At the hospital, Joey leads me to the elevators and when the door opens, we’re surprised to find our father already in the lift as if waiting for us. “Hey Dad,” Joey says, stepping into the elevator to take the tray that trembles slightly in my father’s hands. The food on the tray looks unappetizing, at best—a combination of hospital and cafeteria food, the worst of both worlds. As the door closes behind us, Joey nods at the panel. “Fourth floor, Brian.”
That button isn’t lit. When I lean against it, I tease my father, “Where were you going?”
“Where have you been?” he replies.
I stare at his reflection in the mirrored wall—he has grown into an old man, a caricature of the stern father I knew growing up. His thick hair, salted with gray when I saw him last, has now turned completely whit
