“He thought I was you, Mom,” I said. “In August. Every time I came in to sit with him on my break, he called me Sheryl. He asked me if I’d brought the potato salad for the threshers. He thought it was
1962.”
Mom didn’t answer.
“I worked nights at the care center,” I said. “I sat with people on morphine for three years. I know
what it looks like. You know he didn’t understand.”
Dad hadn’t said a word. He was staring at the margin of the will. At the blue ink.
The pond is the part that counts. Fish together.
“Roger,” Mom said sharply. “Say something.”Track Pregnancy
Dad looked up. Not at Mom. At me.
“I told her not to,” he said.
Everybody turned and looked at him.
“In August,” Dad said. His voice was rough. “I told her it wasn’t right. Taking him in like that. I said, Sheryl, he’s not himself. Let it go. The girls should have it.” He swallowed. “She said if I didn’t drive
