My sisters have gone to pick up Dad’s and Darla’s prescriptions. I’m making crepes for regular and seafood manicotti. It’s quiet in the house but outside: rifle fire. Apparently, it’s hunting season of some kind and I’m pissed. We’ve had a tough day, and the sound of hunters trying to kill defenseless creatures just doesn’t fucking cut it.

Last night, Daddy took half an Ambien for sleep but he didn’t sleep. Before he got sick, he’d had a disastrous Ambien episode, so this is kind of an all-bets-are-off situation. This morning, he was paranoid, confused and felt bad. He told Darla he didn’t think it would be long now. Then, Todd, his wife Bette and their children left for Los Angeles, where Todd will work a shift in the bar he manages, then turn around and come back Monday. Dara has to go back to school Monday. Last night, I had the kind of meltdown your family forgives under normal circumstances after years of “I’m sorry – Jeez!” but this morning, nobody said a word because the next thing that happened was Darla cried for her dying husband with every fiber of her being, which put my little tantrum into perspective. I decided to lay off the red wine for a while.

The fear like I’m standing on an electified surface has returned. Daria has it too. Despite all this, and perhaps because of it, we get this:

Darla stepped into the kitchen, snapped her fingers and shouted, “Clean sheets.” Daria and I threw whatever we were holding on the floor and ran in opposite directions. I sprinted to the dryer, then to the upstairs linen closet, where I’d put away the last set of sheets we’d stripped off Dad’s bed. I pulled out everything we’d taken off his bed, threw it at Daria and sprinted back down the stairs two and three at a time. Daddy was sitting up in bed with his feet on the floor, feeling very weak and uncomfortable from sweating. We stripped this bed and tucked in clean sheets around him, then he stood for a few seconds as we adjusted the mattress and made everything even and crisp. This operation took less than five minutes, total. Daddy lay back down. We covered him with soft blankets and watched to see how he felt. After a minute, he was comfortable again and smiling gently.

Darla: That was amazing!
Tata: We’ve been calling ourselves your pit crew.
Daria: Not for nothing but the hospice lady said, “I’ve never seen anything like that! I’ve never seen a bed changed that fast!”
Darla: At first, I worried about power tools flying and oil everywhere, but it’s great!
Tata: Do you think we’re ready for NASCAR?
Dad: You missed it! Your sisters rotated my tires.
Dara: That’s okay, I’ve seen it twice before.
Daria: Notice how she says she’s seen it, not that she’s done it?

Hours later, deer huddle in the woods out back. My sisters and I huddled around the kitchen table and ate a startlingly non-nutritious dinner of small foods one can only eat standing up. Darla and Dad awoke from much-needed naps to the puzzling sound of repeated thumping. Darla, who is Canadian and never even saw a gun until she came here, sticks her head out of the sickroom and asks, “What’s that thud-thud-thud-ing?”

Us: Gunfire.
Darla: What?
Us: Gunfire.
Darla: It’s gunfire, Dominic.
Daddy: Shit!

So when he ate a little soup, we were very happy.

Todd looked into the sink, annoyed.

Todd: Can you find me a set of allen wrenches?
Tata: Maybe. I’ll take this side of the house. You take the porch and the basement.

A few days before, we didn’t hear Dad calling from the living room, which scared the crap out of everyone. The next morning, we presented him with a hotel desk bell with which he could summon us and maintain his dignity. Apparently, Todd’s annoyance and DIY plans psychically communicated to Dad’s sickbed because as I put my hands on the wrenches, Dad’s bell rang urgently. Todd sprinted to the living room. A minute later, Todd reappeared pushing Dad in a wheelchair to the affected sink. Todd had been ready to take the disposal apart for repairs. With a few impatient gestures, angry directions and a brief instructive lecture, Dad repaired the disposal. Todd stared, breathless. The whole episode did not exceed 8 or 9 minutes. Dad has what apprears to be an almost magical power to fix things, but of course, it’s not a magical power. It’s a half-dozen decades of working on machinery and equipment and cars and people used to do this themselves but don’t so much anymore, so when Dad growls, slaps something and turns it expertly, a thing runs again, whatever it is. The problem for the last week has been that Dad doesn’t realize how much he knows, and so when his four capable children had to occasionally step back for a second and figure out how something functioned, Dad became very, very impatient.

Dad: Can’t you get the goddamn slide projector working?
Todd: If I push this button, will the tray fit the slot?
Dad: PUSH THE GODDAMN BUTTON! I could drop dead before we see Helsinki!

