Copyright © 2001 by Shane
Tourtellotte
First published in Analog Science Fiction
and Fact, November 2001
2002 Hugo Award Nominee, Best Novelette
Joe Dipano rode in the back of the ambulance, frowning. He
didn't need this coddling. His daughter could drive him back
home. Well, at least they weren't using the siren.
His nurse, Lucy Katz, sat next to him, taking his pulse.
She was a sturdy, gray-haired woman, and not bad-looking. He
saw her eyes fall on the patches on either side of his neck.
She always worried that he would pick at them.
Stefanie was up front with the driver. She looked back now
and again, always smiling. He smiled back this time, then
frowned at something odd he saw.
"What happened to your ear, Stef?"
Stefanie turned around, nonplused. "What do you mean?"
"It looks swollen, and there's a red groove behind it."
Stef's hand reached, before she stopped it. "It's nothing,
Dad. I've just been wearing something there too much."
"Oh. All right."
Soon they stopped in a familiar-looking place. Lucy helped
guide him down the fold-out steps, steadying him when he
tottered once. He walked toward the curb, shooting a last
glance at the red-on-white Essex County Geriatric Research
Center on the ambulance's side.
Stef came around the other side to join her father.
"Welcome home, Daddy," she said.
Joe looked at his house. It was different somehow. He tried
to place the changes--the paint, maybe, or the shrubbery along
the walls--but it kept slipping away. Halfway to the front
door, someone burst outside to break his concentration.
"Grandpa!"
A big hug nearly knocked the wind out of Joe. Lucy
remonstrated, and Mike released him.
Yes, it was Mike. He had visited the hospital a few times
in recent days. Joe recognized him: hair black like Stef and
curly like Harry--but he had grown up so. Joe couldn't help
smiling, though. "Good to see you again, sport."
Mike led everyone inside. Stef and Lucy turned right,
toward the living room. "I want to go over the visitation and
checkup schedule," he heard Lucy say. He started to follow
them.
"This way, Grandpa." Mike had a hold on his shoulder. "I've
got fresh coffee."
"They're talking about me," Joe said. "I ought to be
there."
"I think they need to be alone. Please."
Joe snorted. "I wish people wouldn't treat me like a child.
They say I'm cured--or would if they'd stop talking like
doctors, trying to cover themselves every way they can."
They went to the kitchen the long way, through the dining
room. The table had been pushed close to one corner, the
chairs arrayed behind it in a protective huddle. "Where's the
china cabinet?" Joe said. "It should be in that corner."
"Mom moved it," Mike said. "I forget where."
"I'll--" He turned, but Mike's firm grasp on his arm
prevented anything more. "Fine. Coffee."
The kitchen was another surprise. Almost every appliance
looked new, and most had black boxes smaller than his hand
attached to them, near doors or control panels. Smaller
versions clung to many drawers and cabinets.
Joe had an unsettling idea what they were. He nearly asked
Mike, but he could imagine the pity the boy would have to
cover up. He accepted the coffee mug Mike offered, taking a
long swallow, noting Mike's watchful gaze. Joe didn't care for
that, either.
"So, Mike, what have you been doing with yourself?"
Mike's smile faded to half-strength. "Well, I graduated
college in thirty-one--"
"I know that! I mean since I saw you two days ago."
Mike flushed, but grinned. "Sorry. I've been visiting some
old friends …."
Joe listened as he sipped. Did Mike think he didn't
remember things he'd heard two days before?
Well, Mike was probably used to that state of affairs. He'd
learn.
Lucy Katz walked with Joe to his bedroom. It was a weird
sensation. Part of him knew his bedroom was on the second
floor, that they were going to the den. Back at the hospital,
though, they had told him Stef had moved his room to the first
floor, and he had nebulous recollections of sleeping down
here, too. It was like two pasts, two lives, overlapped in his
mind.
Lucy wanted him to report any instances of disorientation.
He might keep this one to himself.
The bedroom was his, all right. He recognized the dresser,
though it was worse for wear, the drawers chipped and dented.
The top of the dresser was covered with framed photographs,
most of them decades old. Some of them looked banged up, too.
He didn't see a mirror, but considering how decrepit he
looked, that was a blessing. There were more of those black
boxes, too, but he ignored them.
Lucy saw him looking at the photos. "Do you recognize
them?" she asked. She picked up the closest one. "Who's in
this one?"
Joe rolled his eyes. He knew when someone was giving him a
mental exercise. "This is from college," he said. "I'm on the
far left. That's Jerry Hafstedter, Javier Vega, Doug Payton,
the one turned around is Tim L-L-Lassiter, and that's Nick
Wechsel."
"And this?" She kept it up for a while, making notes on her
clipboard screen in a way she thought was unobtrusive.
Joe did best with the old pictures. He nearly asked once
why there was nothing with his wife, before remembering how
long ago the divorce was. Newer photos were troublesome, but
the hospital staff had filled in enough details of his life so
he could get through them.
"That's Stef and her husband Harry in the middle. That's
Mike, of course, and that's … I suppose it's Allie … but wait,
Mike's married now, so maybe--"
"It's Alice," Lucy said, putting it back. "You did great,
Joe. Let's move on to some physical exercises."
That was harder. He felt awfully weak, not surprising for
how thin he was these days. He used the weights she carried in
her bag, lifting and stretching until he ached. Then she
tested his strength against the resistance of her own hands
and arms. She was no youngster, but she was plenty strong.
"I keep feeling like we should leave the door open," Joe
said with a grunt. "Or have a chaperone."
"Just keep pushing," Lucy said, not without good humor.
Joe managed to satisfy whatever criteria she had, and not
too soon. "Bathroom," he said tightly.
"Okay." She got her arm around his back. "This way. Through
the door." They walked where she led.
"Must've knocked through a new door," Joe said. "This would
be … the pantry through here. Stef really did change things
around."
He opened the door, and again the duality of memories hit
him. Strange, and fleetingly familiar. A closer look brought
other, disturbing impressions. All the support bars and guard
rails--and those boxes again. This was a bathroom for a
cripple. Nobody would tell him so, but it was.
He caught a look at himself in the mirror over the sink,
and nearly recoiled. He was close to skin and bones, his face
pallid where it wasn't splotched red. What little hair had
clung to the top of his head had faded to wispy white. He
screwed his eyes shut and stepped back, his heel catching on
the traction mat near the toilet.
"Maybe Stef can take all this hardware out," he said, "now
that I'm better."
"The word is 'recovering,' Joe, not 'recovered.' You'll use
these supports."
"Do I have to do it with you here?" He didn't expect her to
leave, and she didn't. She did turn away a bit, thank
goodness, while he dropped his drawers, grabbed the long bars
straddling the toilet, and settled himself down. He crossed
his arms over his lap quickly.
"So," he said to divert attention, "how long will you be
coming here?"
"Several weeks at least. A few hours a day, but that'll
taper off as we go." She rolled out some toilet paper, to give
her eyes somewhere else to go. "Of course, we'll have to bring
you back to the center for weekly tests."
"In the ambulance, right?"
"Hey, it's perfect advertising for us, running that thing
through town."
He chuckled at her joke. "You won't need advertising for
long. Once word of this treatment gets out, you'll be beating
away patients with sticks."
Lucy smiled a little. "No, let them all come. It's fine
with us."
"Yeah." He stared ahead. "Me, too."
The nurse left before dinner, but Mike stayed to eat. Stef
served in a thick stew that filled the kitchen with hearty
aromas before she could begin ladling. Joe noticed how finely
the meat and vegetables were chopped, but that visual
imperfection did nothing to the taste.
