Dad is something else. With the table even fuller tonight than last, he sits at its head looking from face to face, unaware that his pleasant expression is both out of character and blank. He’s going through motions that, in this particular moment, he doesn’t fully understand. When Anne raises her wine glass to toast our reunion, he raises his. “My daughters,” he says, echoing her words, but if he feels nostalgia, it doesn’t show. When Anne rounds the table, blaming his casted wrist for a missed buttonhole on his shirt, he docilely lets her fix it. Other than using a spoon where a fork is called for, he has little trouble eating. He nods when someone else nods and murmurs a yes here or there. But he doesn’t take part in the conversation, and his enjoyment seems superficial. As the meal goes on, his salty brows lower, his thin mouth thins more.

I have Alzheimer’s disease, he told Margo this morning, and everything about him now suggests he is thinking of that. Deep down, in whatever pockets of clarity he finds, he is not happy.

Nor, despite her chatter, is Anne. She doesn’t do more than touch her lips to the wine. When Bill asks her about it, she draws in a breath and rolls her eyes to blame this big family situation for her lack of appetite.

Joy saves the meal. Seeming armed with an endless supply of questions, she asks Bill about prison food, asks Margo whether her cousins are going to summer camp in July and, if not, whether they can come here. Before I can remind her that she won’t be here in July, she asks Anne about a funny-looking purple plant in the front shrub bed. She asks Dad whether he likes sushi and, undaunted when he eyes her blankly, tells him of the time we made it. She asks Bill whether he wants another tattoo, then quickly changes the subject before anyone can mention her birthmark.

What I hear is curiosity and nervousness. She doesn’t know the things I’ve discussed with my sisters, but she does know something’s up.

Then, innocently enough, Margo sets her fork on her plate and asks Anne about the shop. “You were doing a great business this morning. Is it like that every day?”

Anne lights up. “Summers, yes. I’m closed Mondays and Tuesdays November through April, but the locals all know that, and they’re mostly who’s around. I feel bad doing it, because they’re so loyal, but it’s nice to be able to sleep in during the off-season.”

“So, times like now you’re there every day?” Margo asks.

I hear surprise. Anne hears criticism.

She cools. “Who else would be there?”

I’m guessing she’ll need to rethink that in seven months, when Margo suggests, “A partner? A manager?”