That night, Daria tugged on the dishwasher door and out rolled a cloud of icky, fishy odor. Inside, she found cloudy standing water and bailed it out, while Dara and I gagged helplessly and heckled. When the last of the water had gone down the drain, Daria and Todd pondered a broken dishwasher, clogged pipes and suddenly, we all knew at the same time.

Us: Freaking disposal!
Tata: This might not’ve happened if I hadn’t poured out that crappy chowder and the bisque.
Them: IT’S YOUR FAULT!
Tata: Yep.

The next morning, we were all sitting around Dad.

Daria: We have a funny story to tell you.
Dad: [laughs nervously]
Daria: Your dishwasher’s not broken, and we’re very pleased to it’s not broken because we thought it might be.
Dad: Why did you think that?
Daria: Because of the stinky water in the bottom. These two threw me under the bus. Didn’t help at all.
Tata: Well, someone had to handle nausea and we couldn’t delegate.
Daria: I scooped out every drop of that disgusting mess, then we followed the pipes and – bingo!
Dad: It came from the disposal when we fixed it. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent under that sink with a flashlight when we first moved here.
Daria: Exactly! So this is all her fault!
Dad: [laughing in earnest]
Tata: I was cleaning out the fridge and dumping liquids into the sink without watching which sink.
Daria: But did she help clean up her mess? Nooooo.
Tata: I didn’t recognize my mess. You can’t exactly dust for liquids.
Dad: [howling] Did you hear what your sister just said? “You can’t exactly dust for liquids.”
Tata: I paraphrased that fair and square.
Dad: Run the disposal once a day, crazy people.
Us: Yes, Dad.

Tata: As you know, my bathroom is full of products and I’ve been away from them a week and a half.
Dad: Good Lord! You’re parching!
Tata: Exactly, so Dara and I went to the giant drugstore in Staunton.
Dad: Did they have what you were looking for?
Tata: Sort of. I’ve lost a little weight since I got here through a program of stress starvation and inspired sloth, so the pants that fit me when she and I left the house stretched a little during the drive and by the time we got to the drugstore, they were humongous.
Dad: Oops.
Tata: When I got out of the car, I sad, “Dara, our situation is critical. These pants are far too large for my rump and I lack a belt. If they should fall off, it is your job to play Point & Laugh. Further, if you do not snap a picture, Daria and Todd will never forgive you.”
Dad: [laughing hysterically]
Tata: But that’s not the end of it because I’d decided to dress like a grownup, which is always a mistake, and worn heels even though your driveway is gravel. So I said, “Further, if my heel gets caught in the cuff of these oversized pants, it is incumbent upon you to laugh hysterically when my face hits the floor. Can you do it?”
Dad: [laughing more hysterically]
Tata: So she was ready.
Dara: I had my camera phone in my hand the whole time.
Tata: I found this excellent shade of Dirty Whore Red nail polish I’m not displeased with, and we picked up a whole bunch of other things women need away from home for more than a week.
Dad: Like what? I’ve known a few women in my time…
Tata: Like tomorrow, your beautiful daughters are gonna Nair their mustaches.

Daria is bailing an aromatic mess out of the dishwasher. I can’t help because I’ll puke. Todd is pouring red wine, as Dara and Todd’s wife Bette double team a toddler whose uncharacteristic whining is driving us all to distraction. Daddy’s sleeping. The baby’s sleeping. Darla is upstairs, sorting out a computer issue. The house is quiet. Tapestry plays softly on the kitchen stereo. About once a day, I try to get out and read the blogosphere, but it’s hard for me to follow a story for more than a paragraph or two. My family speaks frankly about lots of things.

Random Sibling: Whatcha doin’?
Tata: Flirting with a handsome man I’ve never met.
RS: Awesome. Has he noticed your magical powers?
Tata: I give it six weeks before he’s humming the theme from Mary Poppins in the shower.

When the hospice case manager arrives, Dad is sitting in a wheelchair. I am still shocked. Yesterday, I turned a corner at a dead run when Daddy called and found him sitting up on the edge of his bed with feet on the floor. I didn’t know he could sit up, let alone assume a position so close to standing, so when he said, “I’d like the wheelchair,” my mind went blank. Yesterday, he told me confidentially that anything he did with his arms and legs tired him. Today, he stood up, leaned at a carefully calculated angle and sat down in the wheelchair. Dad’s nothing if not precise. So when the hospice manager, who knows her stuff but not her local celebrities, arrived and Dad was sitting in a wheelchair at the kitchen table, I watched from a distance until he spoke to me, pointing.

