I dial the phone. “Hi Mom, you know what today is?”

“No.”

“August thirtieth.”

“So?”

“Dad’s birthday.”

“Dad’s birthday?”

“My dad. Your husband.”

“I wonder how he’s doing.”

“He died.”

“Right.”

“A long time ago.”

“When?”

“1986. I’ve lived longer without him than I did with him. You too probably by now.”

“That’s a long time.”

Her brain lost a whole person. She only knows who I am because I always say, Hi Mom, when I call. I try to stick to facts she can report on. “Is it raining there?”

“No.”

“It’s raining here.”

“Where are you?”

“Connecticut.”

“Why are you there?”

“I live here.”

“I didn’t know that. How long?”

“About thirty years.”

“I don’t remember. So why did you call?”

“It’s Dad’s birthday.”

“What day is it?”

“August thirtieth.”

“I wonder how he’s doing.”

“He died.”

“Right, he did. I don’t remember like I used to.”

“I know.” I wait for these small, ambiguous moments when her brain might know more than she does, leaving a trail of secrets for her to find. Or maybe I’m grasping for pieces of her I miss, pieces enough to put her back together again.

She pauses, maybe looks out the window. “Did I die?”

I hold my breath and wonder if she means after he died, and after her stroke, and for real. But I can’t trust her answer, so it doesn’t matter. “You’re still alive.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m not sure. “When do you think you died?”

“I always liked him.”

“And he always liked you.”

“He did.” She takes a slow breath. “Where do you think he is now?”

“He died, but he’s around.”

“I can talk to him.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes, and he’ll come for you when it’s your turn to go.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” She used to tell me all the time he would, as if life and death were connected by a two-way bridge.

“Did I tell you that would happen someday?”

“Yes, Mom.” Rain strikes the window, and beyond that, fog. “Will you come for me someday?”

“Am I doing that now?”

“No, you’re still alive.”

“Are you sure?”