Joe had little to say, but Stef and her son kept
conversation going. They would only flag a bit whenever Joe
raised his spoon. Their voices weakened a bit; their faces
froze a little; their eyes watched without exactly looking at
him. Whatever calamity they expected, it never happened.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning," Mike said after dinner,
"but then I have to head home to Michigan. Hopefully, next
time I'm here, Kate will be with me." He left his grandfather
with another big hug. Joe and Stefanie ended up in the living
room. Joe kept waiting for Stef to say whatever she was
struggling to get out, but she couldn't get past small talk.
"I … have some calls to make upstairs." She took the remote
from a table in the corner--if the coffeetable had still been
around, it would have been there. "You'll be all right here,
Dad, won't you?" she asked, handing it to him."
"Sure, Stef. Go ahead."
He cruised through the channels, with growing dismay. He
found no hockey, too much basketball, and the baseball game
didn't hold his attention. He found a news channel, which was
worse. He concentrated on remembering a few names--the
President's, for example--but soon couldn't stand the
confusion of events without framework.
Joe clicked the Net access button, but found it locked out.
He shut the television off and stood up, thankful this time
for the bar next to the couch. She'd take care of this.
He reached the stairs. A black semicircular mat lay at the
foot, and for some reason he hesitated to step onto it. It
took an effort of will to cross that mat, but soon he was
walking upstairs, slowly but steadily.
He heard Stef talking through an open doorway. A few steps
closer, and he could hear someone else over a Netcomm. Both
voices sounded awkward. Only when he heard Stef call him
'"Harry" did he know it was her husband.
Their call ended just as Joe reached the door and knocked.
Stef gasped. "Sorry about that," he said. "Is Harry working
late on something?"
"What?" She stood fast, nearly upending her chair. "Father,
you shouldn't be moving around like this."
"It's my house." Stef flinched at his snapping, so he
calmed down. "I managed the stairs fine, Stef. I've got my
senses back … unless there's something you and the doctors
aren't telling me."
"No! No, you're just still weak." She guided him out of her
room. "Please, for my sake, take it easy. Tell me or Nurse
Katz when you want to move around like this."
Joe groaned, but nodded. "Okay, for your sake." He let Stef
lead him back downstairs.
"Is there anything on disk you'd like to see?" she said
once they were in the living room.
"Not really. What I want--" A stray memory nudged aside
thoughts of the Net lockout. "You know what I'd love to see?
The Winter Olympics from 1980. The U.S. hockey team. I was a
freshman at Penn that year. My roommate, Nick, roped me into
watching highlights of the first game, and from then
on--honey?"
She was laughing, her face etched with bittersweet pain.
"Oh, Dad, you've been fixated on that team for years. I got
all of their games for you. They're in the shelf right next to
the set."
His eyes grew. "For years, you say?" His mouth sagged. "I
don't remember that." He watched her laughter subside. "You
must be sick to death of those games."
"Completely," she said. "But I'll watch with you now."
He thought, then made a shooing gesture. "No, I'll watch
them myself. You've suffered enough."
Stef seemed to wince, but the expression wasn't there long
enough for Joe to be sure. She went to put a disk in the
player, then gave him a kiss on the brow and went back
upstairs.
Joe struggled a bit to watch until Baker's last-minute goal
to tie the Swedes. The Americans were lucky: Sweden had great
players, but lacked teamwork. Joe shut off the player and
television, and leaned hard on the railing to stand up. He
almost turned toward the stairs, then remembered where bed
was.
He woke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.
Before he could close the door, Stefanie was there. She had a
piece of molded plastic clipped to one ear, right where that
red groove was. "Let me help you, Father," she said through a
yawn.
"Oh, not you, too." He tried to argue, but his urges would
not wait. He submitted to the intrusion.
Back in bed, with Stef upstairs again, Joe waited in vain
for sleep. Harry, the earpiece, half a dozen other things
nagged at him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed in his pajamas
for a while. Something would help, but what?
Of course! A little reading to put him to sleep. That
always worked.
It wouldn't this time. There were no books in his room,
paper, electronic, or anything. He searched all the drawers,
but the noise only brought Stef back.
He told her not to mind. Asking her would be too
embarrassing. He'd get to sleep on his own tonight.
"Good day for a walk, isn't it?"
He and Lucy were on their eighth circuit of the house.
There had always been a partial stone path, but now it was
paved, and completely circled the house. Joe was starting to
tire, but he wasn't going to show that.
Turning a back corner, Lucy gave a soft moan. "I could
stand a rest. Let's use the bench here."
They sat side by side, close to the house, the whole back
yard before them. Stef, or someone, had done serious work
here. There were flowers of half a dozen varieties, each to
its own plot, bursting forth in April brightness. Joe could
identify violets, and probably pansies, but he looked in vain
for something else.
"I always had tulips back here," he muttered. "Grew them
after the divorce, because Laura hated them." He wheezed a
laugh. "Also they're almost the only flower I can recognize."
He craned around, looking, despite Lucy's restrictive hands.
"What happened to them?"
"I don't know," Lucy said cautiously. "You should ask your
daughter. Well, look at that."
There was a birdbath centered in the plots of flowers, and
a pair of sparrows had perched to drink. Joe's attention
drifted from them, settling on the high wooden fence ringing
the back yard. He wasn't going to ask anybody how that got
there. He had too good an idea.
"I suppose you'll have me ask Stef about the earpiece,
too."
Lucy looked at him, with a shade of a frown. "That's
nothing secret. It's her house computer interface. The
computer monitors the house, notifies her of anything amiss--"
"Like me," he said. "It snitches whenever I do something
she thinks I shouldn't."
Lucy grimaced. "It's a common precaution for home
caregivers. Joe, we told you your family had had to make
adjustments to your illness."
"So why aren't they adjusting back? She still treats me
like … like …."
"It takes time, Joe, on both ends. She doesn't trust your
abilities yet, and you don't recognize your weaknesses." She
patted his shoulder. "Let's just look at the garden a while."
"No. You can't distract me that easily." Joe's hand began
to shake. "That's what this garden was, right? Something to
distract the old man whenever he has a demented tantrum. Calm
him down, make him manageable, passive."
He hoisted himself to his feet, not even using a hand to
push off. "I don't want to be passive. Been that way too long,
another vegetable in the garden. And don't say whatever you
were going to."
Lucy closed her mouth, and made her face professionally
neutral.
Joe started shuffling, building up speed. "Let's get some
more laps done, before I get stiff. No use sitting around."
"The President still acts the way he did before the midterm
elections, and Congress is putting him in his place. The
Welles administration is effectively over; the Democrats
will--"
"Dad?"
Joe turned the sound down. "Morning, Stef."
"I heard the television," she said. "I thought you were
watching the hockey again. Actually, I was worried you watched
it all night."
"No, I'm trying to catch up on current events." He watched
another commentator gesticulate. "They talk about the
President, but it doesn't mean anything to me. I almost
remember him being in Congress or something, for all that
helps."
"You could look it up," Stef said, "to be sure."
"Can't." He lifted the remote. "I'm locked out of the Net."
"Oh, that's right." Joe had to hold the remote out to her
for a moment before Stef took the next step and start undoing
the lockout.
"A lot has happened," Joe went on. "I ought to buy those
annual news summary disks I've seen advertised. I just wish I
knew how many I'd need to buy."
"I can find you some history sites. There," she said,
laying the remote beside him. "You can start after breakfast."
"Maybe I could bring breakfast down here--except--" He
gestured to the carpet before him. "No coffeetable."
Stef looked embarrassed. "It's in the basement," she said.
"I put it there after …"
"After what?" Joe narrowed his eyes.
