“Honey,” her mother said, touching her arm. “Talk to him about the baby.”

“The baby is doing good, Dad,” Christine said, following her mother’s cues.

“Honey, let him feel your belly again. He liked that the other day, he told me. He talked about it.”

“Really?” Christine felt her hope lift, another of the illness’s cruel tricks. It was impossible to predict what would get through to her father and what wouldn’t, and so she would try anything, only to reach him on Monday and have it fail on Wednesday. It was the connection to him that she missed to the depths of her soul, because she had been a Daddy’s Girl from day one.

“Dad?” Christine picked up her father’s free hand and placed it on her belly. “Dad, can you feel the baby? Do you want to feel the baby? There’s a baby in there. Your grandbaby’s on the way.”

“Christine, Christine,” her father repeated, leaving his hand against her belly and looking up at her with his warm smile. He’d taught Language Arts in the local high school, and she’d gotten her love of reading from him; and he used to take her to the library and got her hooked on the old English mysteries that were his favorite. His students called him Sherlock Holmes, and it killed Christine to think that his brilliant mind, as well as his gentle heart, were being eroded day by day. She felt as if she mourned him even while he was alive, hating that he didn’t have their shared memories anymore, of trips to Lyman Orchards for the apple pie they both loved, or their annual pilgrimage to Gillette Castle, the East Haddam estate of William Gillette, the actor who had played Holmes on the stage. Christine tried to enjoy every day she had left with him, which was why she had come over tonight to visit them though she was exhausted. Because she didn’t know how many days they had with him.

“Dad, hold on, I brought you something.” Christine went around the side of the table and got her purse. “Mom, wait’ll you see this. Look.”

“What?” Her mother reached for her bright red reading glasses, which she called her Sally Jessy Raphael glasses though nobody knew who that was anymore. She even had her Hartford Whalers T-shirt on, though the Whalers had left in the nineties, which didn’t matter to true fans like her parents.

“It’s the baby’s ultrasound, they gave me a picture.” Christine slid the photo from her purse, and her mother took it, her dark eyes lighting up.

“You had your ultrasound today? Great!”

“I saw the heart. It was great.” Christine pointed to the whitish figure eight in the photo, which was reasonably visible. “See, this is the baby, the head and body are about the same size.”

“Honey, I’m so happy for you!” Her mother beamed. “It’s official now!”

“I know, I cried.”

“Of course you did!” Her mother laughed, her eyes shining, and handed her back the picture. “Show it to your dad.”

“Dad, this is the ultrasound, I had an ultrasound.” Christine brought it over to her father, holding it in front of his face. “The white parts are the baby. You can see—” She stopped short when she saw her father looking away. He’d turned his head, staring at the counter, which was cluttered with crossword puzzle books, newspapers, mail, bills, and brown plastic bottles that were his medications, neatly categorized in separate Ziploc bags by her mother.

“Dad?” Christine said, but she straightened up, letting it go and setting the photo aside. Another thing they had learned from the seminar was to take cues from the patient, and she had learned it the hard way.

Agitation, hostility, and even physically striking out are not unusual in the memory-impaired. Don’t take it personally or let it hurt your feelings. Remind yourself that it’s the illness talking, as if the person were inebriated, and you would say “it’s the whiskey talking.” Learn to see the signs before hostility breaks out. Then, stop.

“Honey, you want a grilled cheese?” Her mother was already bustling to the stove, where the fry pan still sat on the grate.

“Okay, sure, thanks.”

“What did Marcus say when he saw the baby?”

“He couldn’t go, he’s out of town. Lauren went with me.”

“Oh, he’ll be so sorry he missed that.” Her mother’s voice still bore the distinctive Rhody accent, in the flattish O of “sorry.”

“Hold on, I brought another present, one for you.” Christine dug inside her tote bag and pulled out a new book, Dr. Seuss’s Which Pet Should I Get? “Did you see this? There’s a new Dr. Seuss book.”

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t know that!” Her mother turned from the refrigerator and accepted the book, running her fingerpads over the smooth blue cover. “How did they do this? I mean, he’s been dead for how long?”

“His wife found it and they published it. Isn’t it great?”

“This is wonderful, honey.” Her mother opened the front cover, marveling. “What a treat! Dr. Seuss, it isn’t just for kids.”

Christine smiled, remembering that was her father’s mantra when she was growing up, that children’s books weren’t just for kids. Nutmeg Hill Elementary had plenty of Dr. Seuss in its library because Christine had bought the copies herself.

“Dad will love this.”

“I figured.” Christine nodded. These days, her mother read to her father at night, but mysteries had become too complex for him to follow. He’d grow agitated, unhappy, or simply fall asleep, so her mother had moved on to children’s books, which he seemed to enjoy, perking up at the rhymes and pictures.

“Here, sit, let me make your sandwich,” her mother said, pressing her into a chair, and Christine sat down because it made her mother happy. While her mother cooked, they both talked about the last day of school, trading stories and comparing notes, occasionally trying to include her father, who nodded and smiled but eventually returned to staring at the medications on the counter. The kitchen had a southern exposure, so it was bright during the day, but it began to darken as the day wore on.

“Here, honey,” her mother said, putting the grilled cheese in front of her on a paper plate, with potato chips on the side, like she used to for playdates.

“Wow, yum, thanks.”

“You okay? You seem kinda sad.” Her mother sat down to her right, leaning on her forearm and looking at Christine dubiously. “Is it because you’re leaving teaching? It has to be bothering you, just a little, I know.”