Forgetting Foster (12 page)

‘Are we on the tailwind of a fart, Dad?' Foster asked, taking his dad's hand.

‘I did fart,' Dad said. Foster laughed until his tummy hurt.

signs sans wonders

The signs went up the following day. Mum printed them on the computer in big bold lettering and all in capitals too. They said things like
LAUNDRY
and
KITCHEN
and
BEDROOM
and there wasn't just one of each. One went on the door of the room and one went on the wall of the room in case Dad went in there and then forgot which room he was actually in. In the kitchen there were lots of signs.
CUPS
and
SPOONS
and
PLATES
and on the fridge door a sign that said
MILK, BREAD, BUTTER
. Mum suggested Foster do drawings on the signs. Pictures of what the signs meant, or just nice coloured borders to make them more interesting. Foster was thrilled to be included and was hunkered down at the kitchen table doing just that when Dad joined him. Foster
spread the pencils out so Dad could reach them. Dad didn't say anything, just picked up a pencil and began writing numbers all over the sign that read
TOILET
.

‘What are you doing, Dad?' Foster asked without looking up.

‘Making money for other people,' Dad replied.

Aunty had been suggesting signs around the house for a while but Mum didn't do it until the respite lady suggested it. Aunty was mad about that and told the respite lady that Mum was pig-headed. Foster wasn't supposed to hear that and Mum didn't hear that. She was at work. Respite Lady told Aunty, ‘We are all on the same side here.' Aunty told Respite Lady she had a dog who was easier to communicate with.

Respite Lady's name was Sophie. There were a few different ones but Sophie came the most. There was only one respite man and Dad didn't like him. Dad thought he was Mum's new boyfriend.

Foster asked Sophie what respite was. She said it meant giving Mum a break so she could go out shopping or see a movie. Foster waited and waited for Mum to take him to a movie. She didn't. Foster felt like she was respiting from him as well. He didn't know where she went when she had her respite time,
but she was always dressed up and always seemed to come back even more tired. He assumed she was still working on her
just until
things.

‘Let me come to the accountant with you,' Aunty said one day. ‘Let me help you get the paperwork together. What else do they need to get this thing moving?'

‘It's our private financial business,' Mum had replied.

‘Then talk to Sophie! Talk to anyone! Get some independent counselling on this compassionate grounds super release thing!'

‘I am.'

‘From who?'

‘It's nothing for you to worry about.'

‘You are getting completely lost, you know that?' Aunty said. ‘You are so desperate to be in control of everything you're just white-knuckling with no direction at all. Being a guilt-ridden martyr doesn't make you noble. Sure as hell won't save Malcolm, either.'

Mum always drank wine after Aunty had visited.

Foster knew what a martyr was from Dad's stories. It was someone who would rather die than give up what they believed in. In ancient times people did it a lot. Foster didn't know whether to be fiercely proud
of Mum's allegiance to Dad or terrified that it would kill her. He wasn't afraid of her getting lost though. She'd been lost before and clawed her way back. Foster was hoping she'd drag Dad back with her this time. Foster assumed the signs around the house were a part of that.

Dad had been getting confused in the house quite a bit. He knew he was home but kept asking why things had been moved or changed. He became convinced that his favourite chair had been sold and replaced with another. He was sure the carpeting in the hall had been ripped up and replaced and demanded to know where Mum had found the money to do that. He could go hours and hours without speaking a word and then become really angry that all the clothes in his wardrobe had been replaced with someone else's. Foster didn't like this angry Dad, and Mum just seemed to make things worse. When she called him irrational Dad would slam doors and try to get away from her.

Sophie told Mum that Dad was not being irrational, that his delusions were as real to him as they were unreal to her. She suggested distracting Dad rather than arguing with him.

‘Can we tell him his old chair is out for cleaning
and will be back tomorrow?' Aunty asked. ‘He'll have forgotten about it by tomorrow, and if he hasn't then we can just tell him the same thing again.'

‘I will not become a part of his delusion,' Mum said.