Dad: Bring me that canteloupe.

Of all the characters in this drama, I have known him longest, now that Auntie InExcelsisDeo has gone back to New Jersey to see a physician. I can see he’s up to something, but because he’s utterly brilliant, I can’t see what. I bring him the canteloupe picked by my baby sister on our shopping trip together. I can’t pick a melon for Daddy. It’s not that Dara can do no wrong, but it’s not that I’m doing much right. For example: a few nights ago, Dad, his wife Darla and I were up late and inexplicably alone. For three unexpected hours, I sat at the foot of his bed, thinking and working out problems. I listened to what Dad had successfully eaten, perused the list of foods he’d tried and had some luck with, and out of nowhere said, “Daddy, do you want me to make you some yogurt?” He thought for a minute, knowing I meant from scratch and heavy cream, and nodded. That and cream soups were all he could eat – sometimes. It’s been puzzling. Dara and I went shopping for Bookbinder’s bisques in the local higher end food store and came up snake eyes until we hit the organics aisle, where we found chowders and cream soups of less than fantastic quality but better than we expected. It was really confusing to be despondent and overjoyed simultaneously, but what else was new?

So we went back to Dad’s and Darla’s, where I milk-boiled heavy cream, cooled it to 120 degrees and added plain yogurt. Then I set the culture up in a bowl in a dining room of uncertain temperature. Then I fretted for ten hours, when the culture had not become yogurt. Sure, it was tasty, but it was heavy cream. Mortified, I started over, and it didn’t work a second time. I had to have a talk with me.

Tata: So, uh, whatcha doin’?
Tata: I’ve got to make yogurt and Dad’s going to be really mad.
Tata: He’s always really mad. That’s his hobby.
Tata: You’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.
Tata: Because he’s going to be really mad, no matter how good the yogurt.

Dad’s upset and frustrated because food’s been the second half of his life and now cancer has left a sewage-y taste in his mouth. It’s like a joke played on him by bored gods and has nothing to do with me. Even so, as Dad loses weight like crazy, his children are left to play Next Meal Charades. After my brother Todd arrived, he spent one evening watching his female relatives eat bread and olive oil for dinner and took charge. Last night for dinner, we had Todd’s California version of chicken and polenta. Tonight, we had Todd’s version of pork chops and apple sauce – isn’t that swell? And Dad’s frustrated by the smells of food he’d like to taste and enjoy, but cancer is a bitch. Yesterday, Todd and I microwaved a couple of cream soups for Dad, and he at some bread. We counted ourselves lucky that he swallowed anything at all, but then, the hospice case manager arrived this morning. Fortunately, I’d already spent a few minutes with him and Darla alone. I came clean.

Tata: So, remember when you asked me to make yogurt? I set the whole thing up, as I do for myself every week, and it didn’t take, so I set it up again a second time and – nada. I decided to blame the whole thing on the yogurt until I remembered a funny thing.
Dad: [Waving a hand to hasten the story.]
Tata: About ten years ago, my friend’s mother had a heart attack and I made rice pudding. At the time, I could make rice pudding up and down the block, no sweat. Anyway, it turned out so dense and dry I could’ve flattened Cuban sandwiches under it.
Dad: [Smiling very broadly now.]
Tata: So I learned I can’t cook when I’m upset, no matter how often I redo a recipe. Last night, I wasn’t upset, and the yogurt turned out beautifully. It’s creamy and fantastic, and if you want some, it’s ready. I had to do it a third time because I couldn’t admit I was outwitted by yogurt.
Darla: “That Ta is a lovely woman but not as smart as yogurt.”
Dad: [Deep laughter.]

So when he asks me for the canteloupe, I gather it and a draining cutting board. He points toward a knife rack and a particular knife. I hand him the brown, wooden handle knife with an unusual blade. He notes that we’ve cleaned his kitchen and placed a restaurant towel under a large cutting board at his right hand. He is pleased but mildly surprised. He talks to me in little words, breaths and gestures as he holds a conversation with the hospice case manager, who may not have noticed my presence. Then an amazing thing happens: in a beautiful gesture with the knife, he slices the canteloupe at a truly strange angle and no juice runs out. I’m baffled but not surprised. I know that he can do anything. She does not. He admonishes me: “Don’t scrape out the seeds. Remove them gently.”

