Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [47]
I open the door, and there they are. My two children. The boy and the girl. Older, looking more careworn, especially the boy. I pull them both close, one arm around each, my cheek resting halfway on my daughter’s shoulder.
Why did you ring the bell? I ask. This is your home! You’re always welcome. You know that!
They both smile in unison. It looks almost choreographed. They seem relieved. Oh, we didn’t want to sneak up on you! says my son, my handsome, handsome boy. Even before his voice changed, the girls started calling.
Well, come in! I say. My friend and I just made some cookies. The blond woman has come up behind me. She smiles at the young man and woman.
We settle ourselves around the kitchen table. The blond woman offers coffee, tea, cookies. They both decline, although the boy accepts a glass of water. The blond woman takes a seat, too. There are undercurrents.
How have you been? the boy asks me.
Quite well, I say.
The boy looks at the blond woman. She shakes her head slightly.
Are you sure? You seem a little . . . excited. Overwrought, even.
This is from the girl, my daughter. The snake wrapped so tenderly around her delicate bones. Oddly enough, she takes after James. For all his height he is somehow insubstantial. Always ten pounds too thin. He doesn’t see it that way, of course. Always running, always swimming, always moving. On days he can’t go out because of excessive rain or snow or cold, he runs up and down the stairs for an hour at a stretch.
I consider her question. I weigh my options, my choices. And make up my mind.
This is a talk we had to have sooner or later, I say. I’ve been putting it off . But since you’re both here, now is as good as anytime.
The girl nods. The boy looks at me. The blond woman keeps her eyes on the table.
Your father doesn’t know. Not yet. So please don’t mention it to him.
We won’t, says the boy. You can count on that. He gives a wry smile when he says this.
It started a while ago. Months. I noticed I was forgetting things. Little things, like where I’d put my keys or my wallet or the box of pasta I’d taken out of the pantry. Then these gaps. One minute I’d be in my office, the next in the Jewel frozen foods section with no recollection of how I’d got there. Then words started to go. I was in the middle of surgery and I forgot the word clamp. I remembered it afterward, driving home. But at the time I had to say, Give me that shiny thing that pinches and holds. I saw my residents exchanging glances. Humiliating.
The boy and girl don’t look shocked. This is good. The hard part is yet to come.
I’ll even make a confession, I say. I don’t know your names. My own children. Your faces are clear—for that I’m grateful. Others blur beyond recognition. Rooms are sealed without doors, without any way in or out. And bathrooms have become extraordinarily elusive.
I’m Fiona, says the girl. And this is your son, Mark.
Thank you. Of course. Fiona and Mark. Well, to make a long story short, I went to the doctor—to Carl Tsien. You know Carl, of course. He asked me some questions, sent me to a specialist at U of C. They have a special clinic there. They call it, without a trace of irony, the Memory Unit.
They ran some tests. You may or may not know, but there is no conclusive way to diagnose Alzheimer’s. It’s mostly a process of elimination. They ran a number of blood labs. Made sure there were no low-lying infections. Eliminated hypothyroidism, depression. Mostly, they asked a lot of questions. And at the end of it all, they didn’t give me much room for hope.
Both my children nod calmly. They’re not crying. They’re not noticeably distressed. It’s the blond woman who reaches over and covers my hand with hers.
Perhaps I’m not being clear, I say. This is a death sentence. The death of the mind. I’ve already given notice at the hospital, announced my retirement. I have started keeping a journal so I have some continuity in my life. But I won’t be able to live on my own for very much longer. And I don’t want to be a burden