“Exciting game,” Bill said, looking at me.

I stared at him. He’d gotten his way. Was he teasing? Was he rubbing it in?

He turned his gaze back to the field.

Thanksgiving was two weeks away. Already the autumn leaves had fallen and withered. It was chilly, and the bleachers were cold and hard, but that was the least of it. We were near mid-field on the home-team side. Three minutes were left in the first quarter, which meant that I faced another forty-eight minutes sardined in these stands, not counting half-time, time-outs, and everything that could go wrong.

“I’m sorry this is so boring for you,” Bill said, not bothering to look at me.

I was praying for it to be boring.

“You know that’s not the problem,” I said. Is he trying to pick a fight? Here? “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Bill nodded and started to say something, but my cellphone rang. It was my dad.

“Your mother’s finally gone too far,” he said. “She’s out of her mind.”

What now? “Dad, tell me what happened.”

I jammed my forefinger into my left ear and pressed the cellphone against the right side of my head. A cheer went up. Bill’s whooping didn’t help.

“Dad, speak louder. I can’t hear you.”

“What’s all that background noise?” he asked.

“I’m at Sammy’s game.”

“Sammy’s game? What is he playing?”

“Football.” Another cheer went up. The noise was impossible. I told my dad to hold on while I moved to a quieter spot.

This was no small undertaking. I picked my way down the row of feet, knees, and beer bellies, which was something of an Olympic balance beam event.

Note to self: next time, sit on the aisle.

Note to self: next time, don’t come.

Note to self: next time, don’t let your son play football.

The metallic stairs clunked and clinked as I made my way down. Finally on firm ground, I retreated behind the restrooms, thinking that their cinderblock walls would buffer the noise. The gravel alley behind the building was deserted, but the space looked far from unused. Cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and spent condoms were strewn about. I stood near the middle of the building and leaned against the wall.

“Okay, Dad, I found a quieter spot.”

“Hey, Wendy. I thought you weren’t going to let Sammy play football.”

“I got overruled.”

“What do you mean you got overruled?”

 “Not now, Dad. What’s the matter with Mom?”

“But you’re a neurologist, Wendy. You know about it. Didn’t you explain it to Sammy? Doesn’t Bill agree with you?”

Are you kidding me?  “Gridiron glory trumps CTE in my house.”

“What are you talking about, Wendy?”

What was I talking about? How was I to explain it? How was I supposed to justify letting testosterone-fueled male ego steamroll the epidemiology of relative risk?

“I gave in,” Dad.”

“Why?”

Why?

“Because Sammy is the Westfield Ranger’s star player and team captain.

“Because he’s also the starting tight end on the all-state team.

“Because Division-One colleges are scouting him.”

Because Bill was never more than a second-string bench warmer.

“Look Dad, I promised Sammy I’d watch the game, so can we please get to it? What’s the problem with Mom?”

“She kicked me out.”

The cheering crowd sent a tsunami of sound crashing over the building.

“Did you say that they’re kicking you and Mom out?” I shuddered. “Why? On what grounds?” They’d been at Oakwood Commons for almost two months. It seemed to be going okay. I’d even started sleeping again.

“Not they, not us,” He said. “Your mother – she’s kicking me out. You need to talk some sense into her.”

“Dad, calm down. Tell me what happened.”

“She’s thinks I’m an imposter.”

“Dad…”

“She thinks I’m impersonating myself.”

“Dad…”

“Has she lost her mind?”

I pulled my cellphone away from my face and stared at it. Before I could think of a calm, coherent response, a young couple came giggling and groping around the corner. Finding me there, they stopped short and stared. The boy wore a school letterman jacket, the girl a skin-tight sweater and a ridiculously short skirt that left her naked legs exposed as they tapering into red, high-top basketball sneakers. She looked at me, perplexed. He glared. They skulked off. I sized up the cinderblock wall behind me. Tailor-made for head banging. I must have muttered that aloud because my father said, “What’s that, Wendy?”

“Nothing, Dad.”

“Did you hear what I said? Your mother won’t listen to reason, Wendy. This is what she said to me: ‘You look like Ralph but you’re not him.’ To me she said that! Can you believe it? She demanded to know who gave me permission to wear her husband’s clothes. What do I say to that?”

I started to speak but he wasn’t done.

“I try not to raise my voice, Wendy. I tell her, ‘I’m Ralph, I’m right here.’”

“Listen, Dad. Where is Mom now?”

“In the bedroom. She slammed the door.”

“Okay. Leave her alone. And definitely don’t raise your voice or yell. It’ll just make things worse. She’ll calm down. Remember what Dr. Patel said about this?”