She glanced away for an instant. "You toppled over it two,
three years ago, and fractured your wrist. That's when we
started clearing away a lot of stuff, for safety's sake."
"Like the china cabinet?" he asked. "Or did I break that
first?"
Stef flushed, and coughed. "I'll fix your breakfast now."
He ate in the kitchen, in an awkward silence. She had made
the cereal too wet again. He said nothing. One difficulty at a
time.
Search engines, plus his daughter's suggestions, brought
him to several useful sites. He backed up ten years to 2029,
and began skimming. After a while, he went back another five
years, and started over. This happened several times over,
each time with a furtive glance at the doorway, and a growing
fear of discovery.
He stopped at 2004, where he actually knew most of the
events he was reviewing, and began his slow march forward.
Many things came back to him as he read. Others he had to take
on faith. The result of the election in 2008 was a shock to
him--as was the assassination the next year. It felt like a
lurid political novel more than history.
He kept studying, but his feeling of detachment grew. It
didn't quite seem real, not even the events he recalled once
his memory was jogged. Things that happened fifty years ago
felt more real than events twenty years ago, or even
yesterday.
Joe knew this was part of Alzheimer's: the reversion,
almost like aging backward, shedding memories and abilities
back to a second helpless infancy. He understood this on one
level, but somewhere else, his brain would not submit to
rationality.
His search began to wander, taking him back into the 1980s,
back to the University of Pennsylvania. He knew the names,
even without the photograph in front of him.
"Hello, Joe."
He jumped, and guiltily shut off the Net connection. "Lucy?
You aren't due until this afternoon."
"It's half past twelve now," she said gingerly.
"Really? Was I working that long? I wouldn't have believed
it."
Lucy sat next to him on the couch. "What's today's date,
Joe?"
"Lucy, my memory's fine." She didn't budge. "Okay. Sunday,
April twenty-fourth, 2039."
"Where do I work?"
"Essex County Geriatric Research Center. I was there for
thirty-one days, participating in a Phase Three test for an
Alzheimer's cure. This patch," he said, pointing to his left
carotid, "is a retroviral emulsion, composed to get past the
blood-brain barrier. It reprograms the immune system to stop
producing the impaired microglial cells that were poisoning my
brain, killing it off. The one on the right reactivates genes
that produce NR2B receptors, which boosts my memory so I
recover my wits faster, so I can pass ridiculous tests like
this."
He had drilled himself in the explanations the doctors gave
him, almost from the start. Remembering those incantations,
understanding them, had been his first sure sign that he was
improving. They were his talismans against the darkness.
Lucy nodded, as she pulled cards from her bag. "Let's try
another exercise, Joe. I'm going to read a series of numbers."
"I know how this works," he said testily. His pique did not
prevent him from retaining and repeating digit strings as long
as nine.
"Very good," Lucy finally said. "Let's get you some lunch,
then perform some physical--whoa, let me help you."
Joe had tried to stand, but had fallen back heavily. "I'm
stiff," he said. "Too long in one place."
Lucy got an arm around him, and guided him to his feet on
his second attempt. "You certainly are. I can feel it all
through your back. From now on, don't stay sitting so long, or
find a more ergonomic seating arrangement."
Joe waggled his eyebrows. "I love it when you talk that
way."
Lucy snorted, but he thought he heard a chuckle in there
somewhere.
He wished he could say the neighborhood looked familiar,
but it didn't. Still, this was Hazel Street, the other side of
the block from his house. Maybe he hadn't gotten here much
before.
The wind started picking up. Joe zipped his jacket higher.
It wasn't good looking, the faded tan spotted in several
places, but it was the best he could find in the hall closet.
His slow gait carried him to the next corner, and he turned
onto Pearson. Now things were more familiar. The peculiar
two-part porch of the Costello house--or had they moved? The
gray brick facing next door--had to be the same people: anyone
else would have gotten rid of it.
He looked at the roof of one house. What was missing? Why
did he think something should be there? Why--?
The sound of that question closed the connection. The
Wylies! They had a forest of TV aerials on their roof, but no
longer.
Well, no wonder. Joe knew enough about current technology
to know that the television antenna went out years ago. Ten,
or maybe fifteen.
Soon he turned the next corner, back home on Millwood. He
felt like he could finish a second lap, but decided he had
accomplished enough for today.
"Father?"
It was Stef shouting, and sounding alarmed. Joe saw her
race out of the house, three doors away. He hobbled himself
faster.
"Father!" She saw him, and came running.
"What happened, Stef? What's wrong?"
"You! Why are you out here? I thought you had eloped!"
"You thought I'd what?" He laughed. "Honey, you're taking
my banter with Lucy way too seriously."
"No. That's a--a caretakers' term. Wandering away." Her
fright had subsided, but she was still upset. "Where were you
going?" she asked, with an effort at calm.
"Just around the block."
"Why?"
"Do I have to tell you everything?" From her look, it was
plain she thought so. "I wanted the exercise. I'm sick of
being weak and hollowed out." He gestured at his stomach,
sunken under his ribs. "I would've waited for Lucy, but you
can see these clouds building. Had to do it now. Tomorrow, I
go back in for tests."
"But you scared me so--"
"Besides," he said before she could take over the
conversation, "I wanted to get familiar with the neighborhood
again, jog some memories--those few I've got left. That's not
so bad an idea, is it?"
Stef's face began to melt into sympathy, but she held it
off. "One of us should have gone with you."
"I wanted to do it myself."
"I know, but you have to talk to us. Please. For my peace
of mind."
A familiar frustration welled up in Joe. "Fine," he
grumbled, starting to walk toward the house. "Let's talk now,
because I will go out again." He sighed. "It's time I
reintroduced myself to the neighbors."
Lucy was also upset at his excursion, but got over it
faster. She also convinced him, against his better judgment,
to apologize to his daughter for frightening her with his
disappearance.
He made his apology during dinner, another soft meal. Stef
accepted it quietly, but obviously felt no relief. Joe could
see that afterward, when he saw her with the earpiece she
hadn't worn for a couple of days. The snitch had returned.
Joe spent most of the next day back at Essex Geriatric. The
smells and glaring lights dug deep into his brain, triggering
flight urges his thinking brain didn't understand. He admitted
this to Lucy just before a cranial TRAP scan.
"You were badly agitated your first few days here," she
said prosaically. "Maybe you're recalling those emotions."
"Oh," Joe breathed, and said nothing more. He was clothed
for his scan, but lying on that table, with clamps holding his
head immobile, he still felt naked.
The pokings and peerings and interrogations continued. Joe
looked at the clock, expecting a couple of hours to have
passed, and found only twenty-five minutes had. The pattern
repeated itself half a dozen times before Doctor Dale made her
appearance. She headed the test program at Essex: her
benedictory presence meant all the real work was over.
Dale repeated, stiffly and precisely, all of the
encouraging news he had heard piecemeal from a dozen people
running a dozen tests. Then she added something new. "Your
brain biochemistry shows a complete changeover to the benign
microglial cells. We can safely discontinue that portion of
your treatment. Ms. Katz?"
Lucy, who had been with him most of the way, peeled away
the patch on his left carotid, and dropped it into a small
plastic waste-bag. She had done that every three days for
weeks, only to apply a fresh patch. Now, the skin stayed bare
and cool, prickling a little.
"It's over?" Joe asked. "Okay, I know it isn't, but …
it shouldn't come back now?"
"We don't have long-term data," Dale said, "but projections
are encouraging. At worst, we can resume treatment if symptoms
recur." She divined a question from his look. "You will keep
coming in for a while--for years, actually, though not as
often. For today, though," she said with an unexpected
twinkle, "it is over. We'll see you next week, Mister
Dipano."
