“But,” Dr. Hirschman says, “the Alzheimer’s is progressing. Faster than we’d anticipated.” He stops and looks every single one of us in the eye. “There are some decisions that need to be made.”

Mom grabs Mema’s hand and takes a seat. I roll behind them and bump into Mom’s chair, trying to get closer. We are a sad circle.

“What kind of decisions?” Mom asks, all quiet like a little girl. I miss her take-charge James Bond voice.

“In regard to whether Mr. Cowan might need to be moved to a facility that can better meet his needs.”

A facility. I know what that means. It’s a fancy word for an old folks’ home. It’ll swap his sawdust smell with disinfectant. I want to throw something, but Mema gets there first.

“Meet his needs better than his own home? With his own family?” Mema taps the doctor’s desk with her fist on “home” and “family.”

Dr. Hirschman nods.

“Given the recent accident and the incident at the church, there are things to be considered.” He steeples his fingers. They are long and smooth. The smoothness bothers me. He’s too young to be playing with people’s lives. Like, what could he possibly know about all this? “Things like whether he is a danger to himself or others.”

Mema puts her hands back in her lap and looks down.

“Not yet.”

“What’s that, ma’am?”

Mema looks up. “I said, not yet. I am not ready to give up on him. I have been married to that man for almost fifty years, and we’ve been through the wringer, I will tell you.” She points a finger at him like he’s trying to call a bluff. “I meant it when I said ‘in sickness and in health.’ And I’ll know quitting time when I see it. This isn’t it.” Her voice breaks at the end. “I got my girl here now. My girls.”

Mema reaches back and fumbles for both our hands.

I roll forward as far as I can. I wish I could bulldoze my way right through this wall and this hospital and take Mom and Mema and Grandpa with me. We wouldn’t stop until we hit the ocean. This can’t be reality. It can’t. Doctors don’t know everything.

Dr. Hirschman steeples his fingers again and sighs.

“Mr. Cowan is seventy years old and healthy. There’s a good chance he could live ten, twenty more years while his mind continues to deteriorate. Are you prepared for that?”

Mema stands and puts her hand on the doorknob.

“Doctor. We are all of us deteriorating,” she says, and opens the door. “We might as well do it together.”

Mom gets up like she’s going to follow, but turns to me instead and says, “Ellie, you go with your grandmother. I’ll be out in one second.”

“Alice, what are you doing?”