Page 98 of We Fell Apart
“He’s confused,” says Tatum. “He feels different ways, different times.”
“Would he have gone into a house down the beach?” I ask. “Is there anyone he’d go see?”
“I don’t think so. He hasn’t wanted to see anyone for a long time.”
“We should go back up,” I say, stumbling toward the sand. “He’s not here.”
Tatum follows me, picking up his flip-flops as I shove my feet back into Holland’s expensive slides.
“Wait.” He catches my hand as I’m heading toward the staircase. “Matilda, wait.”
I turn to him.
“You can’t save your father,” says Tatum, softly. “What we’ve done, keeping him in the tower, there’s a way of thinking where it might be right, and also, I know you think it’s terribly wrong. But either way, there’s no saving him. He doesn’t want doctors and he wouldn’t get better, even if he saw a thousand doctors. I hate saying that, but it’s true. There’s only one path ahead of him. Do you see?”
I do.
I see it.
He is lost already.
“I wanted some time with him,” I say, pitifully. “With him the way he used to be. The way I think he used to be.”
Tatum doesn’t answer, but he wraps me in his arms.
This boy. This boy I didn’t know six weeks ago, this boy I abandoned and yelled at in the rain, this boy who could very easily be furious at me right now for leaving him and shaming him, this boy is trying to mend my heart.
I hold on to him. The wind is so strong it nearly knocks us over, but we keep upright.
—
At the topof the cliff, we search the picnic table area, then go to the garage.
Everything is quiet. We don’t see anyone. We head down the driveway, shining the flashlight into the brush and trees on eitherside.
While we walk toward the road, I tell Tatum about finding the sketchbook with the drawing of the piranha plant. He says he told Kingsley about the plant himself. “He gets agitated at night, when he has to connect to the port for hydration. He doesn’t like the feeling of being tied down. But he also doesn’t like being bullied or bossed around, so usually one of us at a time goes in and tries to get it done, with a soft touch, you know? Someone else waits outside the studio door to come help if he gets mean. Anyway, one thing I do that usually works well is tell him stories. Just, like, what we did that day, or some island gossip I heard in the taxi van, but I also told him the whole long story of Luigi in the garden level.”
“Like a bedtime story.”
“Um-hm.”
By this time we’ve reached South Road. I can’t see Kingsley anywhere.
We call his name, like we have a hundred times already, but there’s nothing in response but the sound of crickets. Somewhere behind us, we can hear June yelling his name as well.
I honestly don’t know what should happen if we find him. Is it best to try to bring him back to the tower? Or can I convince June to handle his dementia differently, to get him professional help? Should we send him to assisted living, or would that be cruel, since he won’t want to go?
“Let’s turn back,” says Tatum. “I think he’s more likely to be on the property than on the road.”
“We should call the police,” I say. “They can help search for him, maybe with dogs or whatever. At least more people looking.”
“Don’t,” says Tatum as we head back up the driveway, still searching with our flashlights. “June never wants police.”
“It doesn’t matter what June wants if Kingsley’s not safe. Or if he could hurt someone.”
“Buthewouldn’t want police,” says Tatum. “Over and over, when he first got sick, he told us that he never wanted anyone to see him weakened. Never. He didn’t want visitors. He didn’t want to go anywhere and he was suspicious of everyone.”
“Even Gabe?”
