I recognize your Chanel No. 5 before opening the front door. It used to be my favorite, but after we met, it moved to the back row with the orphans. You inspect the living room, nodding at dirty dishes, workout clothes, and my battered dormitory bookcase from the millennium. In the basement, your replacement gift still sits unassembled. The picture of young Mom and Dad at the beach in St. Augustine fixates you again. Would you like a copy? Mom was gorgeous in that bikini.

I glance at Dad, and he turns away. He couldn’t wait to meet the new baby, but why bring you? Must be off his meds again. Your unannounced visit overlaps with my old friend, Josh, who’s here for the weekend.

We’re snug around the kitchen table, and you’re across from me, dressed in a turquoise pantsuit, a long strand of pearls, and red lipstick. And I thought radium wasn’t allowed in fingernail polish anymore? Please don’t scare my little one when his nap ends. Dad finishes his ham and Swiss and says we need to hear something. Last week, he insisted you not take a block of cheese from the homeless pantry just because your granddaughter volunteers there. It’s quiet, but I read your lips.

Josh breaks the awkwardness. He asks if you and Dad know I once worked with him in a clinic on a Sioux reservation. Before I reply, you launch into war whoops enhanced with hand over mouth. Dad looks like he’s about to return his sandwich. I explain that your vocalization is called ululation. It is used by indigenous Americans and other cultures for celebration and spiritual activities. Josh brusquely adds that ululation was seldom depicted accurately in Hollywood Westerns. Your hand-over-mouth embellishment of a war cry is fiction from the fifties and sixties.

Quiet again, so I describe Josh’s recent volunteer experiences with refugees in Thailand. You interrupt, loving Thai food but lamenting Dad’s heartburn and that you never get any. Then you pull something from the air, probably a tomahawk, and strike him several times.

I squeeze Dad’s hand and tell him next time, he should let you take the damn block of cheese. You laugh, give a thumbs up and thank me.

I’m about to say something but decide to clear the dishes instead.