating the fact that he recognizes me at all. Some days it takes him a while to figure out that I'm not Dad or Dad's younger brother, Patrick, who died when I was eight.

"Do you want to go out for ice cream?" I ask. I hold up the Dr. Pepper as option B.

"We went out for ice cream yesterday," he says but it's more like a question. Gramps started having problems with his short-term memory right after Grandma died.

"We can go twice in one week, can't we?" 

He shakes his head and points to the soda. "When I was seventeen, I had better things to do on a Friday night than take an old man out for ice cream."

It's not Friday. Wouldn't matter if it were. I haven't much wanted to go out since the accident. "Why aren't you out there capitalizing on your fifteen minutes of fame?" he asks.

"Fall conditioning started this week."

Gramps nods his approval. He's thinking about how close I came to winning state last year—and I was only a junior. This year Coach says I've got a good shot at a college scholarship. If I want it bad enough.

"Do you remember Ally—the girl who almost drowned?" I ask.

"The girl you saved," he corrects.

I breathe in through my nose to ward off that sick feeling. Gramps' room always smells like peppermint and that's probably a good thing. Grandma used to swear it would get rid of nausea. "We used to be best friends," I say when the urge subsides.

"You used to bring her over to my house to swim in the pool," he says. "You always looked at her the way an astronaut looks at the moon."

Nothing wrong with his long-term memory.

"Now would be a good time to ask her on a date," he says.

"She doesn't remember me. She barely remembers her own family."

His eyebrows shift and I feel like a douche. That statement could just as easily describe Gramps on a bad day. "I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't worry about it," he says, swiping an unsteady hand through the air. "You don't have to walk on eggshells around me. I know what's happening. I'm not afraid. Trust me, son. There are some things I won't mind forgetting: the look on Sarah's face when our youngest son died. Watching the love of my life waste away..."

I don't remember it that way. Grandma was old Virginia high society. To me, she was always regal—even when she was thin and pale and bald from the chemo.

"But don't get me wrong," he says. "I'm grateful she went first. I'd have hated for her to watch me lose my mind. That's what I worry about, Dodger. I don't want to put that burden on you and your father. I don't want you to remember me as some demented old fool."

* * *

The lawnmower won't start. After three tries, I remember to check the gas. Empty.

The can in the garage is empty, too. I load it in my trunk and go into the house.

My keys aren't in the designated key-bowl. They're not on my dresser either. I search the pile of clothes on my bedroom floor for the shorts I had on yesterday.

"Dodge?" Dad calls.

Shit. Sounds like he's on the warpath.

"I'm in here." I start in on the hamper, pulling out shirts that test my overactive gag reflex.

"Why don't I hear the lawnmower?"

Dad's voice is closer now, harsher. "I need to get gas," I say, stuffing my clothes back into the mesh bag. "But I can't find my keys. Have you seen a pair of brownish shorts?"

"The bathroom floor is covered with—"

"Yes, sir. I'm on it." I hold up the hamper as evidence. "I'll start a load on my way out the door." We exchange nods as we pass in the hallway.

"Shit," Dad says. He stops at the top of the stairs. His frown looks like it was drawn on his face, cartoon style. "You're going to have to re-wash the load that's in there first. Use hot water and a little bleach. They've been in there a while."

"Got it."

"Thanks," he says, with slightly less venom. "Was Gramps all right the last time you were over there?"

"Yeah, he was good."

"Last night he started poking around on his computer and locked us both out of his online banking. Now he says the computer won't start at all. I'm going over there—by way of the pharmacy to pick up his prescription—and then I have to take him to the grocery store so he can pick out his own damned bananas. The last ones I brought him were too green."

And that right there explains the crap attitude.

"Do you need anything while I'm at the store?" Dad asks, moving on.

"Nope." I flip on the bathroom light. The bulb pops and dies. 

"Light bulbs," Dad calls.

"Yep."

The shorts I was looking for are right there on top of the pile. My keys fall out of the pocket—along with my phone. It blinks on when it thumps the floor, showing me a text message from a number that hasn't come across my screen in more than two years:

Hi, Noah. It's Allyson Clark. Thank you for saving my life.

I half-sit, half-collapse onto the cold tile and read it again. My pulse is all over the place: fast and faint one second, pounding slow the next. I want to be Ally's hero. I want to cash in, like Gramps said. Use the opportunity to get close to her again, to beg her to forgive me. But if the rumors are true, Ally doesn't know what I did—what she did to me. She doesn't know what we were to each other. I'm just a guy who pulled her out of the pool.

Until somebody goes up there and tells her the truth.

* * *

The day after Ally was released from the hospital, Mrs. Clark left a message on the answering machine at my house. She told us about Faircrest—rambled on about how some rich lady had turned it into a brain trauma rehabilitation center in memory of her daughter. I drove to Stafford County that afternoon, down the longest gravel driveway I've ever seen, and called Mom from the parking lot. I recited every detail I could remember from that message. Then I went on to describe everything that was in front of me—the red brick colonial mansion, stone outbuildings covered with vines; huge, sprawling oak trees that reminded me of home—anything to keep my mind off the accident. Off the girl I loved, the life I'd ruined. I talked until I could breathe again, until I lost the urge to punch through the windshield. Then I cranked up the car and drove home.

This is my ninth trip to Faircrest. Today I'm getting out of the car.