HCM: Why? What does that mean?
Tata: I don’t know but if we’re quiet, he’ll tell us.
HCM: Give him a piece from the center! That’s what I do with a watermelon!
Dad and I: It’s round.
HCM: That’s the sweetest part!
Tata: Um…

I slice Dad a piece, which he half-way takes apart with a paring knife in clean, precise motions. It’s not a mystery to me, but I know that not everyone will understand. I wait quietly in a corner of the room, then say, “I’m going to take a shower now, if that’s okay with you.”

Dad says without looking, “Don’t worry, everything’s under control here.”

Suddenly, the kitchen fills with smoke. Everyone glances around wildly, shouting, “What the hell…?” My sisters, asthmatics both, run for the back door, on the heels of my cousin Monday, who saw smoke and knew the next thing that’d happen if she didn’t make a break for it would be waking up in the emergency room. Todd’s children don’t make a peep, as Todd and I suddenly realize Auntie InExcelsisDeo is staring at us dolefully from the corner by the microwave. She pulls a restaurant tea towel from the microwave, and shakes it. We observe four burned spots, one of which is just a little bit on fire. Still looking at us, Auntie slaps the flames and points at us. Todd and I burst out laughing.

Us: Did you wet that towel before you miked it?
Auntie: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

She twirls the towel, wraps it around her neck and sits down solidly.

When everyone stops puking off the back porch and Todd and I have long since turned a charming hypoxia blue, someone says, and no one knows who, “Someday, we’re going to tell stories that start, ‘Remember when Daddy was dying and…'”

Dad and Darla are overwhelmed by the prayer-filled response of people who are offended by their atheism.

Bow bow bow bow bow.

Last night, we smelled something odd in Dad’s and Darla’s house and panic ensued. By “we” I mean that Dad noticed a strange smell and informed Darla that the oil tank might be empty. By “panic” I mean what followed was an absolutely cinematic exercise resembling nothing so much as water ballet. Cue the swimmers!

Oompah pah oompah pah! Oompah pah oompah pah!

My son-in-law Mr. Sasha and Dad’s second wife Summer’s third husband Clay waltzed through the kitchen. One of my sisters retrieved a flashlight. A kitchen full of women sipped white wine. Daria and Summer paged through the phone book. Where, oh where was the tank, the tank?

Oompah pah oompah pah! Oompah pah oompah pah!

The tank, the tank, the tank has seven inches. The charge, the charge, the charge for emergency delivery. We don’t know what to do, and Daddy’s asleep!

This morning, I realized that, dazzled by the glare off the tiaras, no one resolved the oil situation. Daria wanted to discuss our options with Daddy before we did anything. I had a sneaking suspicion that if he were healthy, every last one of his assembled relatives would have had Dad’s boot print on her ass. So this morning, he and I conferred.

Tata: Clay determined the tank had seven inches of oil. The oil company felt we probably wouldn’t need more oil before a scheduled delivery on Tuesday. We don’t know your tank, though, or the house’s normal oil consumption.
Dad: You didn’t take care of this last night?
Tata: Daria wanted to ask you what you wanted to do.

Yes, I completely threw her under the bus.

Dad: When the oil runs out, the house is going to go stone cold. What’s going to happen then?
Tata: It won’t happen, Dad. We’ll take care of it.
Dad: Do me a goddamn favor and go take care of this right now.

At the doorway, I pointed to my sister-in-law Bette and said, “Why don’t you go in and say hello? He’s in a great mood,” which might’ve been a shitty thing to do if she’d just spent a full day on airplanes with two children under three, but I’m not a nice person and – damn it – nobody’d thrown her under the bus yet today. As she disappeared into the sick chamber, I turned on my heel and sent Mr. Sasha off to find the fast-moving and focused Daria, who stared at me briefly, swished her mane of spiral curly hair and marched off to find the oil company’s phone number. I almost felt sorry for whoever told her no, she couldn’t have whatever her heart desired – almost, but I’m not a nice person and you should’ve seen that coming.