‘You already are,' Aunty said. ‘He thinks you're sleeping with that bloke who comes in on Tuesdays.' Then Sophie told Mum to pick her battles, which Foster knew would really set Mum off.

Sophie also suggested a name tag, something that could be worn by Dad on the off-chance that he wandered away while they were out or left the house without their knowledge. Mum did her ‘No, no, no, no' thing again, assuring Sophie that the need for a name tag was a long way off. Aunty got mad again because she'd been suggesting that for a while herself. Mum suggested a card placed discreetly in his wallet until Sophie pointed out that a stranger would be reluctant about going through Dad's wallet, especially if Dad was already in a distressed state. Something more immediately and visually apparent would assist in the police being called promptly. So Sophie suggested a nice piece of jewellery, a bracelet or pendant, with Dad's name and a couple of phone numbers on it.

‘Malcolm doesn't wear jewellery,' Mum said.

‘Teachers at school wear a plastic thing around their necks when we go on excursions,' Foster said.

‘I'm with Fossie on the lanyard,' Aunty said.

‘Fossie, this is nothing for you to worry about,' Mum said.

‘I think he is worried,' Sophie said. ‘I think he should be encouraged to contribute and to understand what's happening.'

‘I don't think a child should have to deal with adult issues,' Mum replied.

‘I think you might be forgetting that he is already dealing with it,' Sophie said.

‘I haven't forgotten anything,' Mum replied.

‘But you did!' Foster yelled. He'd had a yell in him for a while, just sitting there festering, a yell he'd done in his head, a yell his peg-basket captives had done for him, a big yell about missed lunches and silent dinners and all the crossness that hid under even the nice things that were said around here lately. ‘You forgot everything! Dad told me. But you got everything back after you were cleaned up! And now Dad's been cleaned up too and you're just mean about it and everyone's always mad! And if he runs away again I'm going with him and we won't wear lemon yards!'

‘Lemon . . . yards,' Aunty said slowly.

‘Lanyards?' Sophie offered.

Foster ran out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room, trying to make his feet really loud. He heard Mum call after him, pleadingly. He heard her sorry-voice following him. He didn't care. He stood on the threshold of his bedroom and yelled, ‘Pick your battles!'

Then he slammed the door.

dog collars and day care

Foster hadn't felt really scared until Dad forgot Geraldine. It wasn't that Dad sometimes forgot her and then reconnected when she shoved a wet snout into the palm of his hand. Dad just suddenly stopped recognising her altogether and started shoving her out onto the street as if she were a stray who had somehow managed to get into their back garden. Geraldine started hiding right down the back by the jacaranda tree as if she somehow knew that Dad wouldn't venture that far. But there was always that random moment when sunning herself on the bricks by the back door that would be interrupted by Dad's furious conviction that she did not belong to them. If Dad could completely forget the years of burying his face into her prickly muzzle and holding her
like a baby on his lap, how long would it be before Dad tried shoving Foster out through the side gate? Geraldine had been around longer than Foster too.

Mum put a padlock on the side gate but that just meant Dad started dragging Geraldine by the scruff through the house and pushing her out the front door.

‘No, Dad!' Foster would say.

‘Stay back, Fossie. We don't know if it's trained to attack or not.'

The problem was made worse by the fact that they could never keep a collar on Geraldine. Twice she'd been picked up by the dog pound man. Mum was dumbfounded by how Dad managed to get Geraldine out of the house so often without her knowledge. A neighbour would bring her back, or once the ranger brought her back, and neither Mum nor Foster had even realised she was gone.

Mum tried showing Dad photographs of Geraldine, photographs of Dad with Geraldine. Dad enjoyed that and talked affectionately about her. But when confronted by the living beast Dad could not connect the dots. She was no longer his Geraldine.

Sophie suggested trying to introduce Geraldine as a new dog, a devoted companion for Dad. The problem was by the time they had decided to try this
plan Geraldine had acquired some new behaviours of her own. She would see Dad and run for it. She even stopped coming inside the house when invited by Mum, something she ordinarily loved to do, clearly associating it with being dragged across the floor, legs akimbo, and unceremoniously booted onto the street. Geraldine got wise and Mum got desperate.