Lucy stayed with him on the ride home. He scarcely minded
their using the ambulance again, save for some embarrassment
at what the neighbors might think. Reminded of that, he asked
Lucy about an excursion the next day, and got some positive
noises.
Stef was midway through cooking when he walked in. He and
Lucy told her some of the good news, before Lucy had to leave.
Stef was pleased, and a gelatinous smile clung to her lips.
She would not, though, consent to let him help with her
preparations. Joe managed to bite off a resentful remark.
Dinner was excellent. The pot roast was juicy and almost
flaked away at a touch. On the side were mashed potatoes and
baby carrots, steamed to tenderness. Stef was still babying
him, keeping his foods soft, but she made it easy to forgive
the offense this time.
It did make him want to exert some influence on events,
though. "How's Allie doing?" he asked midway through the meal.
"Fine," Stef said, rather hastily.
"Okay. Then why hasn't she called?"
Stef remained cool. "She hasn't had the time, Father. She's
been busy."
"The same way Harry's been busy?"
Stef put her fork down with a clack. "Alice's final exams
are in a month. She has to study."
"Every minute?" he mumbled, not wanting a reply. "That
doesn't explain your husband, either."
"Father," said Stef with tense patience, "you've been
unaware of things for a long time. Things have changed, and
you don't understand what's happened."
"I know that," he said with a grimace. "That's why I'm
asking." His mouth hardened into a frown. "Have you two gotten
divorced?"
Stef hesitated. "No. He's--oh, Father, please. Let's talk
about this some other time. Not tonight. Not now."
Joe hadn't the heart to press on after that. He chewed at
his pot roast, wondering when "some other time" would come.
The next day came soon enough, and the gray skies never
took on the darkness of rain. Lucy carried an umbrella for
insurance, but started the excursion promptly at two. Stef
gave them a perfunctory send-off.
They walked next door. Joe took a long look at the mailbox
by their door, "The Krols" written on it in brass letters.
"Recognize the name?" Lucy prompted.
"Yes. Yes, I do." Joe rang the bell. "I just hope I
recognize the faces."
He was spared any moment of uncertainty. Eileen Krol could
not have been happier to find him at her door, and Jason
nearly matched her effusiveness. They invited Joe and Lucy in
before either could speak.
They looked familiar, save for their age. They were in
their fifties, near-contemporaries of Stef. Eileen even had
the same incipient streaks of gray in her black hair as Stef.
Their welcome tickled those ungraspable areas in his brain
that had come to disturb him so.
The inside of their house tantalized him the same way, but
one look at their kitchen sparked something close. "You still
haven't remodeled here, after all this time."
He felt a moment of humiliation, afraid he had exposed some
glaring fault in his memory. The Krols laughed. "Some things
you never forget," he said good-naturedly. Joe smiled along,
letting him think that.
Soon he was sitting at their kitchen table, being stuffed
with tea, cookies, and muffins that Eileen seem to produce out
of the air. "We helped Stef out whenever we could," she said
between servings. "Grocery shopping, other--emergencies. I
wish we could have done more, especially after last year
when--"
"Eileen," Jason said gently. Eileen put a hand to her
mouth, while Joe dug for any memory of the Krols in his house.
"Of course, we heard about the treatments from Stef,"
Eileen said, regaining momentum. "We should have come over
earlier."
"We were afraid of intruding," Jason added, "or of the cure
not taking. Certainly seems to have. You haven't looked this
good in years, Joe."
Joe shuddered. They were probably right. Ragged as he
looked, he remembered seeing himself in hospital mirrors early
in the treatments.
"How about you two?" he asked before he could shake again.
"What's new in your lives?" He saw them trade nervous glances.
"Don't try filling in the past. Just now."
They gladly did that, to such an extent that Joe and Lucy
had to combine their efforts to extricate themselves. "I'm
trying to meet all my neighbors today," he explained. "Can't
stay too long anywhere."
The Krols took that in stride, releasing him with their
best wishes for Stef, and promises to come help again if
needed. By the time Lucy shut the door, Joe was almost dizzy.
"I guess that went well," he said. "Quick, next house
before they pull us back in."
They went to the house on the corner. The doorbell set a
baby to squalling inside. The crying got closer, until a young
woman opened the door with the baby on her hip. "Yes?"
"Sorry to bother you. The name's Joe Dipano; this is--"
"I don't have time for religious proselytizing."
"No, I'm a neighbor. I live two doors down." The woman
stopped closing her door. "I've … been sick for a long time.
I'm reintroducing myself to my neighbors."
"Oh. I didn't know. We only moved in two years ago, last
January. Were you looking for the Moloneys?"
Joe's eyes wandered away. "I suppose I was. Sorry to have
intruded. Good day."
He was walking down the path even before she could close
the door. "Stupid, stupid," he spat out softly.
"Would you like to go back home?" Lucy asked.
"No. I'm not quitting--but I hope the Woodses still live
next door. Still got those ivied trellises. That's a good
sign."
He waited a long while after ringing the bell. He almost
left, but Lucy heard motion inside. Soon the door creaked
open. An old woman peered out, and drew a sharp breath. "Joe?"
"Hello, Heather." What a feeling, to know her on sight.
"Joe, what are you doing? Who is this--who are you?" she
demanded, turning to his companion. Lucy introduced herself.
"He shouldn't be out," Heather Woods said brusquely. "He's got
Alzheimer's. He's--he's--"
"Heather, I'm better now." He reached for her hands, but
she pulled them back. "They've got a treatment. I'll tell you
all about it."
Heather Woods looked horrified. "When was this invented?"
she croaked. "Why didn't anybody tell me?"
"It's still experimental," Joe said, starting to catch her
anxiety. "I started treatments five weeks ago. Heather, what's
wrong?"
She slapped his hand away, hard. "You had this all along!
You knew he could be cured, but you kept pressuring me, and
hectoring me, and I--I gave in! Oh, God!" Her knees
buckled. She swayed against the wall, heaving with sobs.
Lucy jostled past Joe. "Ms. Woods, please calm down. I
assure you, we--"
"Get out," she hissed, throwing her arm out to ward off
Lucy. "Get out! I'll call the police! Get out!"
Joe stumbled backward at that last shriek. Lucy was there
to steady him, and lead him out the door. He was too shocked
to try to shrug her off.
Lucy fixed him coffee and toast in his kitchen, ignoring
the feeding he had gotten from the Krols. She needed something
to keep him there, while she talked to Stefanie in private.
Joe's hands shook too much to lift the mug. He spent a
minute holding one hand over the other, stilling the tremors.
That calmed him enough to take a drink of coffee and a bite of
toast, before the shakes returned. He repeated the cycle over
and over with grim resolve.
Stef came into the kitchen and sat beside him. He saw a
transient movement in the doorway behind her. Was Lucy hiding
close, or walking away?
He felt his daughter's hands clasp his. "I'm okay," he
said, fighting to calm the residual shaking. "She rattled me,
that's all."
"I know, I know." Stef lowered her head for a second, and
kept her eyes tightened against some inner pain when she
lifted it again. "I should have come with you, instead of
Lucy. I know the neighbors. I know what's happened lately. I
could have steered you away from her."
Joe looked intently at her. "What happened to John Woods?
It sounded like he had Alzheimer's, too, but poor Heather was
so hysterical--"
Stef nodded. "He did. It set in back in thirty-four, a
couple of years after your diagnosis. His case progressed
faster, though. The anti-inflammatory medications didn't slow
it down. About eighteen months ago, Heather had to put him in
one of the federal care centers."
