The Light of Hidden Flowers by Jennifer Handford Page A

my head into Dad’s office. “You okay?”
    “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
    “You forgot Mrs. Sherwood’s name.”
    “Too much time on the golf course!” Dad said, flashing a false smile. “My brain is in a sand trap!”
    “How often are you forgetting things, Dad?”
    Dad turned his mouth downward and waved me away. “I’m fine!”
    “Dad. Seriously. Have you forgotten other things?”
    “I forget things all the time, just like anybody else,” he said. “I go to the refrigerator and can’t remember what for. My father was the same way. But he didn’t exercise his brain. My mind is working all the time.”
    “Sure, Dad, but there might be something going on—”
    “The Dow 30!” Dad roared, clapping his hands. “Let’s go: 3M, Wal-Mart, Amex, Disney, P&G, Apple, Nike, Pfizer, Boeing, JPMorgan, Goldman. What else? Don’t tell me, Missy. Chevron, Exxon, Intel, IBM.” He stalled, tapped his head. “Let me think.”
    “Dad, stop!” I said. “Can you please stop for a second and consider that perhaps something is going on with your brain? Can I make you a doctor’s appointment?”
    Dad settled down, gave up on his Dow listing. “I’m good, Daughter! I’m good,” he whispered. Then he looked at me long and hard. “Did I ever tell you about my army buddy, Dick McMurray?”
    Though I had heard many of Dad’s army stories, I hadn’t heard about Dick McMurray. I settled into the crook of the sofa.
    “Dick was a scrappy guy and that’s exactly the way I always thought of myself—maybe not the smartest, but scrappy as hell, resourceful, hardworking.”
    Dad often referred to himself as scrappy and resourceful, traits he found admirable because they involved hard work. Being smart, like me, he considered a bit of a freebie, like athleticism. I was born this way. Fortitude wasn’t involved in intelligence.
    Dad zoned in on me. “One day, the fighting had gone on so long, we didn’t know which way was up. Dark, murky hellhole: you couldn’t see a damn thing. We were taking rounds from every direction. Mackie got hit. It wasn’t until a few hours later that we were able to really take a look at him and see how his body was sprayed with shrapnel. We couldn’t see the piece that was lodged in his head. He survived, though.
    “When I was shipped home in late ’68, your mother and I drove to Philadelphia to see him. His wife, Marie, told us to be prepared, he wasn’t the same guy, because of the brain injury. She walked him out and sat him down. Gave him a snickerdoodle and a cup of tea.
    “He looked like an old man, withered, shrunken—just skin covering bony limbs. When he recognized me, he cried like a baby. He pointed at me like he wanted to say my name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get it out. ‘Frank,’ I said. ‘It’s Frank.’
    “Missy, dear daughter,” Dad said, “that’s how I feel sometimes lately. Like there’s a piece of shrapnel lodged in my brain, a barricade preventing me from reaching up and grabbing the information I need.”
    “Can I make you a doctor’s appointment?” I asked.
    “Not yet,” Dad said. “Not yet.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    The first weeks of summer fell upon us. In typical fashion, the office slowed to nearly a halt. Many of our clients were vacationing around the globe. Jenny pinned postcards on the bulletin board in our lunchroom. In exuberant script, they gushed their thanks on the blank space of the card. Thank you for making this possible. Thank you for giving us our retirement. Thank you for caring for us so well.
    And Dad was on the golf course every day. And selfishly, I was glad. When he would leave, I’d think, thank goodness , because I couldn’t watch my father humiliate himself in front of another client. I didn’t want to see him as anything less than the man I held him up to be. Our schedules nearly crisscrossed. Dad would arrive to the office early, dictate a few pieces of correspondence, instruct