It’s a big place and he’s not in his apartment, or the Game Room, or the restaurant. I eventually track him down in the Reading Room where he’s not reading but playing bridge with another gentleman and two ladies. Dad is resting his hand of cards on his splint, using a Scrabble tile holder to keep the cards from sliding down, and drawing and discarding cards with his good hand.

I knew he’d figure out how to play one-handed. He’s always enjoyed bridge, but he’s become very serious and competitive since arriving here, playing two to three days a week now.

In between deals he introduces me to Edie Stephens, his partner; they are playing against Bob and Rose Dearborn, a married couple.

I’ve barely been introduced before Edie raps the cards against the table. She’s not happy with the interruption. The game isn’t over.

Everyone quickly quiets and focuses on the game as Bob deals the next hand.

I don’t remember any of these people from Christmas, although Edie looks familiar. Or maybe it’s just because she’s very old and has that dour look of older women in early photography. Unsmiling, pursed lips, flat stare.

She glances up from her cards, and her gaze meets mine. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly and her expression makes me feel as if I haven’t quite measured up somehow. I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back. And perhaps it’s impudent, but I just keep smiling. There’s no reason for her to be so unfriendly. It’s my father after all, and I’ve just dropped everything to rush up here and be with him.

But she’s already dismissed me and is focused on her cards.

I get a chair and pull it towards the table, sitting just behind Dad so I can see his cards and follow the game.

Edie shoots me another sharp look as I settle into my seat, her eyes bright blue against her pale, thin skin. Her wispy white hair is twisted back in a severe knot. She must be in her late eighties, but as I soon discover, she plays a mean game of bridge, making calls coolly, crisply, not a hint of a quaver in her voice.

I started to learn bridge years ago when Andrew and I were in dental school so we could play with my parents, giving us a pleasant way to spend time together, but Andrew didn’t enjoy the game—it’s not a game you learn overnight if you want to play well—so we stopped our lessons. But I’d grown up listening to my parents play on weekends with their friends—card tables up in the living room, the clink of ice in cocktail glasses, and the murmur of voices as they made their bids. And even though I don’t know how to really play myself, just sitting in one of the club chairs behind Dad, flipping through a magazine, I am lulled by the sound and rhythm of the game. The dealer, the opener, the responder . . .

My mother always laughed when she was the dummy.

I loved her for that. I loved that she was so warm and easy. She had an ego, but it was about education and excellence and schools. Never herself.

Now Dad, partnered by the formidable Edie, is the dummy, but he doesn’t seem to mind. As the game progresses it’s obvious he’s fond of Edie, almost deferential. But then, he does like winning, and they are winning now. From the quiet, sporadic banter around the table, to the winning of tricks, it’s clear Dad and Edie are the team to beat.

Thirty minutes later the game finally ends, and Dad rises carefully, using a cane to assist him to his feet. Bob offered an arm but Dad wouldn’t accept the help.

Now Dad leads the way to lunch, walking slightly ahead of me, working the cane as if an aggressive sea captain on the deck of his ship.

He’s thinner than when I last saw him, noticeably thinner, but his mood is ebullient after the win. His voice isn’t steady but it’s impossible to miss his confidence. “Bob and Rose arrived in March and everybody started saying they were the best bridge players at the Estates.