The Girl From Home Read Online Free Page B

figured that you responded to people with dementia the same way you did a child.
    â€œThe thing is, Dad, that angels exist only in heaven, so no one knows if Mom is an angel or not, because if she’s an angel, it’s in heaven.”
    His father nodded, seemingly satisfied with this answer. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “I knew that guy was lying, because he couldn’t know if Linda was an angel. Nobody can.”
    Jonathan isn’t certain whether any actual diagnosis has been made of his father’s condition. His younger sister, Amy, has told him that the doctors have bandied about different medical-sounding things, which she often mentioned in connection with some celebrity who suffered from the malady. Parkinson’s, like with Michael J. Fox, was ruled out, but Parkinson’s syndrome, like with Muhammad Ali, was a leading candidate when the symptoms were physical only, most noticeably that his left leg dragged when he walked. When his father’s mind began to falter, Alzheimer’s became the new diagnosis, with Ronald Reagan getting top billing, but Amy’s Internet research recently led her to conclude he might have Lewy body. Jonathan had never heard of that one, but Amy said Robin Williams had it, and she described the disease as like Alzheimer’s, only with hallucinations, pointing out that their father was often talking about having different imaginary friends.
    *  *  *
    For the next hour, Jonathan watches football as William Caine snores beside him. Just as Jonathan’s ready to call it a day, after Michigan stops Ohio State at the two, his father shows signs of coming to life. First there’s a gargling noise, followed by a loud hack, and then his eyes slowly open.
    â€œHiya, Dad,” Jonathan says. “How are you?”
    His father blinks.
    â€œIt’s Jonathan.”
    â€œI know,” his father croaks.
    â€œHere, have some water.”
    Jonathan takes the pitcher on the bedside table and fills the Styrofoam cup sitting beside it. For a moment he thinks he’ll have to hold it to his father’s lips, but then his father takes the cup out of Jonathan’s hands.
    His grasp is less than steady, but he nonetheless manages to take a sip without spilling it. The cup’s return trip to the table has a rockier landing, but it touches down without falling over.
    â€œWhy are you here?” his father asks.
    It’s more than a fair question. When his mother was alive, Jonathan’s parental contact—which even then amounted to little more than monthly phone calls—was confined to his mother, with his father listening on the other extension, but not saying much besides hello and good-bye.
    Since his mother’s funeral, Jonathan had been even more distant, such that the most accurate description of his paternal relationship would be that they were just shy of being estranged. He hadn’t visited, and they’d spoken only a handful of times over the phone, and those conversations followed a nearly identical script:
    Jonathan: How are you doing, Dad?
    Dad: Still here. How’s everything with you?
    Jonathan: Good.
    Dad: Any plans to come see your old man?
    Jonathan: Sorry, but work’s crazed now. Maybe next month.
    Dad: Okay. ’Bye now.
    The first response that pops into Jonathan’s head to his father’s query as to why he’s visiting now, after all this time, is sarcastic— Nice to see you, too, Dad. The second one is a lie— Because I missed you. He goes with the bronze-medal answer.
    â€œI’ll be visiting a lot more from now on, Dad. I’m going to stay at the house for a little while.”
    â€œYour mother will be happy about that.”
    Jonathan searches his father’s face for some tell that he meant the comment facetiously, but he looks serious as a heart attack.
    â€œMom’s dead. Don’t you remember?”
    Jonathan’s father offers