“Hey there,” said a woman. Janet, the sister of another patient. “How’s it going, John? Did you eat that chicken for lunch? It was pretty good, wasn’t it? I liked the spinach. Nice touch. How you girls doing? You doing okay?”

I liked Janet. Her brother had had a traumatic brain injury and was a patient down the hall. She was devoted to him, visiting every day. But she also wandered up and down the hall when he was sleeping or in therapy. Janet dressed in overalls most of the time, granny glasses and big, clunky clogs. She chatted to my father like he was an old friend.

It was strange, the unwilling little community of family members, all of us here for shitty reasons. My mother spent most of her time talking with them, and Jules was fairly helpless. But I didn’t mind the nitty-gritty of helping my father. While it broke my heart that he was struggling, I knew he’d get better. It would take time and work, but he was on his way. I had to believe that. A life without my dad—the old dad—was not something I was prepared to imagine.

— —

“He seems to have plateaued.”

“Well, shit,” Jules said.

We were at a meeting with the team, the therapists and doctors and nurses, Mom, Jules and Oliver, me.

“So at this point,” Dr. McIntyre continued, “because he’s doing well with the tasks of daily living, we usually send the patient home. Often, that improves their mental capacity, being around familiar things and people.”

“He can’t come home,” Mom said.

“Of course he can,” I said. “Where else would he go?”

“Rose Hill has an adult wing now.”

“No. He’s not going into a home, Mom. You have to give him a chance.”

“Rose Hill is an excellent facility,” the team leader murmured.

“But he should be home! He deserves to be home. His odds of recovering are better there, just like you said.”

“We can’t predict anything, sadly,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry, I realize it’s incredibly frustrating, but it’s best to focus on the amazing progress he’s already made and set small goals for the future.”

“Like what?” Jules asked.

“Maybe some intelligible words. Of course you want him to be the man you knew before, but right now, just saying ‘hungry’ or ‘tired’ would be a breakthrough. We have to manage expectations.”

“Won’t he need a caregiver?” Mom asked.

“Yes. He won’t be able to be left alone until his cognition is significantly better.”

Mom, Jules and I exchanged looks. “None of us has medical training,” Mom said, and I felt a guilty flash of relief.

“No, of course not. We’ll arrange for therapists and some nursing help. You’re not alone in this.”

“Thank God,” Mom said.