‘I thought pets were supposed to be comforting?' she complained to Sophie.

‘This is unusual,' Sophie responded.

‘There's a whole damn science behind it! Geraldine should be reducing his anxiety, not making it worse,' Mum said.

‘Yup,' Sophie replied. ‘Maybe I'll cancel pet therapy.'

Pet therapy was a part of Dad's new Day Program. The way it was spoken about by Mum and Aunty, Sophie and Mum's new boyfriend, Foster just knew it had capital letters and was very important. Dad was to go out with Sophie twice a week and spend a few hours socialising. This was to give Mum and Aunty more of a break and to offer Dad some ‘Stimulating Activities in a Homelike Environment'. That's what it said in the pamphlet. Foster thought the whole thing was a bit odd because Dad had never really liked socialising. And if pet therapy was a big thing there
they had better be prepared to lose some animals.

They all went to see the Homelike Environment with Stimulating Activities together. Sophie had suggested it might be nice for everyone to go and visit and see what it was like. Dad was particularly compliant that day, which made getting out of the house easier than usual. There was only one trip back into the house when Mum realised Dad was wearing two pairs of trousers. He accused her of doing it but still let her lead him inside to remove the outer pair.

For the first time Dad had to wear a lanyard. It was only temporary while Mum organised a nice silver chain for his wrist. She had ordered one with chunky links and a blank disc from a catalogue. Foster had helped her choose it. Mum said she would get it engraved later. Foster thought the lanyard looked very professional though, and secretly hoped Dad could keep wearing it even when his bracelet was ready. It had his photograph on it and his name and two phone numbers. It looked just like the ones teachers and even doctors wore. In very small print under Dad's name was written
Memory Impaired.
It swung on a thick purple strap from Dad's neck like a credential.

As soon as they started driving Dad began reading
out every road sign he could see. Foster joined in. Foster was excited when Dad began the game. It was one of their special things and he found himself very happy for the first time in a very long time.

But this time Dad wasn't doing it right. Sometimes he just kept saying the same word over and over again. When he did say a sentence it didn't carry on from Foster's the way it was supposed to. Sometimes Dad called out another word before Foster had even finished making up his sentence.

‘Dad, you're not doing it right,' Foster said impatiently.

‘Stop,' Dad read. Then immediately, ‘“Stop! In the name of love”.'

‘We're not doing songs,' Foster said.

‘“Stop! In the name of love”.'

‘Stop!' Foster said.

‘“. . . In the name of love”.'

‘Mum!'

‘Fossie, does it really matter? Just let him do what he wants.'

‘But there are rules! He's ruining it!'

‘Fossie, please! He doesn't even know it's a game. He's not even playing with you.'

Foster looked at Mum aghast. It wasn't just her
tone, rude and impatient. It was her saying out loud what Foster already knew but was pretending wasn't true so he could have this small moment of enjoyment with Dad.
He's not even playing with you.
Foster felt that same Big Shops humiliation roll over him like a tractor wheel.

‘Speed hump,' Dad said. ‘Hump means sex.'

They spent the rest of the drive in silence.

locked in, locked out

When they arrived Sophie was already there. She must have been waiting with her nose pressed to the window because she walked out and across the car park before Dad was even out of the car. Foster thought she looked more excited about this visit than any of them were.

In the car, Dad had kept on making vague references to sex that Foster didn't really understand but was pleased to see left Mum in a knot of agonies. He knew what a penis was but the other words were mysteries. His only clue that they were inappropriate was Mum cranking up the car radio and then talking loudly over it about nothing.

‘I don't know if this is a good idea today,' Mum said immediately to Sophie.

‘Oh, just come in and have a look around. Malcolm, you want to have a look, don't you?'

‘Don't know where I am.'

‘He's not quite himself today,' Mum said.

‘All the more reason,' Sophie replied. ‘Distraction, distraction, distraction.' She said each word with a pat and squeeze of Mum's forearm.