Roll with the Punches by Amy Gettinger Read Free Book Online Page A

in its early stages, and then lately, just the group—and you. Are you Reynard Jackson? Do you have my flash drive?"
    "No, but I'll send over some archeologists to help you excavate."
    *        *        *
    Chirp. Chirp, chirp . I covered my head with the pillow. Who let those noisy birds in my room? And why were they chirping in the dark?
    Julie Bauer's voice blared out into the kitchen and down the hall, "Rhonda? Rhonda? Are you there? Please pick up the phone. We have a situation here."
    3:35 a.m. "Hello?" I said.
    "Uh, Rhonda?" It sounded like she was in a noisy bar. "We need you to come and pick your father up right now."
    Uh-oh. "Is he sick? Did he fall? What happened?"
    Music Man grabbed the phone and said tremulously, "Ethel? Is that you, Ethel? I'm sorry, Ethel.”
    *        *        *
    Nineteen minutes later, after blasting through all the toll booths between Rancho Santa Margarita and Anaheim, I pushed open the big glass doors to the Ralston House lobby. Empty. I tiptoed past the desk in my fluffy slippers. A light shone out of an office down the hall on the left. I went to the door and peeked in.
    There was Dad, the big, bad kid in the principal's office, snoozing in a chair, suitcases at his feet. His head was bent forward, his glasses falling off his nose.
    I started toward him.
    "Hey, dude, you come for Harold? You his daughter?" I jumped and saw a stocky guy in scrubs and a crew cut, blocking the doorway like a fire plug.
    I cringed and nodded. "Do you know what this is about?"
    "Dude, it was awesome," Fire Plug Guy grinned and rubbed a blocky hand across his fleshy lower lip. "Harold, er—Mr. Hamilton, there, he had us super busy tonight."
    Julie Bauer blazed in and said in a sharp whisper, "Ms. Hamilton, we really aren't equipped to deal with patients with dementia here. Surely you read that in our brochure. You'll have to find somewhere else to place your father. What happened tonight was just too disruptive to our community.”
    My eyes bugged out. "Dementia? He's not demented. He's seventy-nine years old, but as far as I know, he's very mentally acute."
    A windy snore escaped Dad.
    "Surely you've noticed a few changes in your father? In the past few months maybe?"
    "Uh. I haven't—" been home lately. "Oh, did he get too loud? He's always been loud. His hearing's not good, so he kinda yells. You're not kicking him out for that, are you? Doesn't a person have a constitutional right to be loud in the United States?" Panic bloomed in my chest. If this place threw him out for something so small, would any other place take him?
    "Wait." Julie hunted in her desk.
    Fire Plug Guy crossed anchor-tattooed arms. "Hey, dude. You got any little kids at home?"
    I shook my head no.
    "Chuf, man." He grinned. "He thinks you do. He knocked on everybody's doors, yellin' at the top of his lungs for somebody to give him a ride home 'cause a bunch of kids and dogs were home alone. Young kids, like four or five years old. Dude. You got a sister named Nancy?"
    I frowned, "No. He did. Why didn't you tell me this when you called? Are you sure he wasn't sleepwalking?" I approached the elephant in the room. "Dad?"
    Julie handed me a pamphlet as Dad stirred, bleary-eyed and heaved himself up, picking up his trusty carryall, a small navy blue cloth bag holding Kleenex, sunglasses, glasses-cleaning kit, a crossword book, and contraband snacks. His beige pants clung wetly to his legs. A whiff of something rank reached my nose.
    "Come on, Rhonda. Let's go," Dad said. "These people can go to hell for all I care. They wouldn't even let me come and check on you and Monica and Hanky and Jerry." He and I exchanged a puzzled look. "I mean Davey and Susie, of course. Monica's kids," he corrected himself.
    "They're in Australia, Dad.”
    He shoved his bag at me and latched onto my arm, propelling me toward the door. "Come on. These pants are cold."
    I sucked in air, stumbling along in his grasp. "And wet?"
    He scowled and