Indy and Willie’s new apartment is, by design, small. Open floor plan. Kitchen, living room, dining room. Bookend bedrooms, a full bathroom in each. I can cross the whole apartment in thirty steps. Fifty, if I’m being generous.
Standing in the entryway hall, I can see the entirety of their space.
So I have no explanation for why Willie keeps losing Indy in the apartment. Six foot, 185 pound Indy.
OK, ok. I know I call her Willie because her vision is, shall we say, subpar. But her vision has always been subpar. Once, when I visited her at work, she insisted I was a nurse from her unit. I mean, insisted. I had to tell her I was her daughter three times before she acknowledged I just might be right.
Even with limited vision, Willie never lost Indy at our house. And that was two stories.
I have witnessed Willie losing Indy firsthand. Shortly after they moved in, I arranged to spend a day helping them unpack. As per usual, despite my making an appointment and reminding them the day before, I arrived to find Willie and Indy in their pajamas.
They were also leaving. They had some kind of appointment. I don’t know. Unsurprised and glad for the chance to work on my own, I sat down to enjoy my Starbucks while I waited for Willie and Indy to get their collective act together.
As I settled into the kitchen island Willie asked if I’d seen my father.
Now, no one had left the main space. And Indy was standing where he’d been standing the entire ten minutes I’d been in the apartment. He was in the dining room, ten feet behind Willie.
“He’s behind you,” I said, pointing in Indy’s general direction.
Willie is not one for taking people at their word. This is both formidable and completely aggravating. See the aforementioned discussion as to whether or not I was a nurse on her unit.
Without checking the veracity of my statement, Willie flat out told me I was wrong.
Aggrieved, I told her to look.
She took a quick glimpse over her shoulder. Nope. No Indy.
Indy, for his part, was not helping. He stood in a darkened corner of the dining room. His plaid pajamas blended in with the background. And he was laughing at Willie. But Indy’s laugh is always quiet. He’ll close his eyes and hang his head. He’ll laugh until his shoulders heave with silent mirth. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Indy laugh out loud.
Indy’s silent laughter did nothing to help Willie locate him. I had to cross the room and stand next to him to get her to look long enough to see him.
This is a common complaint of Willie’s – her inability to locate my dad. He’s hard of hearing, thanks to a lifetime of hard work, so calling for him doesn’t help. She’s frustrated he can escape her in an apartment so small.
Recently, she’s begun losing objects too. When I asked what was getting lost, I didn’t get an answer.
Par for the course.
What I got was a theory on why everything is disappearing. Willie believes the original inhabitant of her apartment, a Lutheran pastor, is the culprit.
He’s dead, by the way. But his ghost likes that my parents are Lutheran too. He’s so cheered by this, in fact, he pranks Willie by making everything disappear.
Including Indy?
Willie believes the pastor whispers to Indy, urging him just out of Willie’s sight. Which would be amazing indeed, since Indy’s poor hearing means he can’t hear whispers.
I think Indy’s disappearances are a metaphor. Parkinson’s is well known to steal personality and emotion.
Indy has good days, sure. But he has bad days too. Days when that silent laugh never arrives.
In other words, sometimes Willie can see him. Sometimes she can’t.
Willie, no doubt, would disagree with me. Just like I was wrong about being a nurse on her unit. Just like I was wrong about Indy standing behind her.
She could be right. Metaphors drift in my mind like flotsam on the ocean. So you might want to hold onto your wallet if you ever visit.
And for the sake of ghostly Lutheran pastors everywhere, pee before you get there. He doesn’t need to see that.