ManicWorld Magazine

Maggie hadn’t really understood what silence was until dementia crept into her father’s life. Now, it filled the apartment, crowding the corners and slipping under the cabinets—stubborn as the sour smell that clung beneath the sharp lemon of the disinfectant. Maybe stale bread, maybe just the slow, invisible work of decay. Each morning, she’d pause in the kitchen doorway and breathe in, half-hoping for the crisp scent of her mother’s cinnamon scones, her father’s laughter as he spun her around in a dizzy circle. Those sounds and smells belonged to some other world.

Her father spent his days at the kitchen table, adrift in shifting sunlight and small rituals. He’d turn a sugar packet over and over, or tap his mug in time with some private rhythm. Sometimes, out of nowhere, a story would bubble up: “Did I ever tell you how your mother hid the car keys every April Fool’s Day? I’d spend half the morning searching.” For a moment, the old warmth would flicker back—his eyes glinting with mischief—and Maggie would smile, almost forgetting.

He sometimes remembered things differently now. Once, as Maggie filled his pillbox, she caught him gazing out the window, lips moving. “Marie always sat over there,” he murmured, remembering—or maybe inventing—a moment from decades ago. In that instant, his hands stilled on the table, and the light caught the fine trembling in his fingers.

But things started to vanish—a spoon, then two, then more. At first, Maggie forced a laugh, shaking her head as she rifled through the drawers, but her hands trembled just a little, betraying her calm. When five hundred dollars disappeared from his checking account, her chest tightened every time the mail arrived, every time she passed his computer and saw the faint blue glow reflected on the wall. She started lingering in the doorway, hand braced against the frame, watching for anything out of place.

Tuesday nights, he sat at his ancient desktop, the keys yellowed, the plastic sticky in places. He typed with slow, unsteady hands, the screen’s glow painting his face in a strange, underwater light. Sometimes he’d chuckle, and Maggie would freeze—was that joy, or something else? Other nights, she’d pass and see him wiping at his cheeks, his shoulders hunched and shaking.

Once, late, she hovered behind him, her own breath catching, and almost reached out to touch his shoulder, but let her hand fall. One afternoon, sorting bills, Maggie found a receipt stuck in a pile: “Payment processed via Western Union transfer.” The amount made her fingertips go numb. She found others, dates and countries shifting, her father’s handwriting scrawled in the margins “For Marie. Urgent.” She pressed her thumb hard against the paper, as if the pressure might erase the truth.

That evening, she waited for him to pause. “Dad,” she said, her hand hovering above his shoulder, not quite daring to rest there. He flinched anyway, blinking up at her, lost in the half- light. “Can I see what you’re doing?” He hesitated, then slid his chair aside. The screen was open—an email from Marie, syrupy and practiced, promising love and reunion. Maggie scrolled, feeling a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Marie referenced stories from her father’s past—details Maggie recognised from old albums, from stories told late at night. The precision made her skin crawl. For a moment, her father looked at her, confusion and longing flickering across his face. “Of course it’s her,” he said, voice sharp. “Marie is my wife. She knows things only she could know.” Maggie’s fingers clenched the back of the chair. “She’s not real, Dad. She’s taking your money. She’s using you.” He jerked to his feet, the chair scraping the floor. “No! You’re wrong! She’s all I have left that makes sense!” His voice shook, tangled with fury and grief. Maggie reached out, almost catching his hand, but let it drop. That night, Maggie lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, replaying the wildness and the wound in his eyes. She got up twice to check the front door, then unplugged the computer, hands shaking, breath shallow. Even as she deleted Marie’s emails, the inbox refreshed: new subject lines, new pleas. She shut the laptop, only to find herself hovering by it, heart hammering, afraid to open it again. She pressed her palm to her chest, waiting for her breath to slow, feeling the deep ache of helplessness. And still, the threat lingered. She imagined messages arriving at night, their subject lines flashing unseen. Some mornings, she’d jolt awake, convinced she’d heard the ping of a new email, and tiptoe to the living room just to check. Each time, her hands hovered nervously above the keyboard, half-expecting to find another Marie waiting in ambush. In the morning, she called the bank, froze his accounts, and filed a fraud report. She changed passwords, blocked addresses, and tried to plug every hole. It felt like bailing water from a leaky boat with her bare hands. At dinner, she found herself watching him—tracking every glance at the hallway, every time he reached for a spoon and set it back down, distracted. Her father retreated to the couch, television flickering, gaze distant. Sometimes, he’d recall a moment from the past—a picnic ruined by rain, a joke shared with her mother. Once, he picked up a spoon, brandishing it with a grin. “The last honest silver in the house,” he declared, and for a fleeting instant, Maggie’s laughter bubbled up, surprised and grateful.

But she couldn’t relax. Some nights, she’d wake to find her father standing in the hallway, staring at the darkened computer, his lips moving in a silent conversation. She’d wait, heart tight, until he shuffled back to bed, afraid he might one day answer another message or find a new “Marie” waiting for him.

One evening, she found him clutching a photograph—her mother, squinting into the sun, hair wild. “You remember that day at the lake?” he asked, voice trembling. “She made me jump in first—said she’d only follow if I promised to catch her.” His thumb traced the edge of the photo, smoothing out the years. A memory surfaced for him, sharp and clear: The cold shock of the water, the sun on his face, her laughter echoing over the lake. For a moment, he was back in that body—strong, certain, loved. The ache of loss pressed close, but he held the photograph with a reverence that steadied him. They sat together on the couch, silent. Maggie wrapped her arm around his shoulders, her grip just a little too tight. The cold of his skin seeped into her, anchoring her. “I miss her,” he whispered. “I know, Dad. I miss her too.” He closed his eyes, the photo pressed to his chest. “Do you think it’s wrong—lying to myself, if it helps me remember her His voice broke, and for a moment, she saw the man who still remembered jokes in coat pockets, leaps of faith in sunlit water. Maggie shook her head, voice soft. “We all tell ourselves stories. But the ones that hurt—we have to let those go.” He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to try.” In the days that followed, they boxed up photos and letters, reading them together after dinner. Sometimes his laughter returned, sudden and sharp. Some nights, Maggie would rest her hand on his as he fell asleep, anchoring them both in something real. Still, she checked the computer each morning, scanning for new messages, for the hint of another scam lurking in the shadows. Her hand would hover over the mouse, breath catching, until she was sure. One night, as dusk drew the room quiet, her father squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Maggie. For not letting me disappear.” She squeezed back, letting the hush settle—a hush filled, for once, with something close to peace.

Outside, the world moved on. Inside, father and daughter learned, slowly, to find each other again, even as the shadows lingered at the edge of the screen.