How to Start a Fire by Lisa Lutz Page B

owned.
    “Of course not,” Anna said.
    As Don stirred in bed, Anna opted against annoying her father further by calling for help. She assisted him to the couch, surprised by his lightness, the hard edge of bones barely contained in his paper-thin skin. It would have been simpler to pick him up and carry him, but Don would always cling to dignity, no matter how much was taken from him. Once he was safely seated, she adjusted the pillows on the couch until her father slapped her hands away.
    “Just sit down and talk to me,” he said.
    Anna complied. He didn’t used to have time to talk to her. Now that he did, most of their conversations were built around a lie.
    “How’s work?” Don asked.
    “Can’t complain.”
    “How are the patients treating you?”
    “They have good days and bad days. Just like anyone else.”
    “Have you made chief resident yet?”
    “No. I haven’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Somebody else was better.”
    “Then you should work harder.”
    “Okay.”
    The industrial-size clock flipped to 6:00.
    “Anna, dear, would you get me a bourbon and soda.”
    “I don’t think you’re supposed to drink today,” Anna said.
    Alcohol interfered with his medication, so he was never supposed to drink, but Anna thought making the comment temporary would lessen the effect.
    “Then you have one for me.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “I’ve never known you to turn down a drink.”
    “I’m just tired after traveling,” Anna said.
    “Suit yourself.”
    Don then reached out and gently held Anna’s hand, something he never would have done before. When she was young, he would pat her on the head, especially when she amused him. Sometimes he’d give her a quick hug, but the release was so immediate, Anna never felt much comfort in it. Now Anna internally recoiled at the feel of her father’s skin. It had a reptilian dryness, which made the oddness of their physical contact even more pronounced. She patted his hand once, stood abruptly, and fetched him a glass of water.
    “I’m not thirsty,” he said.
    “Drink it anyway,” she said.
    “How’s your husband? What’s his name again?”
    “Dad, I’m not married.”
    “I just went to your wedding.”
    “No. Maybe you’re thinking of Colin’s wedding.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    “Does he get married often?”
    “Yes.”
    “You should get married sometime, Anna.”
    “We’ll see.”
    “You don’t want to be alone, do you?”
    “There are worse things one can be.”
     
    Anna took in a deep breath as she closed the door to her father’s room. She hadn’t noticed the hospital smell until she was inhaling the potpourried air of the rest of the house. Her mother sat in the enclosed porch, sipping iced tea and reading a biography of a dead woman who’d lived in more mannered times. Lena looked tired and years older than she had six months before, when Anna had seen her last. When Lena turned seventy, Anna noticed, she had surrendered to age. While she still dressed impeccably, styled her hair into an immovable upsweep, darkened her eyes, and reddened her lips, she’d stopped waging a full-scale battle with her skin. Her dermatologist remained in the Rolodex for cancer checks and unsightly rashes, but he no longer performed a quarterly tune-up of injections, lasers, and peels.
    Anna liked seeing her mother’s forehead furrow again, although it seemed from the shelf of creases that her skin was trying to make up for lost time.
    “You didn’t argue with him, did you?” Lena asked.
    “I told him I wasn’t married, but the other thing I stayed quiet about.”
    “It’s for the best,” Lena said. “Remember what happened last time?”
    “I do.”
     
    Anna found her brother in the basement, scavenging through the rubble of decaying boxes. Lena’s idea of spring cleaning involved ridding the house of memories. She’d even had her bedroom redecorated now that her husband no longer slept there. If Donald were capable of climbing stairs