I park in my usual spot, in the front row of the asphalt parking lot, and roll down the windows. This is a habit. I need to roll them back up because it's cloudy and I'm going inside and it might rain in my car while I'm in there telling Ally that I'm not really blaming her, but she's the reason I was such an ass to her in tenth grade. 

They probably have special visiting hours. I should've called before I came. I look at my phone, laying in the passenger seat next to the box of Raisinets I bought at the Quick Mart yesterday. I guess I could call now. I pick it up and a door slams. It's the door to the main entrance—and she's right there, standing at the top of the brick staircase. 

The last time I saw Ally there was blood in her hair. She was still coughing up pool water when the EMS guys showed up with a stretcher and took her away from me. Right now, I can't remember seeing her look more alive, or more beautiful.

She looks left and then right. Like she's looking for someone. I can't make out the expression on Ally's face but her body is rigid. She pulls something out of her back pocket and her hair falls over her shoulders as she studies it. Then she lifts her head and it's like she's looking right at me. I slump down in my seat and cut the engine.

The steep stairs are a challenge for her. She takes them careful and slow, then follows the walkway to the fountain and holds her hand in the falling water. She's close enough now that I can see a faint, curious smile on her face. It makes me want to do something. Like get out of the car, I guess. But I can't. Not like this. I need a better plan.

The item in her other hand is small and rectangular. It could be a cell phone. I type a reply to her early morning message: No problem. Do you need anything?

Five seconds pass and then I know my guess was right. Ally lifts her phone and studies my text. Like she's confused. But then she smiles and I fill my lungs with Stafford County air.

I poke at the flaking chrome on my door handle while she types a reply—not with her thumbs. She does it with one finger and it takes forever: Will you come visit me?

Well, obviously the answer is yes. But if I get out of the car and walk up to her now, she'll know I've been sitting here watching her, and if she doesn't remember me, she might decide I'm a pervert.

If she does remember...

Well, damn. Right now I'm sort of hoping she doesn't.

That's a shitty thing to hope for but it's true. So while I'm at it, I might as well go ahead and hope she hasn't contacted any of her other friends. Especially Samantha.

Only one way to find out. I type: Yes.

Ally reads the text and jumps up and down a couple of times. Then she stops to look around, like she knows someone's watching her. I crouch down a little more, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

After she spends another ten minutes laboring over her tiny keyboard, my phone buzzes in my hand: I'm living at a rehabilitation center called Faircrest. I'll send you the address.

I write: I know where you are. When should I come?

Shy types something short, looks up from her phone and tilts her head to the side. She used to do that all the time when she was trying to figure something out. There's a lot more typing but all I end up with is one word: Tomorrow?

Yeah, I can come back tomorrow.

I write: I'm working the afternoon shift tomorrow, but I could come in the morning. 10:00 a.m.?

Allyson Clark says: Yes!

* * *

Dad comes out to the driveway to watch me pour gas into the lawnmower. I already know he's pissed because of the where-the-hell-are-you text message. "It took you four hours to drive up to the Quick Mart and buy gas?" he asks. Then he points—with an attitude—to the heavy bank of storm clouds over our heads. 

I'd like to point out that I'd have all the time I needed if he'd go on back in the house and let me mow. "I took a detour up to Stafford County," I say instead.

He makes that pinched-up face that doubles as indigestion and indecision.

We made an agreement after my fourth trip to Faircrest. I said I'd let him know when I was driving up there. He promised not to ask if I got out of the car. Today I broke my end of the bargain and Dad's probably wondering if that means he gets to break his.

"Ally sent me a text message," I say and his eyebrows climb toward the bare patch on top of his head. Understandably, this small offering is more than I've said about Ally in quite a while. "Mom doesn't know yet," I volunteer for good measure.

They don't think I know they have this competitive thing going when it comes to me. I'm the only one of their two sons who opted to move in with Dad after the divorce. So of course, Dad's closer to me than he is to my older brother. But I'm not much of a talker and when I do, it's usually to Mom. She tends to be better at just listening—without offering advice.

"Did you talk to Ally?" Dad asks, making an effort to sound casual. It's the lean that betrays him. Dad's a leaner. He'll lean way back if you're saying something he doesn't want to hear. But right now, he's leaning so far forward I'm thankful there's a lawnmower between us.

"We just texted," I say. "I'm going back up there tomorrow."

It feels good to say it out loud. It feels true. And right up until this moment I wasn't so sure it was a good idea. I'm still not sure but it's out there now. Right or wrong, I'm committed.

"Don't you have to work tomorrow?" Dad asks.

"In the afternoon. I'm going to see Ally first thing."

"And you're going to talk to her?"

Dammit, Dad, now you're just being a pain in the ass.

I screw the gas cap back on the lawnmower, flip the choke switch and wrap my fist around the pulley. 

"I think it's great that you're going to see her, Dodge. But I..." His whole face bunches up. Squinty and pinched. Like Gramps, trying to remember where he left his reading glasses.

"When you texted Ally, did it seem like she remembered?" he asks.

My whole body goes weak. I drop the crank pulley and straighten my back. "What do you know about Ally's memory?"

"One of my clients—the remodel over on Whitehall Road. The homeowner does some work with John Clark. He said there may have been some permanent damage to Ally's long-term memory. I just want to make sure you knew what you're going into."

I nod and nod, like a bobble-head dashboard dog. Right or wrong, I'm committed.