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He seems well, although I hate the fact that the stroke has left him looking older than his fifty-four years. I remember how jealous Mom used to be that he didn’t have a speck of gray in his hair, and now it’s more gray than brown, as is the beard he’s grown since I was last home.
“What’s this?” I say, rubbing my fingers over his bristled chin.
“Your mom found shaving me too t—t…” He stops and looks at her. She’s moved toward the fireplace, which divides this part of the living area from the dining room beyond.
“Time consuming?” she says, guessing at his meaning. He shakes his head. “Terrifying?” She has another stab.
He smiles. “Terrifying.”
“You could always use an electric razor.” It makes sense to me, but he frowns.
“They don’t shave as close.” He rubs his fingers over his whiskers. “Besides, this makes me look…” His brow furrows, and I wait. He hasn’t looked for help, so we don’t offer it. “Distinguished,” he says eventually, with a satisfied smile.
“Distinguished is a good word, Dad.”
He grins up at me, and I perch on the arm of his chair, so he can put his left arm around me, the right one lying limp on his lap.
“Your mom’s made chowder for dinner. The smell has been driving me crazy.”
“We can eat, if you want,” Mom says, looking at me. “Everything’s ready.”
“Okay.”
“Why don’t you come help me with the table?”
“Sure.”
I get up again and follow her through the formal dining room and into the kitchen, where there’s a smaller table. We eat in here when it’s just us at home, but I’m surprised to find Mom’s already set out the silverware and glasses, and that there’s crusty bread on the board in the middle of the table, and I stand by the doorway as she goes over to the stove.
“You didn’t need my help at all, did you?”
“No, but your father sometimes has trouble getting up.”
“In that case, shouldn’t I go help him?”
“He won’t thank you.” She rolls her eyes. “He’d rather manage by himself.”
“Even if he falls?”
“Worst-case scenario, he only usually falls back onto the chair.”
“Usually?”
She turns, holding up her hands. “I know, Livia. It might not be the safest thing in the world, but what can I do? Have him yell at me every time I try to help?”
“Oh… I’m sorry, Mom.” I walk over to her and gather her up in a hug. She lets me, just for a few moments, but then she steps back, tears welling in her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she says, even though it clearly isn’t.
I’d hoped the visit to Uncle David and Aunt Elizabeth might have helped ease the strain a little, but it seems not.
She’s about to take the lid off the stock pot when I stop her. “Why don’t you go out tomorrow? Maybe get your hair cut, or have a manicure, or something?”
“Are you saying I’m a mess?”
God… she’s sensitive. “Not at all, but wouldn’t you like to get out, without having to worry about Dad?”
She sighs, like she’s thinking. “It would make a change.”
