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“Your cans are filled,” I said. Char had told me it was best to meet my father where he was rather than try to correct him. So I lived in his reality, rather than trying to force him into mine.

“Hmmph. Well, PJ needs to get on it when he gets home from school. It’s so long it’s starting to seed over there.”

He pointed to a patch of grass near the pond on the far edge of the courtyard. My father’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. He was having a conversation in his own mind. Sometimes, he’d let me in on it. Sometimes, I acted out whatever part he thought I played in this cruel production.

“I don’t like that boy Sylvie’s been dating,” he said. “He has no people. How do I get a bead on a boy with no people?”

He was talking about my brother-in-law. Sylvie’s husband, Scott. They’d been together since Sylvie was a sophomore in college. So that put Dad’s current timeline to about twelve years ago, just before we saw the first signs of his memory loss.

“He’s not so bad,” I said. Today, I was standing in for my mother. He was at least in his own mind, remembering his family. Sometimes, he just stared blankly at the wall.

“They were your job, Ter,” he said. “The girls. I did mine. PJ’s too lazy, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s gonna take care of you when I’m gone. At this rate, Sylvie’s gonna end up pregnant within a year.”

“She’ll be okay,” I said. Sylvie did get pregnant during her junior year in college. But she and Scott got married and she finished school only a year later than planned. My niece, Grace, had just turned ten years old. Garrett, her brother, came along five years after Grace was born.

He was quiet for a minute or two. When he ran out of bread, he folded his hands in his lap.

“I brought you a sandwich,” I said. I made him his favorite, turkey-avocado on a poppy seed bagel slathered with cream cheese. I found some Black Cherry Vernors at the Meijer on the way in. I laid his lunch out on the bench between us. Char was right. This was a very good day for Paul Egan.

I talked about the weather. How business was starting to pick up at PJ’s pub. I lied and said I’d take him there next week for dinner. Dad could no longer handle leaving Paradise Hill. The change in routine traumatized him too much. The last time, he ended up vomiting on the floor of my car, then wouldn’t eat anything for three days.

“I don’t like PJ going to bars,” he snapped. So much for gently trying to pull him back to the present. He vaulted off the bench and started pacing in front of me.

“It’s not working. I told Sylvie and PJ that they needed to look out for her. She’s the baby. You coddled her too much. Did you know she’s flunking out of school?”

My heart sank. He was talking about me. This was a common argument between my parents. I was the wild child. The screw-up. The one everyone worried about. Dad always blamed my mother for being too permissive. She blamed him for being too strict. PJ and Sylvie blamed them both for spoiling me. “And don’t you dare bring up that ADD crap. That’s a racket. Doctors and drug companies in cahoots to make zombies out of all these kids while lining their pockets. She needs discipline.”

I stood. “I have to go, Dad.”

He shook his head and then took a step toward me. He raised one arthritic finger and pointed it at me. “Don’t talk back to me.”

My breath hitched. That old fight-or-flight response kicked in. “I’m not,” I said. “But you need to get some rest. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”

His face fell. My father slowly lowered his arm to his side.

“You look so tired,” he said. “You’ve got bags under your eyes.” He reached for me, running his thumb across my cheekbone. I flinched. I didn’t want to be my dead mother anymore. I didn’t want to be the only person tethering him to the life he lost. He was right. I was exhausted.

“I really have to go.”

He turned away from me and put his head down. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You’re just tired.”

“No,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

He lifted his eyes to meet mine.

“Cor?”

My nickname jolted through me.

“I’m here, Dad.”

He nodded. “Am I dying?”

“No,” I said. “But you had a stroke.” It was the line we gave him. The doctors said we were supposed to acknowledge when he didn’t feel well. Telling him he had a stroke was far easier for him to accept than the truth. His own father had suffered from Alzheimer’s. My grandpa had been diagnosed at forty-five and was in a nursing home by fifty. Dad had been terrified of this illness his whole life.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re here to take me home?”