There are days when laughter is optional. Today was not one of them.

​

Jennifer pulled into the parking lot of Valley Pines Retirement Home with a sigh so deep it fogged the windshield.

 

A reminder popped up on her phone; she had exactly 60 minutes to have her daily visit with her father then drop off her son’s forgotten tuba at school before her virtual work meeting started. The impromptu calendar invite from her boss had simply been titled “quick catchup”, which she feared was code for “you’re being fired”. She had survived two rounds of layoffs, but was not optimistic about the third.

​

Her son had timidly acknowledged the forgotten tuba as he stepped out of the car at dropoff. She’d reluctantly driven all the way home to find it under a pile of wet towels in his room. She’d then trudged back to the car, slipping on a patch of ice, but making an impressively good recovery. Her bladder, however, had not, as all the muscles used to keep her upright could not also be spared for continence. Fortunately, her high-waisted super absorbent underwear could handle this sort of light mishap, if not the affront to her dignity.

​

Back in the car, she peeled off her winter coat, then her sweater. The slow, creeping hot flash she'd been ignoring all morning had officially reached June-gymnasium-during-elementary-school-graduation levels of heat.

 

The soft British voice of her meditation audiobook filled the car:

 

“Let the breath be your anchor in the storm of life. Return to your body. Return to this moment.”

 

She flipped the visor down to inspect her chin, because in this moment, she needed to find that rogue hair. The single wiry strand had returned, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, from yesterday’s tweezing. She fumbled for her glasses, then her purse tweezers. She got it with one clean yank.

 

She glanced bitterly at her watch, then at the tuba, and made her way inside the retirement home.

 

At reception, she signed in and retrieved the key fob for the locked memory floor. “He’s been in a lively mood this morning,” the nurse said, which Jennifer had come to understand was code for he was up to something.

​

When she passed through the security doors, her father was already waiting. He wore an oversized women’s cardigan and bright blue socks pulled up high and tight, in defiance of both gravity and fashion.

“There you are! Quick, we don’t have much time.” He laughed mischievously, and Jennifer was grateful that his smile was one of the few things dementia hadn’t taken away.

 

“Time for what?”

 

“We’re making a break for it,” he whispered, eyes darting. “Doris is ready.”

 

He gestured to a woman in a wheelchair wearing a plastic tiara and a determined expression. In her lap sat a shockingly life-like doll, the presence of which nearly sent Jennifer into a panic, until she spotted one of its plastic legs bent backward like a folding chair, and realised no living baby would sit like that unless possessed or mid-exorcism.

 

“This is my wife,” he said solemnly, pointing to Doris, who most certainly was not his wife. “We’re busting out today. You’re our distraction.”

 

“Right, I think I can do that,” Jennifer said. A support worker once told her, “you can either be right, or you can be kind - pick one.” That was when she finally stopped trying to anchor her father to reality and started meeting him where he was.

 

“She packed essentials,” her dad said, which included a Maclean’s magazine from 2013, two Werther’s Originals, and a fork. “Just in case we need to tunnel.”

​

They began their slow shuffle down the hallway.

​

“You’ll need to dance to distract them at the nurses’ station,” he whispered. “Carol does her rounds every 23 minutes. Doris and I have memorized the shift changes.”

​

Jennifer glanced skeptically at Doris, who had fallen asleep, her tiara having slipped sideways. 

​

The hallway smelled faintly of applesauce and antiseptic. A man was yelling at a painting. When they reached the nurses’ station, her father gave her a meaningful look.

 

Comforted by the fact that most of those watching would forget this within an hour, she began to dance. She started with a deranged sidestep, followed by jazz hands, and ended with a move that suggested she might be fighting off an invisible swarm of bees. The nurse looked up, clearly torn between clapping and calling security. Jennifer nodded solemnly and kept walking.

​

“We’re in the clear,” her dad muttered. “That was very… committed.”

​

At the stairwell, locked and marked “Staff Only”, he stopped.

 

“This is it.”

 

Jennifer looked at the keypad. “I think it’s locked, dad.”

​

He looked stricken. “We need to find the key!”

 

“I can try to get some help,” she said earnestly, “but why don’t we find you something to eat in the meantime?”

 

Doris stirred. “Is it lunchtime?”

 

“In a minute,” he said. “We’re finalizing escape plans.”

 

“The plan was solid, dad. But I think we need to wait for the next shift.”

 

He sighed, his stomach grumbling. “Right, right. We’ll try again later.”

 

“Maybe after dessert?” Jennifer said, after which she saw his eyes light up.

​

A nurse approached from the end of the hallway. “Time for lunch, Bill and Doris.”

​

Her father turned towards her, and just for a heartbeat, his smile felt exactly like it always had, like he knew who was standing in front of him and remembered the fun-filled life they’d once shared.

​

“Don’t forget, if you hear the fire alarm, that’s the signal. Dorris and I will meet you on the roof.”

 

Jennifer smiled, and watched as her father grabbed the handles on Doris’s wheelchair and began steering her away.

​

Back in the car, Jennifer took a breath and set her head sideways on the steering wheel, eyeing the tuba in the backseat.

​

Some days, laughter wasn’t just medicine.

​

It was the whole damn survival kit.

​

​

The End