tidbits for me when she came home yesterday afternoon. No interesting facts to ponder, no picture to look at. Just a tube of sunscreen slapped on the counter and a grumpy “You should use this,” when I asked her what was new.
She was still angry and restless when we sat down for dinner, which was unsettling enough. But then she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, wouldn’t talk to me at all while we washed the dishes, which was doubly unsettling because we talked about everything. From sex to politics, there was nothing Grace and I couldn’t discuss, nothing we weren’t perfectly open about. Except the Alzheimer’s. That remained private.
Mark, and presumably now Liz, were the only ones who knew, and that was how I intended to keep it for a while yet. Mary Anne would be annoyed for days when I finally told her, but the truth is that Alzheimer’s scares people—Lord knows it terrifies me daily—and I cannot imagine being gracious if I am ever on the receiving end of one of those false bright smiles people reserve for poor unfortunates like myself. They say Alzheimer’s patients are given to violent outbursts, and is it any wonder?
I’ll have to tell Grace eventually, but for now it was more important that I went canoeing. I’d find out later what was on her mind. To make sure that happened, I scribbled, What’s wrong with Grace? into my notebook and stuffed it back into my pocket. Then I grabbed a life jacket from the hook by the door, my paddle from the shelf above, and headed outside.
The sky was clear, the air warm. I pedaled slowly, watching for Grace on the narrow streets and playing the memory game again. What did you have for dinner last night? What time is it? What color is a five-dollar bill? I had pork chops, the time was 6:21 A.M., and a five-dollar bill has always been green. Or was it pink? Maybe it was blue. I sighed. One point for Big Al.
The memory blanks have been coming more frequently lately, lasting longer. Before the diagnosis, I’d shrug and put it down to menopause or overwork. Convince myself that losing my keys a half dozen times a day was perfectly normal. And hadn’t everyone put the toaster in the freezer at least once? Now, of course, I knew the truth. The sad and ugly truth. And the color of that bill would haunt me until I got home. Or until I forgot, whichever came first.
Grace was still nowhere in sight when I reached the boat launch by Algonquin bridge. Just me and two young men carrying their canoes down to the water. I was fairly sure they weren’t Islanders. Someone’s guests perhaps or members of the yacht club. Whoever they were, they were blond, tanned, and equally fit. If not for an eyebrow ring on the one on the right, it would have been hard to tell them apart. They stood on the shore, stretching triceps, loosening hamstrings, getting ready for a real workout I’d say. With luck, they wouldn’t be making a habit of it. “You’re out early,” I called.
“Have to be if we want to beat the rush,” the one with the ring called back.
“I hear you.” I hauled my canoe off the rack, tossed the paddle inside, and dragged her down to the edge of the lagoon. “You training for something?”
“We’re planning a corporate canoe challenge,” the other one said. “Laying out the course for a mini-marathon. Nice boat, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I said, and smiled because it was true. She was a nice boat. After a season in that old used canoe, I figured I owed myself something a little nicer. Something in lipstick red with a carbon fusion shell. And this baby was perfect. Lightweight and tough, much like myself.
“You do a lot of canoeing?” the boy without the ring asked.
“Every day,” I said, and should have left it at that, but I couldn’t resist. “In fact it’s funny you should mention marathon canoeing. I used to do a little of that myself.”
“Hey that’s great.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jason, and this is Jonah.”
Jason and
She was still angry and restless when we sat down for dinner, which was unsettling enough. But then she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, wouldn’t talk to me at all while we washed the dishes, which was doubly unsettling because we talked about everything. From sex to politics, there was nothing Grace and I couldn’t discuss, nothing we weren’t perfectly open about. Except the Alzheimer’s. That remained private.
Mark, and presumably now Liz, were the only ones who knew, and that was how I intended to keep it for a while yet. Mary Anne would be annoyed for days when I finally told her, but the truth is that Alzheimer’s scares people—Lord knows it terrifies me daily—and I cannot imagine being gracious if I am ever on the receiving end of one of those false bright smiles people reserve for poor unfortunates like myself. They say Alzheimer’s patients are given to violent outbursts, and is it any wonder?
I’ll have to tell Grace eventually, but for now it was more important that I went canoeing. I’d find out later what was on her mind. To make sure that happened, I scribbled, What’s wrong with Grace? into my notebook and stuffed it back into my pocket. Then I grabbed a life jacket from the hook by the door, my paddle from the shelf above, and headed outside.
The sky was clear, the air warm. I pedaled slowly, watching for Grace on the narrow streets and playing the memory game again. What did you have for dinner last night? What time is it? What color is a five-dollar bill? I had pork chops, the time was 6:21 A.M., and a five-dollar bill has always been green. Or was it pink? Maybe it was blue. I sighed. One point for Big Al.
The memory blanks have been coming more frequently lately, lasting longer. Before the diagnosis, I’d shrug and put it down to menopause or overwork. Convince myself that losing my keys a half dozen times a day was perfectly normal. And hadn’t everyone put the toaster in the freezer at least once? Now, of course, I knew the truth. The sad and ugly truth. And the color of that bill would haunt me until I got home. Or until I forgot, whichever came first.
Grace was still nowhere in sight when I reached the boat launch by Algonquin bridge. Just me and two young men carrying their canoes down to the water. I was fairly sure they weren’t Islanders. Someone’s guests perhaps or members of the yacht club. Whoever they were, they were blond, tanned, and equally fit. If not for an eyebrow ring on the one on the right, it would have been hard to tell them apart. They stood on the shore, stretching triceps, loosening hamstrings, getting ready for a real workout I’d say. With luck, they wouldn’t be making a habit of it. “You’re out early,” I called.
“Have to be if we want to beat the rush,” the one with the ring called back.
“I hear you.” I hauled my canoe off the rack, tossed the paddle inside, and dragged her down to the edge of the lagoon. “You training for something?”
“We’re planning a corporate canoe challenge,” the other one said. “Laying out the course for a mini-marathon. Nice boat, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I said, and smiled because it was true. She was a nice boat. After a season in that old used canoe, I figured I owed myself something a little nicer. Something in lipstick red with a carbon fusion shell. And this baby was perfect. Lightweight and tough, much like myself.
“You do a lot of canoeing?” the boy without the ring asked.
“Every day,” I said, and should have left it at that, but I couldn’t resist. “In fact it’s funny you should mention marathon canoeing. I used to do a little of that myself.”
“Hey that’s great.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jason, and this is Jonah.”
Jason and
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