“Who’s Dr. Patel?”

“Asha Patel? My colleague? The geriatric psychiatrist we took Mom to see a few weeks ago. She told you that Mom has Capgras syndrome. Ring a bell? Remember how she explained it?”

“Crab grass? What are you talking about? I thought she has Alzheimer’s.”

“Capgras, Dad, not crab grass. Capgras is an unusual symptom that sometimes occurs in diseases like Alzheimer’s.”

“How is that supposed to help me deal with her?”

“Mom still loves you, Dad. Try to remember that it’s her disease talking. Just wait her out. When she comes out of the bedroom, she’ll probably know who you are again and not remember a thing about any of this.”

Back in the stands, the crowd was on its feet, wild with excitement. I threaded my way back in, wondering what the hoopla was all about. Bill looked like he was about to blast off. He was high-fiving total strangers and shouting, “That’s my son!” I edged in next to him.

“You missed it,” he said. “Sammy caught an eight-yard pass over the middle, broke a couple of tackles, and ran for a forty-yard touchdown. You should have seen the way he straight-armed the middle linebacker.”

The crowd’s carrying on subsided to its baseline din and we sat down. Bill insisted on giving me a play-by-play recap. As he did, the Rangers kicked the extra point just as the first quarter ended. Sammy was running off the field. I stood up and waved, but his teammates had enveloped him in a halo of chest-bumping, helmet-butting exultation.

I sat down and Bill looked at me and asked, “What did your father call about?”

“He’s melting down over my mother’s behavior.”

“You said moving them into Oakwood Commons would solve these problems, but he’s calling you more than ever.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Wasn’t your brother supposed to cover this weekend?”

I looked at Bill. “Sure. Maybe you can call His Highness, the Westport Master of the Universe, and remind him of that for me.” I offered him my cellphone.

“It’s ludicrous that your parents insisted on a place in Connecticut, near him,” Bill said, shoving both hands in his coat pockets. “It makes no sense, not when we’re up here in Massachusetts.”

I shook my head. “They’ve always lived in Connecticut.”

“So, what is it this time?” Bill asked.

“It’s her Capgras syndrome. She’s trying to throw my father out.”

“Capgras? I thought your Mom has Alzheimer’s.”

Really, Bill? I studied him, trying to decide. I sighed. Okay.

Leaning in closer and speaking directly into his left ear, I let him have it: “Capgras syndrome, also known as Capgras delusion or imposter syndrome, is an unusual neuropsychiatric symptom of dementia, classified as a reduplicative paramnesia. Current thinking about the phenomenology is that it occurs due a breakdown of network communication in the right hemisphere, disconnecting the fusiform face area, a neurocognitive module for facial recognition, with structures mediating memory and emotions. Affected individuals recognize close family members but don’t experience the feeling of close familiarity normally attached to them. The brain reconciles the conflict by confabulating an explanation that the person must be an imposter.”

I sat back, waiting for him to return fire, curious about whether he would come up with anything more original than “joyless bitch” to hit me with?

He did. He gave me a lascivious look and whispered in my ear, “I love it when you speak medicalese to me in your doctor voice. Very sexy.”

“Got it?” I said.

“Okay, okay,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “You made your point. But you lost me on reduplicative something or other. It sounds batshit crazy. I feel bad for your dad.”

Right.

The sky was a cloudless cerulean blue, and the sun was strong, but it did little to ease the cold seeping into my bones. The frigid breeze picked up and blew through the huddled crowd. I pulled my wool coat tighter.

“Can I get you a cup of hot coffee?” Bill asked.

“I think I can use something stronger,” I said.

Bill laughed. “It’s a bit early, don’t you think? And there’s no alcohol at high school games. Anyway, I thought you gave up drinking; bad for the brain, you said.”

“Desperate times…” I said. “Being here brings back memories of my high school years, of how we used to sneak hip flasks of Southern Comfort into school football games.”

Bill gave me a shocked look.

I shrugged. “It was a thing.”

Bill put his arm around me. “It’s not always easy being a doctor, is it, with friends and relatives always peppering you with their medical questions, no matter how far afield of your specialty, expecting you to know the answer? Your dad’s become the worst offender since your mom was diagnosed. It’s like’s he’s jumped the line at the medical Q&A deli counter and is hoarding all the numbers from the ticket machine.”

“Stick to engineering, Bill. Right now I can do without the corny metaphors.”

He pulled me closer to him. “Come on, Wendy. Your parents have been fighting cats-and-dogs for as long as I’ve been in the family. That’s their MO. One minute they’re yelling and screaming at each other, the next they’re laughing it up on the way to the bedroom. This will blow over. It always does. Enjoy yourself. Sammy is the star of the show.”

