She picked her way carefully across the field, which was pocked with rocks and holes where small animals lived. And of course, her father’s beehives, which she gave a wide berth.
Andrew was withholding, she was sure of it.
But she hadn’t been honest with him either. Not for his whole life. She knew she needed to tell him, especially now with her own concerns. She glanced up at the house but saw no sign of her dad. A spring day like this, she’d expected to find him outside with his hives.
She hadn’t been home in too long. Shelly, who lived all the way across the country, knew more about what was happening here than Cassie, who lived in New York City, an hour away. “He’s slipping,” her sister had insisted. “You need to check on him.” So Cassie had packed a bag—a small one—and left Phil a message that she was going to Connecticut for a few days. Were you supposed to notify your ex of your whereabouts? She doubted Phil would care one way or the other, but part of her—the part that couldn’t believe her marriage was over—was still going through the motions like a clock whose battery had run out of juice but kept on lurching forward anyway.
She started back to the car and continued up the long driveway. One thing at a time.
...
The smell hit her the minute she stepped into the house.
Something was burning!
“Dad!” She rushed to the kitchen where smoke curled from a blackened pan. She grabbed a dish towel and yanked the pan off the burner. Then turned off the flame and cranked open a window.
“Dad!” she hollered again. “Where are you, are you okay?”
“Shelly, is that you?” He came down the stairs slowly.
“It’s me, Cassie. You left the stove on. What were you cooking?”
“I was going to make a grilled cheese.” He had on a rumpled flannel shirt, and his hair stuck up like he’d just awakened from a nap. “When did you fly in?” He opened his arms for a hug, and she went into them, a lump rising in her throat that he thought she was Shelly.
“I’m Cassie,” she said. “Cassandra.”
“I know who you are.” He pulled back to look at her. “You think I don’t know my own daughter? Is your sister here too?”
“No, she’s in California.”
“California?” Her father looked uncertain. “Shelly said she was coming.”
Cassie swallowed. “That was me. I called to tell you I was driving up, remember?” But clearly he didn’t. He seemed smaller than she remembered. Her father had never been a large man, but he’d had presence. Whether you liked it or not, her dad, with his opinions, commanded a room. Always Mr. Linden to her friends, while her mom insisted they call her Maggie.
“How about I make you another grilled cheese?” Cassie said. “I’ll have one too.” She’d normally opt for a salad, but her dad looked pleased she’d offered and followed her into the kitchen. The smoke had cleared, and she made a mental note to change the batteries in all the smoke detectors. God knew when he’d last done it and what else was about to fall apart around here.
Her father watched closely as she took out four slices of bread and set a pat of butter in a pan, standing behind her in a way that always used to annoy her. Her dad had a right way to do everything—coffee was scooped precisely, the toaster set exactly to medium, never light or dark. Her dad was a stickler for protocol.
“Fruit? Why do you want fruit?” he said suspiciously as she scoured the fridge for an apple or pear or something the slightest bit healthy. “You still on that crazy vegetarian diet?”
She took a breath, but no point rehashing that old argument. “Not vegetarian; I eat chicken and fish. Just no red meat.” Actually, she was surprised he’d remembered. But that was how dementia worked. She’d learned that with her mom. Early on, especially, there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what she held on to. Things that packed an emotional punch, maybe. Although as the disease progressed, her emotions had become all out of whack. She’d weep at a TV commercial but stare at her girls blankly.
Cassie found a couple of apples, cut them up and set them out with the sandwiches. Her dad ate slowly, but he always had. Her father was a deliberate man. A tax attorney who drew up spreadsheets for family vacations and insisted on packing the trunk himself because no one else could possibly do it right. Cassie used to argue with him about what should go where while her mother and Shelly sat patiently in the car, waiting for them to sort it out. Always knocking heads, the two of them.
It became worse when her mom got sick, Cassie unable to see how much she was slipping. The day her father refused to let her mom drive to the mall, Cassie called him a bully.
“I’m happy to drive you,” he’d said, but her mother drooped with shame as he took the keys. He took everything from her mom—her independence, her dignity—that was the way Cassiesaw it back then. And over the years, it became harder to unsee even though she knew it wasn’t fair.
She picked at her sandwich. She wasn’t hungry. She’d eaten mainly to get him to eat. “So I thought I’d stay a couple of days and see how you’re doing.”
He swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Doing fine.”
“Is Elena still coming once a week?” The house didn’t look too bad, newspapers piled on the counter, dishes in the sink. Phil had been a whole lot messier. Now that he was gone, the apartment was spotless. And empty.
“Her sister comes now.”
“What happened to Elena?”
