Her father pushes out, breaking twigs along the way. He is carrying a brown paper bag and a big stick.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I walked.”
“Did you have car trouble?”
“Oh no,” he says. “I didn’t have any trouble. I took the scenic route.” Her father peers into the carport. “Ray’s not here? I must have beat him.”
“Where’s your car?”
“I left it with Ray. He had errands to run. I had a very nice walk. I went through the woods.”
“You’re eighty-three years old, you can’t just go through the woods because it’s more scenic.”
“What would anyone want with me? I’m an old man.”
“What if you fell or twisted your ankle?”
He waves his hand, dismissing her. “I could just as easily fall here at home and no one would notice.” He bends to get the key. “You been here long?”
“Just a few minutes.”
Her father opens the door, she steps inside, expecting the dog. She has forgotten that the dog is not there anymore, he died about a year ago.
“That’s so strange—I was expecting the dog.”
“Oh,” her father says. “I do that all the time. I’m always thinking I shouldn’t leave the door open, shouldn’t let the dog out. We have him, for you, if you want,” her father says. “His ashes are on the shelf over the washing machine. Do you want to take him with you?”
“If we could leave him for now, that would be good,” she says.
“It’s your dog,” her father says. “So, how long are you here for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t usually stay long.”
She takes her bag down the hall to her room. The house is still. It is orderly and neat. Everything is exactly the same and yet different. The house is smaller, her room is smaller, the twin bed is smaller. There is a moment of panic—a fear of being consumed by whatever it is that she came in search of. She feels worse, further from herself. She looks around, wondering what she is doing in this place, it is deeply familiar and yet she feels entirely out of place, out of sorts. She wants to run, to take the next train back. From her bedroom window she sees her mother’s car glide into the driveway.
“Is she here?” She hears her mother’s voice across the house.
“Hi Mom,” she says and her mother does not hear her. She tries again. “Hi Mom.” She walks down the hall saying, Hi Mom, Hi Mom, Hi Mom at different volumes, in different intonations, like a hearing test.
“Is that you?” her mother finally asks when she’s two feet away.
“I’m home.”
Her mother hugs her—her mother is smaller too. Everything is shrinking, compacting, intensifying. “Did you have a good flight?”
She has never flown home. “I took the train.”
“Is Ray back?” her mother asks.
“Not yet,” her father says as he puts two heaping tablespoons of green powder into a glass of water.
“Where did you meet this Ray?”
“Your father left his coat at the health food store and Ray found it and called him.”
Her father nods. “I went to get the coat and we started talking.”
“Your father and Ray go to vitamin class together.”
“Vitamin class?”
“They go to the health store and a man speaks to them over a video screen.”
“What does the man tell you?”
“He talks about nutrition and health. He tells us what to do.”
“How many people go?”
“About thirty.” Her father stirs, tapping the side of the glass with his spoon. “This is the green stuff, I have two glasses of this twice a day and then I have a couple of the red stuff. It’s all natural.” He drinks in big gulps.
It looks like a liquefied lawn.
“See my ankles,” he says, pulling up the leg of his pants. “They’re not swollen. Ever since I started taking the supplements, the swelling has gone down. I feel great. I joined a gym.”
“Where was this Ray before he came to you?”
“He had a place over on Arlington Road, one of those apartments behind the A&P, with another fellow.”
“Something happened to that man, he may have died or gone into a home. I don’t really know,” her mother says.
There is the sound of a key in the door.
“That’s Ray.”
The door opens. Ray comes in carrying groceries.
“In your honor, Ray is making vegetable chow mein for dinner,” her mother says. And she is not sure why vegetable chow mein is in her honor.