Why should this stepson be there in the first place? Oh, yeah. I know why. Because his stepfather always treated him like a son—apple of his eye if not child of his loins. If Paul had been a wolf cub and my father the pack leader, Dad would have made sure Paul got the best chunks of the kill. If there was one life preserver in the boat and we were sinking, I know who would have gotten it. It wasn’t normal. Weren’t young men supposed to hate their stepfathers? I guess when the stepfather in question is treating you like the son he never had, you don’t have to hate him. The laughter again. I march down the hallway and push open the bedroom door.

Because the television is on the same wall as the door, they are facing me as I enter the room. I am shocked at the sight of both of them. I know I should have been anticipating seeing my father as a dying man, but I am more shocked at the sight of Paul. He is huge, bald, and dressed in a Bridgewater State College sweatshirt that has seen better days. There is one brief, crystal moment when all three of us stare at one another, trying hard to reconcile this version of ourselves to those of our memories.

My father speaks first. “Justine? You’re here.” It almost sounds like a question.

“I got here a few minutes ago.” I can’t get near to him because Paul’s bulk takes up the space beside the twin bed, which is shoved up against the wall and the bureau. “Didn’t Adele tell you I was coming?”

“No. I guess she wanted it to be a surprise.”

More like she didn’t want him disappointed if I failed to show up. I sort of respect that.

“Well, I’m here now.” I take a step toward the bed and Paul gets the message. He rises and squeezes himself out of the alley formed by the bed and the bureau.

“Hey, Justy, it’s good to see you.” He opens his arms wide and scoops me into an embrace I’m not looking for. The nickname reminds me of his taunting me with “Busty Justy” when puberty hit me like an invasion of the body snatchers. I’ve grown into them, but the girls are still worth a glance.

“Yeah, you, too.” I hope that it doesn’t show on my face just how startled I am by him, but he knows.

“My wife’s a great cook.” He’s obviously had to explain before how he was a star athlete turned blimp.

Once Paul leaves the bedroom, I am alone with my father for the first time in decades. We are both silent for a moment, taking it in, figuring it out. Not just about the fact that I’m here only because he’s dying but by the larger gorilla of our history—his failure to love me. His failure to make me an equal in an unequal house. His failure to stand up to that woman when I most needed him to, if only that once. I step to the side of the bed. He is sitting up, the thin blanket spread neatly over his lower half, with the top of his Father Knows Best pajamas buttoned right up to the top button. A glass of water is on the nightstand, a newspaper folded up neatly beside it. The television is blaring out a commercial for adult diapers, and my father points to it. “That’s me. How about that? Just like a baby.”