I asked Darrel at the diner. 

“My mom went food shopping in her nightgown,” he answered.  “My dad got lost and we had to call the police.  It’s funny, you convince yourself it’s not what it is.  I don’t know how.  I mean, she went to the grocery store in her nightgown.  Not even a robe.  My dad got lost in the neighborhood he’s lived in for forty something years.  It’s like their dementia triggers some chemical reaction in your brain.”

“I think my Dad’s in the early stages.”  I lied.  He hasn’t gotten lost or left the house in his pajamas but he doesn’t know who I am.  I’m also pretty sure he can’t read although he’s been reading the newspaper for the last two weeks.  My sister thinks he’s reading the same paragraphs.  I think he just stares and this makes him tired. 

“How did you tell them?” I ask.

“I didn’t.  I mean I couldn’t.  I couldn’t get myself to explain to them what was happening and I waited, trying to figure out what to do, but then it was too late.  My mom complained about static in her head.  Said she’s in between channels.  Then everything that made her her, left. 

Dad, he became confused and anxious and then angrier and angrier.  He threatened the neighbors with a shovel; walked up to their house in the middle of the night and demanded they leave his house.” 

He stops.  I’ve heard everything he’s told me before. 

Fortunately, Dad doesn’t threaten people.  Nor does he leave the house in his pajamas.  The past two weeks he’s actually been wearing suits.  That’s new.  I remind him while he’s getting dressed that he’s working from home today and he should get the newspapers off the driveway and see what happened in Asia. 

He starts reading in the kitchen.  After his cup of coffee I tell him the light’s better in the living room which is another lie.  He dozes.  I wake him for lunch and take him to the diner.  This would be a perfect time to tell him.  Or at least begin to tell him.  But we never get past the part where he talks about his parents and their mental descent.  I’ve never heard these stories.  He tells me over and over as if he’s really trying to tell me something.