It was about this time Dad got to see my brother Todd for the first time since Todd, Bette and the two children under three arrived late last night from Los Angeles. Earlier in the week, I worried Dad wouldn’t live this long, but illness has not changed Dad’s iron will and sense of badass decorum: there was no real way Dad was going to kick off before he talked with each of his children and saw the seven-month-old grandson who’d carry on the family name. Todd, who had not seen the parade of his sisters, aunt, cousins, and stepmothers burst into tears all day, every day, seemed to keep cool, and when he wasn’t upset, gradually Todd’s relatives drifted into the living room until the room was full and Dad seemed to be holding an audience. I didn’t really notice what was happening at first, because I was sitting at the end of his bed, with my hand on Dad’s leg. Daria was sitting on the other side of Dad’s legs. Dara was sitting behind us on an adjacent couch. Todd’s wife sat holding the baby on Dad’s portable commode. Todd stood right behind her. Summer sat on the couch behind me. Miss Sasha sat at Dad’s right hand, and Mr. Sasha sat next to Summer, whose new husband stood in the doorway. Auntie InExcelsisDeo sat on a recliner behind Daria. A friend of Daria’s named Zippy sat behind Miss Sasha, who said, “Grandpa, please tell us the story of the Crisco and cornflakes.”

This is the story of the morning Todd was born, and it is our favorite. Miss Sasha held a digital recorder. Todd set up a video recorder. If I’m especially lucky, I’ll be able to post this video so you can see it, but until that time, here’s what you must visualize: Dad tells us the story and it is somehow different from what I’ve ever heard because it is always different each time from what I’ve ever heard. We let the differences go and no one argues. The story is hilarious: on April 1, 1966, Todd was born at Stupid O’Clock in the morning and Dad came home from St. Peter’s Hospital. When he woke up in the morning and sat up, he knew something was wrong when he put his feet down on his bedroom floor and felt a CRUNCH. I was three years and two months old. Daria was less than two. We’d decided to make Daddy breakfast and poured out every spice, powder and goo in the kitchen. I was the intrepid planner and climber, and no cabinet was left unopened and emptied. As two little Italian girls, Daria and I had long, dark hair, which stood up in cornflake-filled mohawks. Neighbors heard the screaming and rescued us. There was concerted cleaning and scouring and Grandma – the hairdresser – washed our hair with Spic-N-Span. Aren’t you glad you stayed tuned to this channel?

This was all very funny, but somehow we got on the subject of baby brothers as science projects and Daria told a story Dad had never heard before about Daria and I replacing Todd’s Halloween Chiklets with FeenAMints. As Daria told this story, a man I’d never seen before dragged a giant hose across Dad’s lawn and disappeared behind Dad’s forest of bonsai trees. And just as Daria remembered weighing FeenA Mints as Chiklets vs. trying to pass off chocolate stamped ExLax as Hershey’s, the man dragged the hose back to a truck I couldn’t see. So the heating problem was solved, and as Dad’s father used to say: “Everybody out of the pool!”

Atticus is the new cat in the house. He stays mostly in Dad’s office when he is not eating or wandering around outside. Earlier today, Atticus decided the power cord on my laptop looked especially delicious and I realized suddenly: the people of the four resident cats are busy with the drama of life and death; these cats are bored, lonely and confused by the presence of an allergic family. Even people who sneeze can twirl string, and if the cats are happier, Darla will be happier, and if Darla is happier, Dad will be happier. So we’re going to play with these cats if it costs us a whole county’s ration of Zyrtec.

I bet you’re wondering how I came to be here.

On Monday, I got home from work and spent an hour arguing with a trucking company about the sofa I ordered. The trucking company said it was good news/bad news regarding my sofa. The good news was my couch was coming on Wednesday. Believe it or not, the bad news was they’d bring the sofa to the foyer of my building but not the additional 25 feet to my living room. I told them they should be ashamed of themselves. There were many phone calls back and forth and someplace, during a moment I wasn’t cursing someone’s ancestors, Daria called and told me Dad had been sent home from the hospital to die and we were going to Virginia, all of us. I burst into tears and told her I should go with someone who’d gone before, since I didn’t know my way around Staunton and Swoope, Virginia. After a flurry of phone calls, it was decided I’d leave Monday night with Auntie InExcelsisDeo and my cousin Sandy. We’d drive down to Sandy’s sister Monday’s house and leave the next morning for the Shenandoah Valley. Once that was decided, there were a lot more calls to make. My dentist and orthodontist would notice my absence, for instance. The family store would look a little empty without me. And my job. I think they’d notice if I didn’t turn up Tuesday morning to do my daily half hour of scathing pre-coffee stand up comedy. What about the damn couch?

Siobhan promised to take care of the whole sofa delivery thing for me. Monday afternoon, she sat on my filthy living room couch and issued directives while I walked around in circles, sobbing and bumping into things. This is called “packing”.

