“Okay, okay!” I dress quickly and we head to the kitchen together.

When we pass them, Mom and Dad are taking down pictures from the wall. “I’m going to chuck this ballerina print,” Dad says. “There’s a crack in the glass.”

“But my mother gave us that one.”

“Exactly,” he answers. “And nobody in this house does ballet. Do you like it, Adele?”

“I don’t hate it. I definitely want to get rid of this fish, though.” Mom has always found the stuffed bass hanging in the hallway gruesome. Dad caught it on one of his trips up north with the gang from United Steelworks. “Stuffed fish and cracked ballet print, good riddance.”

Dad dusts his fingertips against each other. Compromising over bad art seems like a good sign. But after we’re finished our breakfast, toast and kibble, I notice both wall hangings sitting in the keeper box.

As I empty the medicine cabinet, I hear Dad blathering about how good this move is for everyone, family working together, helping each other.

Mom answers in short clips. “As you say.” “Whatever you want.” “Your idea.” For her it’s a funeral; for him it’s a party.

By the time Aunt Cathie comes with Baby Luanne, I’ve packed my share and Mom’s shoulders are hunched and her arms are folded across her chest. Not a good sign.

Dad whistles as he hitches Luanne’s car seat into the Neon, but Mom stays quiet except to say goodbye to Aunt Cathie.

Then Dad baby-talks with Luanne as he carries her to the car. I walk more slowly behind him with Diesel, still in his space collar. Mom carries the red tablecloth. We drive to Morgan’s to pick her up, and she squeezes me into the middle of the backseat. Diesel stretches across both of us, panting so that his drool rolls along the white plastic funnel to my bare legs. I don’t even mind anymore. Not much anyway.

I want to stick my head out the window. To catch the wind with my mouth, Diesel tells me.

Sorry, Diesel. No telling what the wind will do with that cone around your neck. I scrub around his ears.

As we drive the scenic route along the lake, Canadian flags wave at us from every house, bright red signs of the holiday. Dad chats about how pretty the homes are. “Maybe we can rent one here next year. Or even buy one. Look at that house that looks like a castle. That could be ours.”

“Dreamer,” my mother mutters.

Morgan raises her eyebrows in alarm at me.

The more nervous Dad gets, the more his mouth motors, and that engine works about as well as the Neon’s, which stalls twice. “Slated for a tune-up Tuesday,” Dad tells us cheerily.

We pull into a space right near a gap in the trees. Perfect. A picnic table sits underneath the shade of a mulberry. Just beyond it the blue of the lake stretches out for an eternity.

I can believe anything, looking at that blue. Can Mom?