She was the one trembling now. "Trouble is, they're
overwhelmed; have been for years. The whole country's
overwhelmed. The Senescence Boom. Our perpetual crisis; our
Cold War against age."
"Couldn't she find a private home?" Joe asked. "Are they
too costly?"
"There aren't any," she said flatly. "I mean, they were
taken over, for maximum efficiency in coping." She muffled a
moan. "If this is maximum …."
Joe grew rigid and solemn. "So John died there. That's
terrible."
Stef's eyes were feverish. She almost swallowed what came
next. "It wasn't that simple. The staff kept making
recommendations to her … polite at first, but they were
hectoring her before long. She came to me once, begging for
help, but what could I give her except words? She couldn't
hold out forever. They're too insistent. Three months ago, she
signed the forms--and they terminated his care."
The words struck Joe like a building roll of thunder. In
his shock, he realized his hands were rock steady. Stef's
weren't.
"So Heather's outburst wasn't your fault," she said.
"Something terrible happened, and she lashed out at you. You
shouldn't have had to take that."
He made some acknowledging sound. The implications of
Stef's tale were growing clear before him. He didn't want to
face them all now. He'd tuck them away for later. Most of
them.
Joe stood slowly, face turned away from his daughter.
"While I was sick, Stef," he said, "did I … ever try to kill
myself? I mean, did you ever think I wanted to die?"
"No. I--no, Father."
He made himself look at her. "You didn't sound sure. Maybe
you think some fool accident I inflicted on myself could have
been deliberate." He shook his head. "It wasn't."
"But--" Stef made herself say it. "How could you know? How
could you remember?"
"I don't remember much. Flashes, impressions--" A shudder
took him again. "Despair. Not that kind, Stef. Different. It
was fatalism, thick like fog. I was done upon, not doing. My
own actions couldn't help me. That's what I remember. So I
don't think I would have tried something like that. I hope I
didn't. After everything--"
He fell silent. They spent a long wordless moment composing
themselves. Joe pursed his lips, as though purging a sourness,
and said "Let's not talk about serious stuff any more today."
Stef chuckled nervously. "Fine with me, Father."
They said almost nothing during the dinner Stef reheated
for them, and parted ways right afterward. Stef went upstairs
to work at her computer. Joe watched his Boys of Winter in the
living room. The Americans actually scored first in that game,
the only time they did so in the whole Olympics. That was how
much of a rout it was.
He switched it off after one period. There was something
else he needed to do. Too bad Stef was using her computer. Her
machine had the camera to make a video call, but she wasn't
likely to permit it. Joe settled for the television and sound
only.
He had dug up her number at Rutgers in his Internet
studies, but had put off using it, diverted by Stef's warning.
He was tired of waiting now, and he punched it in.
The phone rang three times before being answered. "Hello?"
Joe hesitated. "Is this Allie Stibornik?" he asked, galled
that he couldn't tell.
"This is Alice." The voice turned uncertain. "Who is this?"
"It's your grandfather, Allie," he said. "It's Joe. It's …
it's been a long time."
There was nothing for a few seconds. "Yes. Yes, it has. How
are you? How are the treatments working?"
He told her in detail, more details than mere conversation
required. He heard the guardedness, and he needed to get past
it. "What about yourself?" he said after his jargon jag. "I
know you've got exams, but I don't know what subjects."
She rattled off course names, still rather stiffly. "I'm
majoring in economics," she added, something Joe had already
figured out. "I knew that would be … useful."
"It certainly should be," Joe said. "I hope you'll have
time after graduation to come back home. I wish I could
remember the last time you visited, but I can't. Obvious
reasons. When was it?"
There was another pause. "A while ago. Listen, Grandfather,
I'm a month away from finals, and I have lots of studying.
Could we talk another time?"
Joe grimaced but nodded, a pointless gesture without video.
"Sure. Anytime, Allie."
"Alice," she hissed. "I'm not a child anymore."
"What was that?"
"I said I'm … glad you're better now."
"Thanks. We'll talk soon. Good-bye."
He toggled the phone off, feeling only a bit guilty. It was
good to hear her voice, even in so awkward a conversation.
Well, she had to be busy with schoolwork. He could remember
what that was like.
Better than he could remember her.
Lucy's schedule switched, so she came in the morning. Joe
waited until afternoon to resume history class, as he
derisively called his refresher studies. He followed a routine
Lucy suggested: fifty minutes browsing, ten minutes up and
moving to prevent himself from petrifying on the sofa. It was
like school all over: rigid periods, and a few minutes between
classes. Joe chortled at the thought. Maybe he should be
taking online classes.
His studies had reached the 2020s, the start of the
Alzheimer's explosion. He read the maledictions of
politicians, how they blamed his generation for ignoring in
their youths what was to come, leaving the burden for others
to carry. He felt curiously unprovoked. Was it because he
expected politicians to be so nasty--or because they had a
point?
He heard footfalls on the stairs. A moment later, Stef
walked into the living room, looking stern. "Alice says you
called her last night."
"That's right, Stef," he replied, gratified that he felt no
twinge of shame.
"I told you she was busy."
"She's also my granddaughter. I should have some contact
with her. Or was that what you were really trying to tell me,
that she didn't want to hear from me?"
"Father, you don't understand."
"Don't talk down to me that way!" He saw his daughter's
face, a twitch of pain presaging a shift into compassionate
firmness. The sight struck him, on that vague subconscious
level that he was learning to hate.
"Never mind," he said quickly, and struggled to his feet.
He made for his bedroom, aiming for the bathroom beyond. He
might get a few minutes of privacy there.
"Harry's coming over for dinner tonight," Stef said.
Joe looked around, carefully, hoping not to agitate her
palpable unease. "All right, Stef."
"He's getting off the construction site a couple hours
early, for once."
"Okay. Good for him." He nearly turned back around, but
could not resist one last word. "I'll set up the dishes
tonight.
Stef opened her mouth, then seemed to decide she had said
too much already. She left before Joe reached his bedroom
door.
He got little more history reviewing done that afternoon,
and his foray into more personal history did not hold his
attention for long. He would have watched his West Germany
hockey game, but he heard a car outside before he could reach
the disk shelf. He switched off the TV, and headed out.
He reached the hall as Stef opened the door. Harry
Stibornik's hair was grayer than in the photos Joe remembered,
but his body was the same, broad and burly, gone a little to
fat. She and Harry said hello, looked at each other, and
hesitantly embraced. Joe moved on before they noticed him.
Murmurs reached him in the kitchen, while he searched for
plates. Some cabinets and drawers still had those black boxes
on them, but they opened without protest now, for Lucy's
benefit rather than his. Anything breakable or hazardous was
in there: plates and glasses, knives and forks. Joe tried not
to dwell on that.
"Joe." Harry was there, standing a few feet away, extending
his hand. Joe took it, feeling an incongruously delicate grip.
Harry moved back a step, to stand aloof and appraising.
"You're looking better," he finally said.
"I'm feeling much better," Joe said. "I'm in control of
myself again."
"Of course." It continued that was for a few long minutes,
a plodding conversational dance where neither man dared take
more than the tiniest steps. It was a relief when Stef called
Harry into the dining room, to help pull the good table back
into place.
Joe went to the kitchen, finishing the task of getting the
silverware out. He had the short stack of plates midway to the
dining room when Harry met him. "I've got those," Harry said,
snatching them from his hands before he could react and
turning back to the dining room.
Joe's mouth fell open. He pointed after Harry, and began
stammering at Stef, who had seen the incident.
"It's okay," she mouthed back. "You get the rest." She
returned to the dining room. "I've got things on the stove.
