How to Talk to a Widower

he’s lucid and days when he’s lost, but even on the good days, he’s never quite sure about the details. He’s a man constantly in search of context.
    On the plus side, he hugs me all the time now. I guess it took having his brain fried for him to start loving me. In my more twisted moments, I actually consider it a fair trade, but then again, I’m not the one parading grandly around his front lawn in his boxers with the fly open.
    He steps back, keeping his hands on my shoulders. I wonder how old he thinks I am today. “Where’s Hailey?” he says.
    That narrows it down a bit. I turn away so he won’t see the searing pain that momentarily melts my features. In the world he woke up in today, he loves me and Hailey’s still alive, and it’s like I’m standing outside in the rain, peering through the window and wishing I could come in from the cold and warm my chilled bones at the fire of his dementia. “She’ll be along soon,” I say.
    “Hi, Daddy,” Claire quickly interrupts, stepping in to give him a hug.
    “Hey, sugar, what are you doing here?”
    “Just coming to see Debbie,” Claire says. “She’s getting married, you know.”
    His expression falters and he frowns, his forehead becoming deeply furrowed as he tries to chase down a specific memory, but it loses him in the chaotic thought riot going on in his brain. “Mazel tov,” he says mournfully, staring down at his feet.
    “He really needs to come inside and get cleaned up,” Rudy says.
    My father shakes it off. “Who’s this?” he says, sizing up Russ, who’s been standing off to the side awkwardly.
    “It’s Russ,” I say. “You remember Russ, Hailey’s son?”
    “Of course I do,” he says, stepping forward to give Russ a hug. You can see the fight-or-flight debate played out in Russ’s stricken expression as he stands stiffly in my father’s sweaty embrace, but he keeps his cool and even pats my dad’s back with his fist, ghetto style.
    “Hey, Dr. Parker.”
    My father steps back and sizes him up. “You’re all grown-up now. You play ball, Russ?”
    “Sometimes.”
    He tosses him the ball. “You’ll be the pitcher.”
    Russ grins and picks the mitt up off the ground. “Batter up,” he says.
    “I think that’s a really, really bad idea,” Rudy says.
    “Duly noted, Rudy,” my father says jovially, jogging over to pick up the baseball bat leaning against the wall.
    “Dr. Parker. We have to get ready for dinner. You haven’t even showered yet.”
    “Buzz off, Rudy,” my dad says, twirling the bat and squatting down into a batter’s stance.
    “Yeah, Rudy,” Claire says, grinning. “Buzz off.”
    My dad looks at her. “Can you call balls and strikes?”
    Claire steps up to him and kisses his shoulder. “I was born for it,” she says.

    My mother is at her post in the kitchen, perched on a high stool at the center island, halfway through what I can only hope is her first bottle of red wine, arguing over wedding details with Debbie and barking the occasional order at Portia, the maid, who is fussing over a London broil. The counter is laid out like a photo shoot for
Bon Appétit,
with picture-perfect salads, side dishes, a glazed Cornish hen, breaded veal, and the London broil, which Portia is wrestling into a silver serving platter. My parents may behave like they were abandoned in Greenwich and raised by WASPs, but when it comes to preparing meals, we are once again the chosen people.
    “Douglas,” my mother says, setting her wineglass down on the marble top of the island. “Darling.” She leans forward to kiss the air somewhere in the vicinity of my face, taking care not to disturb the multiple coats of lipstick that cover her lips like paint sealant.
    “Hey, Pooh,” I say, kissing Debbie’s cheek. She’s immaculate as usual, dressed for dinner in a short black skirt and powder blue sweater, her hair pinned up off her face. She is severely beautiful, like a polished sculpture, and I wish she would wear her hair down sometimes and look a little less tucked in, a little less like someone who has forgotten to exhale, someone inches away from taking offense at something.
    “You came,” she says.
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Because you hate me?”
    “‘Hate’ is such a strong word.”
    She smirks. “Go to hell.”
    “Language, Deborah,” my mother says sternly. “You’re getting married, for heaven’s sake. Try to at least sound like a lady.”
    “You look skinny,” I say. Debbie’s