At dinner Linda and I are sitting at the table, eating our cooked salad. Dad has eaten only a small bowl of strawberries and is standing behind his chair. Jodie is miraculously absent.
“That’s not enough,” Mom tells him. “Remember? You have to have some seafood every day.”
“I can’t eat any more,” Dad says. “I’m full.”
She already told him yesterday that if he doesn’t eat seafood he will have to take a drink of fish oil. She rustles a paper bag on the counter and comes back with a small cocktail glass.
“You have to drink this,” Mom says.
“Does it taste bad?” Dad asks.
“No,” Mom says, and she takes a sip from it. “Look, I’m doing it.” Then she starts to cry.
“Are you lying to me, Adele?” Dad asks her.
“No,” she says, and she starts crying again.
Then she leaves the glass on the table and goes to her room to get ready for bed. I pick up the glass. Linda and I both sniff it. It smells terrible. Mom stays in her room with the door closed, Dad is agitated, and I walk him around all night.