Can you help me watch them, Big Guy?"
Joe knew that didn't mean him. He walked back to continue
his humble work, this time without usurpation. Stef and Harry
worked at the stove, peeking under this lid, stirring that
pot, and conducting their own conversational dance. Joe
followed as much as he could while feigning disinterest.
That grew easier during dinner, a saucy pasta dish. He
watched the looks, listened to the words, observed the brief
clasping of hands. The more Joe saw, the less it made sense.
You didn't stay willingly separate when such affections
existed, not when you're as young as fifty-some like they
were.
"Why the separation, Harry?" he asked, rather casually he
thought.
Harry looked at Joe, then Stef, her expression frozen in
alarm. "What have you told him?" Harry asked her.
"Only that you're not divorced," Joe said, "and that we
should talk about it some other time. Well, time's here. I
assume you're still at your house, Harry."
Harry ignored Stef's warning glance. "No. We sold that, end
of '36. I have a small apartment in the city now. It's
actually pretty convenient for most of my construction jobs."
"You …" Joe sensed danger in asking why. "So why didn't you
both come here?"
"We did," Stef interjected. "We thought that would work
best financially. I guess it did, but it was harder on us than
we expected."
"That's an understatement," growled Harry, his eyes
narrowing. "I've never had less sleep in my life."
"That's over now," Stef said soothingly. "It's best
forgotten."
"No." Joe shook his head. "I'm sick to death of the hole in
my life, of pretending it's not there, and I'm sick of being
coddled. Go ahead, Harry. Speak your mind."
"Father," Stef whispered.
"Fine," said Harry. "The last years have been the most
miserable of my life. Construction work by day wearing me
down, then having to come home and take care of you while Stef
worked retail at night. Both of us dead tired every day, and
sleeping through the night was never guaranteed. We couldn't
juggle everything forever--so we found another way."
"One that got you out of the way," Joe said.
"Father," Stef said, "that's unfair. Construction
forepersons have more delimited hours, and better pay. He was
the natural one to get relief. Besides," she added, "you're
my father."
"It was no vacation," Harry continued, "for anyone. I
moonlighted for extra money to send Stef. She learned
freelance codewriting for something to do piecework, in the
snatches of time she could spare from you. It might have been
easier if we had worked from home from the start--but who was
thinking of this back when we started our careers?"
Joe felt the heat of Harry's eyes. It was getting difficult
to meet them. "You couldn't hire help? Someone to spell you
now and again, once a week maybe?"
"Not exactly encouraged from on high. The federal centers
are so much more efficient." He said it without apparent
irony. "There are online advice sites and support groups, but
not much else. The labor pool's not exactly flexible these
days."
"You still came to help her, didn't you?" Joe said, less
agitated now.
"Who do you think put in all the support bars and traction
mats, the motion sensors and lockboxes, linked everything to
the computer? Who took those tulips out of the backyard?"
"That was you! What danger were they? Did you think I was
going to eat them?"
Harry locked his reply behind a prim half-smile,
incongruous on his robust face. Joe felt the bottom drop from
his stomach. His wordless appeal to Stef brought a pitying
look. "Inappropriate behavior in Alzheimer's patients cannot
be reliably predicted," she said, toneless as a computer
recital.
Joe sagged, letting his chair back hold him up. He was
starting to understand.
"We hid as many breakable things as we could," Harry said.
"We never got everything, of course. We had to pay for
whatever you did manage to break--like, on my skull."
Stef paled. "Harry, please. I think that's enough."
"No, honey, it isn't," he said coldly. "I stopped coming
the last sixteen months he was sick. If he doesn't know he was
raging at me like I was a burglar every time I walked through
the door, he'll say I was abandoning you, and that's a lie!"
"He didn't mean it," Stef pleaded.
"I didn't," Joe echoed weakly, but Harry was talking again.
"Fine, but people can only take so much. It was tearing
Mike up: thank God his wife got him away. And Alice--" He
locked eyes on Joe, even as Stef clutched his arm hard in
warning. "I can see you don't remember, Joe. Good. You don't
want to know."
Joe felt himself drifting, and his trembling voice didn't
seem like his own. "I told you, I have to know. No more
shielding me."
Stef tried to interpose herself. "Harry, I forbid you--"
Harry sidestepped her. "He wants to know," he growled. "She
always came to help out on college holidays, until you started
mistaking her for Laura."
Joe groaned. His divorce had been nasty. "What did I throw
at her?"
"Harry--"
"Yourself!" he shouted, as though swinging a scourge.
"Seems you were pretty hot for Laura in the early days.
Persistent, too." He grinned at the shock he saw. "Alice
hasn't been home for over two years, for fear you'd get
'confused' again, and something worse might happen. I don't
blame her a bit."
Stef started shouting at Harry, so neither of them heard
Joe for a while, as he gasped out the word "Sorry" with each
shuddering breath.
"Sorry?" Harry said, finally noticing. He looked back to
Stef. "Okay, maybe you're right. He's not to blame. I'm not
saying he has to apologize."
He turned back to Joe. "I'm saying you will be
grateful. People sacrificed and suffered for you--especially
your daughter. If you're an ingrate to them--" The snarl on
his face said everything. Joe trembled before it.
He snorted out his breath. "Too long." He headed to the
front door. "Sorry about this, Stef. It was just too long to
keep everything bottled up."
Stef glanced frantically between the two men, then chased
Harry before he reached the door. Joe used the opportunity to
leave the table, thankful nobody saw him slinking away,
thankful nobody saw the tears begin to flow.
Joe walked slowly, the sky above leaden. Lucy matched his
stride, and his silence. They circled the house methodically,
a wordless understanding between them that they wouldn't be
trying the neighbors again for a while.
A seam in the clouds produced a milky shaft of sunlight. A
closed mouth muffled Joe's sigh, but he did mutter "Nice."
"Okay, that's the fourth word I've heard you speak today."
If Lucy meant to provoke more, she failed. "I don't know what
brought this on, but I expected it. It's quite normal."
"What is?"
Lucy smiled at the increased word count. "Depression. It's
common in cases of recovery from long-term illness, for a
variety of reasons. There's nothing shameful about it."
"I'm not depressed," Joe said, as the sunbeam vanished. "I
just had a rough morning, looking things up on the Net."
"Must have been an early morning," Lucy said. "You look
tired."
Joe looked away. "I've been looking up old friends. The
ones in that photo on my dresser. You know the one."
"You've kept in touch that long?"
"No. Not for forty or fifty years, but my memories--well,
that doesn't much matter. Finally finished the job this
morning. Turns out Jerry, Doug and Tim are all dead. Nick, my
old roommate--he's in an institution with Alzheimer's. Poor
guy."
"I'm sorry."
Joe nodded. "I know. Only Javier is left. I'd call him, but
I'm afraid he wouldn't remember me any more. Probably
pointless anyway."
He was silent for half a circuit of the house. "The way my
memory is, those fellows seem more real to me than my own
family. Yeah, I knew they had changed, but that's easier to
accept from a distance, when it's abstract. That's better than
having the changes around you every day, getting them thrown
in your face--"
"Like what?" Lucy probed.
"Nothing. Just an old man prattling."
"It's more than that. I saw Stef when I arrived. She looked
as bad as you. What happened between you two last night?"
"It wasn't us." Joe looked at the empty birdbath they were
passing. "Stef had her husband over for dinner last night. We
exchanged words. Lots of them."
All those words came out. Joe's voice hardened with each
sentence, revealing the facts, denying the emotions.
Lucy fought down her own reactions. "I'm sorry that
happened, Joe, but I have to tell you, you were pushing Harry
pretty hard."
