I picture my sister waving him off, standing on the front steps of her beautiful Westchester home. I picture Dad with a hand out the car window, his goodbye salute. Tooting the horn in his jaunty rhythm: shave and a haircut, two bits.

As for me, the last time I saw Dad I didn’t even see him. I was over helping Mom apply for her absentee ballot and Dad was upstairs clearing out the spare room. As I was going out the door Mom called up, Gregory, she’s leaving, and Dad hollered back, Bye, Gillie.

And that was it.

It was my sister who got his last I love you.

Of course it was.

*

I hover outside Sam’s room and call his name again. When I’ve said his name a third time to no answer, I crack open the door. He’s lying on a neatly made bed—hospital corners and all—with his headphones on. When he sees me he sits up, startled.

“Wow,” I say, as he pulls off his headphones. “It’s so tidy in here, Sam. I think it might be cleaner than when you moved in yesterday.”

He doesn’t smile back.

“I was wondering if you’d like to help me with dinner?” I say. Oliver’s going to be late at the brewery tonight, so we’re eating without him. “We could cook something together,” I offer.

Sam looks at me, face blank, and I feel the unique discomfort of being found embarrassing by a younger generation. What was I expecting? For him to bound out of bed exclaiming about the joys of cooking? There’s probably nothing he wants less right now than to spend an hour putzing around the kitchen with his aunt.

But then to my surprise he says, “Okay,” takes off his headphones, and comes to the door. It’s not enthusiasm exactly, but I’ll take it. I lead us back downstairs to the kitchen, where I’ve pulled out a couple of recipe books and stacked them on the kitchen table.

“Do you like burgers?” I ask him. “I got some nice organic minced beef at the store the other day.”

“Um.” He looks around, hands wedged in his hoodie pocket. “I could. But I actually eat more vegetarian food these days.”

“You do?” I say, surprised. Nobody mentioned that. I try to remember if last night’s pasta was vegetarian.

“I mean—” He shrugs. “It’s okay. I can eat meat. It’s just something I’m trying out.”

I shake my head.

“No, that’s great. That’s great, Sam. We should totally…” I look at my little recipe book collection. My mind’s suddenly blank. What’s vegetarian besides pasta?

“We could make veggie burgers?” Sam offers.

Make them? I’ve only ever seen them in the freezer aisle, along with those other mysterious meat-substitute items. Don’t we need, I don’t know, soy protein or something?