The Home Visit

Anika had rehearsed the sentence so many times that it no longer sounded like her own voice: their father needed more care than either of them could keep giving him at home. She had planned to say it calmly, over coffee, before Dov's flight back that evening. Instead it came out while she was scrubbing a pot Hollis had left on the burner dry for the second time that month.

"He forgot the stove again," she said, not turning around. "Last week it was the front door. He'd been outside for twenty minutes before Mrs. Petras walked him back."

Dov set down his mug carefully, the way he did when he was choosing not to react. He had flown in only twice this year, and each visit their father seemed, to him, essentially unchanged — a little slower, perhaps, but still himself. Having spent barely six days with Hollis since January, he was in no position to see what Anika saw every single evening.

"He's fine when I'm here," Dov said. "Tired, maybe. That's not the same as unsafe."

"You're here for a weekend at a time." Anika finally turned around, drying her hands on a towel she didn't need. "I'm the one who finds him standing in the kitchen at two in the morning, not sure whether he's already eaten dinner."

Had their mother still been alive, Anika thought, this conversation would never have needed to happen at all. Without ever discussing it, the two of them had somehow assumed that one parent would simply outlast the need for this kind of decision. Neither of them said this out loud, though something in Dov's face suggested he was thinking it too.

"A facility," Dov said, testing the word like it might be sharper than it looked. "You want to put Dad in a facility."

"I want him somewhere with people trained to notice when he's forgotten to eat. That's not the same thing you're describing." She kept her voice level, though it cost her something to do it. "I'm not saying this because I've stopped wanting to help him. I'm saying it because I'm not, apparently, enough on my own."

What neither of them wanted to say directly was the plainer fact underneath the argument. Dov's resistance came less from confidence in their father's safety than from what moving him would make true about all the visits Dov hadn't made. Rarely had Anika seen her brother so unwilling to meet her eyes.

"If we'd talked about this sooner," she said quietly, "before it got to the stove, we might have found a place he'd actually have wanted to see for himself. Now we're choosing in a hurry, and neither of us likes what that feels like."

Dov didn't answer right away. He looked toward the hallway, where their father's radio was playing faintly behind a closed door, the same music he'd played every evening for as long as either of them could remember.

"I'll come back next weekend," he said finally. "We'll look at places together. I'm not saying yes yet. I'm saying I'll look."

It wasn't the agreement Anika had wanted, and it wasn't a refusal either. She turned back to the sink, aware that the decision, whichever way it went, was going to belong to both of them now, whether or not either one felt ready for that.