"I had to. They thought I was too weak to hear the truth.
No: too immature. Like a child." He laughed. "Second childhood
is what they once called senility, so I'm rebelling like any
teenager who's growing up faster than people realize."
"So Stef is playing the role of parent here?"
"Yeah--and I was frightful as a baby." His eyes dropped. "I
didn't understand before what she went through, what everyone
did. I thought the horrible stuff all happened to me. What
they went through, I thought was like an annoyance you get
used to, like having a bad back. More like a broken back."
He coughed, trying to clear his tightening throat. "I
remember so little. It's like I slept through having
Alzheimer's, with occasional nightmares." He looked at Lucy,
his guard down. "They remember it all, the whole nightmare.
All because of me."
"Joe, it's--"
"I know. I'm not to blame. Even Harry said so. But there's
a responsibility, a debt I owe. Especially because they didn't
have to carry the burden so long." He shook his head. "Why
Stef didn't let the government care centers have me, I don't
know."
Lucy ventured to put an arm around his shoulder. "I think
you know why, Joe," she said, as they walked along.
Joe did know, but it took time to accept, time in solitude.
He insisted on eating alone for a few days. Things always
seemed to go bad when he and Stef ate together. Stef acceded,
even letting him make his own dinner once without always
hovering in the hallway outside.
He still studied history, though he had advanced far enough
that he could start calling it current events. He let his
search for old friends languish. Sixty years seemed a longer
time than it had.
He abandoned his Olympic hockey for the same reason, just
before the medal round. The Americans had won hockey gold
again when the Olympics returned to Lake Placid in 2030. The
surge of nostalgia probably explained how the 1980 disks got
printed, and that made it seem all the more distant to Joe.
Besides, the game against the Soviets was more joyful and
glorious than suited his mood.
It was three nights after that disastrous dinner before he
steeled himself to go to her bedroom. She looked up from the
computer, thankfully not upset that he had dared to climb the
stairs. He had to struggle to find the words, more upset at
his faltering than Stef was.
"I'm not an ingrate," he finally said. "Maybe I'm slow
catching up on things, but I am not unthankful. You took an
enormous amount on yourself, keeping me out of the
institutions, holding on and holding on."
He briefly went blank again. "I don't know whether people
were talking about this cure. Did you know it was coming? Did
that give you hope? Or was it pure stubbornness?"
That wrung a laugh out of Stef. "Stubbornness, I guess. Not
all mine, though. You fought so hard early on to resist
deterioration. Drug treatments, memory courses, physical
therapy. Losing ground frustrated you terribly, until the
disease took away your determination, too. I … had to live up
to the standard you had set. I had to fight until I broke, or
I couldn't have lived with myself afterward."
"I couldn't have lived, either. I've seen what happens,
once you start down that slope." He swallowed. "You saved my
life, Stef."
"Father …" She saw his arms open, and gave herself to them,
trying not to shake with each breath.
"Tell everyone I'm sorry," Joe said, his voice trembling.
"Tell them I'm grateful."
"They know, Dad. They know."
"Tell them anyway. Allie especially. Please."
Stef said nothing, just holding him. He quietly accepted
both.
The revival in his spirits lasted nearly a day. Even with
the skies clearing, and May turning warm and bright, he began
to sink back into despondency. Something was still not right,
and he knew not what.
Lucy was there for fewer hours now, but her ministrations
had restored some of his physical strength. He could circle
the block twice without getting winded--and without getting
anybody upset at his 'elopement'. He could even kneel to
attack a few weeds in the backyard, and stand with only the
help of the fence or the house's back wall.
His growing bodily vitality should have helped. It didn't.
His slow return to normality with Stef, their ability to
talk without creating a great emotional scene, should have
helped. It didn't.
Regaining a measure of control over his life, with Stef no
longer wearing the earpiece, and reversing her power of
attorney, should have helped. It didn't.
Understanding news programs and Net articles, no longer
feeling like a stranger to the present, should have helped. It
didn't--and it went beyond the tenacious resentment of the
old.
Lucy had predicted it, but given no curatives.
Anti-depressants might react unpredictably with the one gene
therapy he was still taking, maybe even turn his microglial
cells hostile again and restart the disease. Nobody knew, and
nobody cared to take chances. Depression was better than the
feared alternatives, and Joe did not blame them.
He muddled along, filling his day with current events, NHL
playoffs, and the occasional old movie off the disk rack. He
made no complaints. Things could be much worse.
He awoke one morning with a groan that had nothing to do
with a stiff back. The significance of May twelfth had
survived every assault his brain had made on itself. "Happy
birthday," he croaked, before dragging himself to the
bathroom.
Stef was more cheerful when she said it. He smiled, more
from her kiss and the aroma of pancakes. They ate breakfast
together without incident, then parted, she upstairs to work,
he to the living room to follow his own lesser pursuits.
Nothing notable happened until two that afternoon. Stef
answered the door by the time Joe got to the hallway. Their
visitor surprised him. "You're early, Lucy," Stef said.
"Early, nothing," Joe said. "I thought Thursday was your
day off now."
"It is," Lucy replied, walking inside, "and I'm spending
part of it with the birthday boy." She planted a kiss on his
cheek before he could react.
That didn't quite distract him. "Stef, how many other
people have you put up to this?"
Stef smiled coyly. "Wait and see."
The wait was not long. An unfamiliar car pulled up next to
Lucy's in the driveway, but the driver who got out was
familiar. Joe met Mike on the doorstep with a hug, and a
second one for his wife Kate, which she accepted coolly.
The Abrahams from next door arrived next. Before Joe could
ask Stef about the other next-door neighbors, the Krols
appeared, laden with enough plastic plates and bowls for a
sizable buffet. "Feels good to chip in again," Eileen said
before stepping out again for the second load.
Conversation was already filling the house when Harry
arrived. Joe waited until Stef finished greeting him, then
stepped forward, tentatively offering his hand. Harry took it,
firmly this time.
"I'm sorry," said Harry, but not before Joe could start
saying "Thank you." They both smiled, and let it rest at that.
If that was Stefanie's intent, Joe decided to make the most
of it. He circulated among the guests, taking time with each
to speak words of gratitude for all they had done in the past
years. "This party's for you," he told the Krols, "as much as
for me."
His rounds finished, Joe took a moment in a corner to
reflect. He expected the weight of days past to lift, as came
of discharging one's duty.
It wasn't. He still felt something, that old ghastly
sensation of a half-memory tickling him where he couldn't
reach it. That, and the slow deflation back into melancholy.
Joe put a brave face on it, reentering the mix, but feeling
like flotsam tossed on the waves.
"Enjoying yourself?" Stef asked.
"Yes," he replied, as reflexively as saying "Fine" to a
"How are you?"
"I'm sorry Alice couldn't be here, but exams are next
week." Joe nodded, more relieved than anything else. That was
one confrontation he still dreaded. He had written her a long
e-mail some days back, with Stef's knowledge. Nothing had
returned.
He drifted from person to person, chatting with the
neighbors, eating his buffet dinner with Mike and Kate, even
talking to Harry. His son-in-law was offering to come over
that weekend to help bring furniture out of the basement, and
take down the surveillance equipment. Joe wasn't so far
detached as to turn down the overture, but enough so to direct
him to Stef.
"Well, I think she's busy at the moment," Harry said.
Before Joe could ask, he heard her. "Dad, come to the
kitchen, quick!"
He and Harry arrived seconds before Jason Krol did,
carrying the cake. Two huge numeral-shaped candles topped it,
proclaiming his years with chemically enhanced blue flames.