I felt my TMJ pop. Breathe.

The second quarter began. The Rangers lined up for the kickoff.

“What’s Sammy doing out there?” I asked Bill. “I thought he plays offense.”

“He’s big and fast,” Bill said. “That makes him perfect for special teams.”

“Yes, that’s perfect alright!”

“Come on, Wendy. It’s high school football, not the NFL. Stop worrying.”

“How am I supposed to do that, Bill?”

“Try not being Dr. Mom for once.”

“Dr. Mom, neurologist, Bill. Neurologist!”

I tried not to raise my voice. With all the background racket, I doubted anyone could overhear our conversation, and the people in front of us gave no sign that they were paying attention, but still.

“So what?” Bill said. “So, in this instance, you know even more about it than usual. What good does is it do? What good has it ever done? It’s always the same: whether it’s the pediatrician or an emergency room doctor, when they reassure us that it’s probably nothing, you still agonize that it could be something, something bad. It’s exhausting.”

It was exhausting; he had that right. I watched the kickoff, powerless to avert my eyes, as twenty-two, helmet-clad, teenage craniums charged into high-speed, human-on-human, head-on collisions, frontal lobes impacting the insides of skulls, like unrestrained automobile passengers hitting car windshields. And the rest of the game looked no less brain-bashing to me. Each time they lined up for another play from the line of scrimmage, I sat by, a helpless witness to the cerebral carnage. Where others saw first downs and fumbles, I saw concussions and brain contusions. Each time the ball was hiked I held my breath until the referee blew his whistle and I saw Sammy get up. “Exhausting” doesn’t begin to capture it.

How could Bill enjoy this? He’s a mechanical engineer; he knows the physics. Everywhere else he’s a strict stickler for safety. The kids used to call him “Strictler.” From the day Sammy was born, Bill was all over it: gates on the stairs; childproof locks; window guards; flame-retardant fabrics. Before Sammy got his driver’s license, Bill set up iron-clad ground rules, and he’s done a terrific job holding Sammy to them.

My phone rang again. It was Dad. Bill looked at me.

I answered. “Dad?”

The crowd roared.

“Say that again, Dad.”

He sounded up in arms, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying over the noise. “Dad, I’ll have to call you back. Give me a couple of minutes. Yes, Dad. No more than five. I promise.”

Bill looked at me. “What is it this time?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I said, apparently louder than I realized. People turned around. I stared back: What are you looking at? We’re at a football game, not church.

“She called 911,” I said. “I’ve got to handle this.”

“What are you going to do?” Bill asked.

“No idea.”

Once again, I climbed over the row of people. We were in row F. The next few higher rows were filled, but above that, the stands were empty, so this time I went up.

Midway up the clattering stairs, my phone rang.

“Wendy. You didn’t call me back.”

I had the phone in my right hand. With my left, I grasped for a nonexistent handrail. “Dad, this is one of those times when I really can’t walk and talk at the same time.”

I kept climbing.

“You sound out of breath, Wendy. What are you doing?”

“I’m walking up bleacher stairs.”

“Why?”

“I’m trying to get away from the crowd so I’ll be able to hear you better.”

The racket faded as I reached the top row. I sat down at the far end and peered down at the ground. I scooted in a foot or two, collected myself, and brought the phone back to my ear. “Are you still there, Dad?”

“She called 911 to report an intruder in the house – me! You have to come right now, Wendy.”

“Dad, I’m over three hours away. Call Stuart.”

“I can’t. He has a Zoom call with investors in Hong Kong.”

Of course. “What’s Mom doing?”

“Sitting on the sofa, glowering at me.”

“She called 911 on the landline?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. When Mom’s not looking, unplug it from the wall and hide it.”

“Where?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

By the time I returned to my seat, it was halftime. Sammy was on the sidelines with his helmet off. He waved to me and I waved back. The game was tied.

“So?” Bill asked. “What did you do?”

“First, I told my dad what he could do with the phone…”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t?”

“No, that’s not what I meant; I told him to hide it. Then I called Oakwood Commons and the Danbury Police to clue them in. The last thing I need is for the cops to show up there and cause a scene.”

Bill gave me a tight-lipped nod of concurrence. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

The pep squad came on the field. Cheerleader outfits were not so skimpy when I was in high school. Long hair, long legs, and tight buns, all of them. Bill was no longer looking at me.

Enjoy the spectacle. Try not to drool.

The Marching band paraded onto the field playing the theme from Star Wars. At least they wore the same dorky unisex uniforms that we wore in my day.

