She answered on the second ring, imagining him at the family pub, the Lark, cleaning glasses behind the bar or meeting a delivery truck in the back alley. If Colleen closed her eyes, she could smell the hoppy aroma of beer; she could visualize the dark wood paneling glowing under the lantern lights and hear the clang of glasses, the call of patrons, and a fiddle being tuned in the corner. Nothing, not one thing in her life, was as familiar to her as the Lark.

“Sis.” Shane’s voice vibrated in her ear.

“What’s up?”

“A lot.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked, as she could tell his voice was off, something amiss. Colleen automatically placed her hand over her stomach, where fear seemed to wait to be awoken.

“There is,” he said.

She heard the difference; his tone lower and quieter. There wasn’t a joke hidden in his voice this time.

“Dad.” Colleen walked to the window overlooking the street, brownstones across the way lit with the sun rising to midsky, and she rested her forehead on the glass. “It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

“He’s been acting funny.”

“He’s always acting funny.” She smiled as she invoked her dad’s favorite entry into a sentence. “As the Irish say, when Irish eyes are smiling, they’re usually up to something.”

“This isn’t about his funny sayings, Lena. It’s complicated, too. And I don’t know if I can tell you everything over the phone. You have to come home.”

Colleen laughed, relieved now because nothing was really wrong with her dad. This was another ploy to get her to return home. Another trick. They’d tried many times before and in many ways—her niece Rosie’s baptism; her other niece, Sadie’s, first birthday party; her sister Hallie’s pneumonia that was so threatening. Of course there were also the holidays and anniversaries and milestones of family life. She was accustomed to the pleas to return.

“Shane, what’s going on?” Colleen walked the few steps to the kitchen, poured more coffee into her pottery mug shaped like an owl’s face, one she bought in a city and country already forgotten.

“Dad’s not doing well. Don’t make me go over this entirely complex situation on the phone. I’ve tried to handle it without you, but now I need you.”

“I’ve already made plans to come for his birthday party in two weeks. I can’t come right now.”

“Lena.” He said the name she didn’t use anymore. “It’s been six months of fast decline. I’ve tried to figure it out by myself. Like you, Hallie is too busy to help and . . .” His voice trailed off.

He usually knew better than to mention Hallie’s name, and now the dull pain crashed into Lena’s chest. “Fast decline?” she asked.

“Yes. Forgetting names; losing things; getting lost . . .”