I reached for his hand.
“Then we’re going.”
It took almost three weeks to arrange.
I found a caregiver through an agency named Mrs. Pham.
She had spent twenty years working in memory care.
She came to our house twice before the movie
just so Frank could get used to her.
The second time she visited, he called her by his mother’s name.
She didn’t correct him.
She simply asked,
“Want to watch a western?”
They watched two.
I booked the 8:30 showing for opening weekend.
Two reserved seats.
Row F.
Exactly in the middle.
I even bought Owen a Spider-Man shirt as a joke.
He proudly wore it.
That Friday evening, Frank was asleep in his recliner when we left.
Mrs. Pham sat nearby knitting.
“Go,” she told us. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll call if I need anything.”
Owen lingered near the door.
“What if he wakes up confused?”
“She knows what to do.”
I took his hand.
“Two hours, Owen. Tonight you don’t have to be a caregiver. You get to be a man going to a movie with his wife.”
He smiled.
“Just a guy at a movie.”
“Exactly.”
The
theater was packed.
Children wore superhero costumes.
Teenagers crowded the concession stand.
The lobby smelled like butter, candy, and that strange carpet scent every movie theater seems to have.
Owen breathed deeply.
“I missed this smell.”
“It smells terrible.”
“It smells like freedom.”
We bought popcorn and sodas.
Owen carried the bucket like a trophy.
When we reached our seats, he leaned back in the recliner and sighed.
“This is perfect.”