My head was in a vise and the spitting cauldron in the pit of my stomach felt ready to erupt. It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. I was trapped in a déjà vu time warp, waiting for my son to subject himself to two more quarters of brain-mashing mayhem as my mother accused my father, Mr. Devoted Loyalty in the flesh, of being an imposter, all while the band mangled John Williams’s score and those cheerleaders crawled further and further under my skin.

Bill was talking to me. “Can I bring you back anything from the concession stand?” he was saying.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“I’m going to get a Coke and a pretzel.”

“Bring me back a Diet Coke, please.”

He got up and left, navigating the bleachers with little effort.

Someone called my name: “Hi, Wendy.”

A woman I didn’t recognize was standing in front of me, two rows below.

“Fran Murphy,” she said. “George and Sammy played Pop Warner together.

I nodded.

“Sammy’s having quite a year,” she said.

“Is George on the team?” I asked – a stupid question.

“Oh, no. He’s in the band. He’s the sousaphone player.”

Of course.

A cheer went up from the crowd. The teams were back on the field and the second half began.

Bill returned just then. “Diet Pepsi okay? They didn’t have Coke. And they ran out of pretzels.”

He held an ice cream sandwich. “Want half?”

Sammy caught several passes during the second half. Each time he was tackled he popped right up. I calmed down. Then he caught a pass and sprinted down the sideline. It looked like he was going to score another touchdown, but right before he reached the endzone a defender barreled into him, sending him flying out of bounds.

Bill jumped to his feet, irate and screaming, “Personal foul, ref, personal foul!”

I couldn’t see what was going on. Time stood still. I felt my heart pounding, and I don’t want to think about how high my blood pressure must have gone. Then I saw Sammy running back onto the field to thunderous cheering.

The Rangers were two yards short of the goal line. On the next play, the quarterback threw Sammy a pass, which he caught for a touchdown.

The crowd chanted, “Sammy! Sammy!” I thought this would put me under.

The third quarter ended without incident. The visiting team, the Cutters, scored twice in the fourth quarter. The Rangers were still up by three, but the Cutters had the ball with five minutes remaining. Everyone was up, yelling and stomping. I thought that the stands might collapse.

Dad called again. I let it go into voicemail, but he didn’t give up. Each time he rang me, the caller ID on my phone grew more desperate looking.

“I’ll meet you at the car,” I said to Bill.

“But the game’s almost over,” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders and headed back down. This time, the wafting aroma of weed warned me off my restroom refuge. Would they let someone’s mother take a toke? The parking lot was deserted: no one was leaving yet. I went there.

“You no longer have to rush over here, Wendy,” Dad said.

Unbelievable! “What changed, Dad?”

“She’s still giving me the evil eye and she gave me another scolding for having the nerve to wear Ralph’s clothes. But she says I can stay until Ralph gets back as long as I don’t try any monkey business. With my own wife! In my own house! Was our marriage a sham? Did she ever love me?”

“Of course she did, Dad; she still does. That’s not Mom talking, it’s her disease.”

Dad started crying, and I couldn’t understand him. Someone came running toward me.

“Dr. Bergman, Dr. Bergman,” he was yelling. It was one of the assistant coaches. My face went numb and a sharp spasm shot through my chest.

I put down the phone. “Yes.”

“Follow me,” he said, breathless.

I didn’t move.

“Sammy’s been injured.”

I nearly fainted but somehow got to the field. The first thing I saw was the flashing lights of the ambulance.

The coach grabbed my arm as I rushed past. “Just a precaution, Dr. Bergman,” I heard him say. “We’re sending Sammy for an MRI. School-board policy. In the old days he would have been back on the field already. Nothing to worry about.”

Why was this guy talking to me? I looked past him and saw Sammy lying on a gurney, already backboarded. I pulled free and ran over to the ambulance. Bill was there. They were raising the gurney to load Sammy into the back of the rig. He saw me and waved.

“I’m okay, Mom,” he hastened to say as I drew near. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.” He flashed me that easy-going smile of his. “I just got my bell rung, no big deal.”

I gave Bill a look, but he wouldn’t look at me.

My cell phone rang again.

Gary S. Moak is a geriatric psychiatrist on the faculty of the Geisel School of Medicine at Dartmouth College, where he is an associate professor of psychiatry.  He attended the University of Pennsylvania and the Robert Wood Johnson Rutgers Medical School and trained in psychiatry and geriatric psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh. Dr. Moak is a past president of The American Association for Geriatric Psychiatry and author of Beat Depression to Stay Healthier and Live Longer: A Guide for Older Adults and Their Families. His clinical experience working with older adults and their families inspires his fiction.