Siobhan: You’re laying out your clothes, right?
Tata: Waaaaaaaaaaah!
Siobhan: Bras. Take some bras.
Tata: Waaaaaaaaaah! Check!
Siobhan: Socks?
Tata: Waaaaaaaaaaaaah! Yup.
Siobhan: Sweaters? Sweat shirts? T-shirts?
Tata: Sniff! Sniff! Got ’em.
Siobhan: Pants to sleep in. Pants to look like a normal person in. Pants for the feed store.
Tata: Waaaaaaaaaaaah! If you say so.
Siobhan: Products? Because even though they have drug stores out there, you like to smell like you.
Tata: It reassures me. I don’t have to keep checking my underwear labels to see who I am.
Siobhan: That may prove important. Especially since I know you didn’t pack any.

Siobhan drove me down to Auntie’s house, where Sandy poured me three fingers of gin because my job in the car was to sit in the back seat and NOT throw up. We drove like Jehu to Monday’s house in Somewherethehell, Maryland. Sandy poured me some more gin because my job was to go to sleep, in which effort I was briefly successful. When I woke up at 3:30, I was freezing in a strange bedroom filled with wedding pictures. It gave me the heebie jeebies. We set out for the valley by 9:30: four of us in a Honda hybrid with indefinite travel plans and wide-eyes terror. The night before, a block away from Monday’s house, Sandy saw an upended vehicle next to the car and said, “Mom, is that real?” Auntie said, “That’s real. Those people are going to help them and we are leaving.” Tuesday morning, as we drove to Virginia, I was so frightened I could barely speak in between episodes where I couldn’t shut up. But reality is seldom what I think it is, and when we arrived at Dad’s and Darla’s house, we found Dad looking and sounding – and we were deeply shocked – like Dad: witty, charming, abrasive, foul-mouthed. How could he be so sick that all bets were off? A few hours later, Daria and Tyler arrived, then Miss and Mr. Sasha. We each spent a little time alone with him until he was tired and needed sleep. My sister Dara is fifteen, and kind of numb. Her mother took Dara out of school temporarily, but it’s hard to know how to help Dara. I’m not sure I know how to help myself.

Wednesday, Siobhan told me my brother-in-law Dan was sitting in my apartment, with his two small children, waiting for that sofa. It was snowing in New Jersey. By that time, I couldn’t have cared less if Dan had given that sofa a Raritan River Viking funeral. Thursday, Sharkey, Dom and Siobhan dragged the old sofa to the dumpster. The new sofa, described by Dan as “bordello red” and by Sharkey and Dom as “fire, walk with me red” waits for me in my empty apartment. I don’t know when I’ll see it, but I’m grateful it’s there.

My brother will arrive here at Dad’s and Darla’s soon. We’ve taken to buying huge bottles of wine and leaving them outside in the shade because otherwise there’d be no room in the fridge for more than a few eggs. The other night, we made a toast, all of us, including Dad: to us, to life, to love!

I’m sitting on the floor of Dad’s office with a fuzzy orange cat named Atticus. We are surrounded by cookbooks. If I haven’t mentioned it, food and food writing are Dad’s thing. Friends Dad made on food and wine lists are calling and writing, and Darla’s reading letters and blog comments to him. The two of them are deeply touched by what people are saying. Dad, who has always enjoyed the idea that he is loved and reviled equally, is surprised by the outpouring of affection. I keep asking if that’s Stage One of his Eeeeeeeevil Plan.

No one knows how long we’ll be here. Today, Dad’s second wife’s mother sent us rotisserie chickens and cole slaw. Time has slowed down to a crawl. It took me almost half an hour this morning to put milk and coffee into a cup. Seeing Kelly Ripa on a TV in the Staunton, Virginia Howard Johnson’s was oddly comforting.

The house is filled with bottles of wine Dad’s had for ages. They’re like a travelogue of his life I can’t read except to say I can see that the journey was far from ordinary. We are making lists now of the things we want, and my heart is in my throat. The posterboards he brought back from living in Europe have always signalled for me We are at Dad’s house and I love them. Other than those posters, I can’t say what thing will remind me of some important moment until I see it, and this house is full of things to see.

Dad is sleeping. In some corner of the house, documents were drawn up and signed. My two sisters drove off to find and pay the garbage haulers to haul off yesterday’s frozen condiments. Miss Sasha, the only one of us intent on making a career in food service, is looking through the cookbooks for treasures. Atticus naps at my feet, but he is not convinced that all is well. We have shared a glass of water.