“Just look how unbelievably beautiful it is here, in this glorious symphony of green, blue, and gold,” he’d say, with a grand gesture at the fir trees, the fields of wheat, and the immense sky above. We’d look at the familiar firs and the familiar sky and then would be ready to move on. “Just savor it for a moment,” the optician would say, and we’d give him the same look we gave Elsbeth when she would tell us to go and see sad Marlies.

“That’s true,” my father said. “And I’ll come back.”

“When?” I asked.

Selma looked at me, sat down next to me on the kitchen bench, and took my hand in hers. I leaned against her shoulder and thought that we could just stay here, Selma and me, and rot here together.

“Could we have a few more details?” she asked. “Is this more of Dr. Maschke’s nonsense?”

My father raised his head and murmured, “Don’t be so dismissive.” It was clear that he was not prepared for our questions and had hoped we would say, “Fine, go ahead, have fun, and stay in touch.”

“And what does Astrid think about this?” Selma asked. “And what about Alaska? He’s hardly had a chance to prove himself as an encapsulated pain.”

“For goodness’ sake, I’m only telling you that I’m thinking about it.”

This was not true. My father had decided long before, but here, at Selma’s kitchen table, he was as unaware of that fact as Selma and I were, and we were also unaware that Alaska would become Selma’s dog because my father couldn’t take him out into the world, since Alaska, my father would claim, was not made for adventure.

Selma and I sat on the kitchen bench across from my father, thinking of the same thing, of Dr. Maschke’s office in the county seat, which my father had described to us. The room was filled with posters of the same landscapes as those on the postcards outside the gift shop, that is, of the sea, mountains, and undulating prairies, just bigger and without inspirational quotes, since Dr. Maschke delivered these personally. There were also objects mounted on the walls of Dr. Maschke’s office. While he was searching for encapsulated pain in what my father was saying, my father was looking at an African mask, a Buddha doweled into the wall, a sequined shawl, a leather canteen, a scimitar.

Dr. Maschke’s hallmark, my father had told us, was a black leather jacket, which he never took off during their sessions. The leather jacket creaked whenever Dr. Maschke leaned forward or back in his chair.