The gathering broke into song, but Joe barely noticed.
Seeing the '78' there started an avalanche within him. He
understood now, and the knowledge brought not relief but
renewed gloom.
He didn't remember blowing out the candles, or receiving
the slice on his plate. He picked through half of it before it
all became too much.
"Excuse me," he said, and the talking ceased. "I want to
thank you all for coming, but I'm … I'm an old man, and my
stamina isn't what it was. Please, keep enjoying yourselves,
but I need to turn in."
He left his plate and walked away. Murmurs followed, but
nothing else.
He headed straight to his bathroom, where he bent over the
sink until the retching urge died down. He splashed water on
his face, then caught a peripheral glimpse of himself in the
mirror and shut his eyes tight. That face was the last thing
he wanted to see now.
Lucy was in his bedroom when he emerged. She had her bag.
"Oh, Lucy, please--"
"It's only a few routine tests, Joe."
He dodged her approach, slapping half-heartedly at her
outstretched hand. "I'm fine."
"You said you were tired."
"I said what I had to." He sat on his bed. "To get away
politely."
Lucy set down her bag. "All right." The question she didn't
ask hovered between them.
Joe knew he couldn't resist forever, and this time, he
didn't want to try. "Now what?" he said piteously.
Lucy tipped her head in puzzlement, letting silence draw
him out again.
"I'm seventy-eight, Lucy. I'm an old man. I spend my days
idle, except for filling the gaps in my memory. My past is so
distant and disconnected it's meaningless, and my present …
equally meaningless. Is this what my cure brought me? Did I
come out of darkness, just to mark time until it falls again?"
Lucy tried to look supportive. "It's your life, Joe. You
can do with it whatever you like."
"Like play left wing for the Devils or Canadiens?"
"You know what I mean."
"But I can't do anything. I wouldn't know how to
start doing my old job, and I'm nobody's recruitment dream.
I'm not set for a luxurious retirement, either. I've seen my
finances; having Alzheimer's bled them pretty well. Stef
budgeted for a limited time span, and we were getting pretty
close to the end." He shivered.
"Are you saying she's responsible?"
"No! She acted sensibly enough. She couldn't know …." He
shook his head. "Maybe I should have her train me in coding
piecework. I could take over for her when she returns to
Harry. She will soon enough, once she accepts that I can live
on my own."
He looked at Lucy for confirmation, acknowledgment of his
autonomy. He found enough.
"So what's ahead of me? Do I sit and look at the garden
every day, and hope I don't have to sell the house? Do I do
menial work to make ends meet? Do I depend on others? God,
they must be as sick of that as I am. What do I do?" His head
sunk to his chest. "I don't know."
After a moment, Lucy sat next to him. "You'll think I'm
crazy, but I have to congratulate you." His look confirmed her
suspicion. "You're facing tough choices. Tough, everyday,
mundane choices, the kind average people deal with all the
time. If that is now the central fact of your life, I suggest
you take a look at where you were two months ago, and see what
a tremendous distance you've covered."
Thought began to replace some of the pain on Joe's face. "I
think I agree with you," Lucy added. "It's time to call it a
night, so I'm rested when I return in the morning." She stood,
waited for a reaction, then patted him on the shoulder. "Good
night, Joe."
"Good night." He let her leave without a glance or another
word.
Stef and Mike peeked into the room later. If Lucy had
recounted anything he had said, it didn't show. They didn't
stay long, letting him get to bed.
Not to sleep, though.
Lucy was wrong. There was no normal life after Alzheimer's.
It was like those memoirs he had read a long time ago, of
soldiers in the Civil War and the World Wars. Their
experiences transformed the landscape of their lives,
cratering it as an exploding shell would. The imprints never
left, no matter how long they lived.
"Touched with fire," one of those veterans had said of
himself and others. Joe was seared. So was poor Nick Wechsel.
Heather Wood, too, indirectly--and maybe directly. He had
heard the Abrahams gossiping that her outbursts were a
symptom, wondering if she had gotten an onset prognosis as so
many had in this hyperaware era.
How many millions more burned in the fire? How many would
this cure reach? Their minds might heal, but they would still
carry dreadful wounds. Doctors would have no patches to slap
on their necks to set those right.
Those horrid images stayed with him through a night of
drowsing, a half-consciousness that paralleled his memories of
the incoherence of Alzheimer's, doubling the torment. Pain and
grief swirled and commingled, until he could not tell whose
suffering he felt more.
He finally awoke to bright sunlight slanting through the
window, herald of a late rising. He shook off his torpor in
the bathroom, then went to the kitchen to find Mike and Kate
finishing their breakfast. He gladly spent time with them,
knowing they would leave soon to catch their flight home.
The idea that had coalesced during his restless night
stayed in the back of his mind, needing no concentration to
hold in place. He almost spilled it then, but managed to wait.
Lucy arrived soon after Mike left. Joe met her at the door,
grinning. "Lucy, I've got a proposition for you." He saw her
look of amused scolding. "Not that kind. Better."
The recitation of names and parade of graduates seemed to
last forever. Some in the audience fidgeted in the hard seats
of the stadium, the only place Rutgers had large enough to
hold commencement. Joe Dipano sat serenely. He didn't mind
letting time pass.
He did cheer heartily, along with Stef, Harry, and Mike,
when Alice advanced to receive her diploma. He wished Lucy had
come along--he was only realizing how attached he was to
her--but the college was firm on its four-seat policy at
graduation. Well, he'd get by.
The procession ended, the dean spoke, the caps flew, and
the ceremony became a mob. Joe's group headed for the exit
rather than the floor of the stadium, having arranged a less
crowded rendezvous in advance. They moved against hundreds of
jostling parents, and reached the pair of elms outside a few
minutes before Alice did.
She hugged each of them in turn. Joe was last, and though
Alice hesitated, it was the longest of them. They had had
their talk the previous night, exorcised all the horror,
restored that last ravaged connection in Joe's family.
Other robed graduates shouted to Alice in passing, and some
walked over. Alice made introductions, with a special glow
reserved for her grandfather. "He's unretiring," she told
them, "to write a book."
"Co-write," Joe corrected. "I can't do it right without
Lucy. She's the technical expert."
"What's it about?" a couple of Alice's friends asked.
"Alzheimer's." A chill fell. "Recovery from Alzheimer's,
that is. From someone who knows."
Before he knew it, the graduates were peppering him with
questions. Rumors of a treatment had leaked out in the last
week. Hearing that it was true energized them beyond Joe's
expectations. The burden of support was lifting from this
generation, and they reacted like birds freed from their
cages.
He didn't begrudge their excitement, but his concern was
with his contemporaries, the millions for whom nightmarish
hibernation would soon end. They would need help in adjusting
to their second lives. Who better to help than one who had
endured what they would: the yawning holes in their memories,
the bodies still infirm, the caretakers walking on eggshells,
the families fractured in ways the recoverers would not
understand. He could keep them from shrinking back into the
shadows, coax them into the light.
Including Lucy had greased the skids with Doctor Dale and
Essex Geriatric, but their approval was genuine. They could
see the new traumas that would come with the healing of the
old, and wanted them assuaged as much as anyone. They already
had Princeton University Press lined up to publish the volume,
on generous terms for the authors.
So Joe could answer their questions effervescently,
performing quite well he thought. And why not? Today was as
much a new start for him as for them. Before he knew it, he
found himself echoing the announcer at those last games he had
finally gotten around to seeing.
"Do you believe in miracles? Yes!"
Dozens of staring eyes, from family and strangers, fell on
him. "Never mind, you kids," he said, his ebullience
undiminished. "It's before your time."
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