“Dad?” Christine said, but she straightened up, letting it go and setting the photo aside. Another thing they had learned from the seminar was to take cues from the patient, and she had learned it the hard way.
Agitation, hostility, and even physically striking out are not unusual in the memory-impaired. Don’t take it personally or let it hurt your feelings. Remind yourself that it’s the illness talking, as if the person were inebriated, and you would say “it’s the whiskey talking.” Learn to see the signs before hostility breaks out. Then, stop.
“Honey, you want a grilled cheese?” Her mother was already bustling to the stove, where the fry pan still sat on the grate.
“Okay, sure, thanks.”
“What did Marcus say when he saw the baby?”
“He couldn’t go, he’s out of town. Lauren went with me.”
“Oh, he’ll be so sorry he missed that.” Her mother’s voice still bore the distinctive Rhody accent, in the flattish O of “sorry.”
“Hold on, I brought another present, one for you.” Christine dug inside her tote bag and pulled out a new book, Dr. Seuss’s Which Pet Should I Get? “Did you see this? There’s a new Dr. Seuss book.”
“Oh my goodness! I didn’t know that!” Her mother turned from the refrigerator and accepted the book, running her fingerpads over the smooth blue cover. “How did they do this? I mean, he’s been dead for how long?”
“His wife found it and they published it. Isn’t it great?”
“This is wonderful, honey.” Her mother opened the front cover, marveling. “What a treat! Dr. Seuss, it isn’t just for kids.”
Christine smiled, remembering that was her father’s mantra when she was growing up, that children’s books weren’t just for kids. Nutmeg Hill Elementary had plenty of Dr. Seuss in its library because Christine had bought the copies herself.
“Dad will love this.”
“I figured.” Christine nodded. These days, her mother read to her father at night, but mysteries had become too complex for him to follow. He’d grow agitated, unhappy, or simply fall asleep, so her mother had moved on to children’s books, which he seemed to enjoy, perking up at the rhymes and pictures.
“Here, sit, let me make your sandwich,” her mother said, pressing her into a chair, and Christine sat down because it made her mother happy. While her mother cooked, they both talked about the last day of school, trading stories and comparing notes, occasionally trying to include her father, who nodded and smiled but eventually returned to staring at the medications on the counter. The kitchen had a southern exposure, so it was bright during the day, but it began to darken as the day wore on.
“Here, honey,” her mother said, putting the grilled cheese in front of her on a paper plate, with potato chips on the side, like she used to for playdates.
“Wow, yum, thanks.”
“You okay? You seem kinda sad.” Her mother sat down to her right, leaning on her forearm and looking at Christine dubiously. “Is it because you’re leaving teaching? It has to be bothering you, just a little, I know.”
“A little, yes.” Christine felt grateful for the cover story. She picked up the half sandwich, cut in a neat triangle with the mustard on the top.
“God closes a door, and he opens a window.”
“Right.” Christine took a bite of her sandwich, which tasted delicious.
“And when the baby comes, there’ll be so much to do.” Her mother’s face lit up again. “That’s really something to look forward to, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it really is.”
Her mother leaned forward on her elbows. “Did the doctor say if it was going to be a boy or a girl? You can’t tell yet, can you?”
“No, she didn’t say.” Christine chewed her sandwich, eyeing her mother. “Mom, you really don’t care if it’s a boy or girl, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“No, not really. I’m just excited about having a baby.”
“Me, too!” Her mother clasped her hands together, giving her little body a wiggle. “Can you imagine how much fun that will be? A little baby running around here? I think it will help your Dad, too, I really do.”
“It just might,” Christine said, noncommittal. She didn’t want her mother to get her hopes up, and at some level, they both knew that Dad was never going to come back, even for a new baby. Neither of them needed a seminar to tell them that.
“Does Marcus still want a boy?”
Christine felt a twinge. Marcus still hadn’t called or texted, and she hadn’t either. She hated feeling so disconnected from him. Still, she couldn’t tell him she was thinking about driving to Philadelphia to see Zachary Jeffcoat. “He never said he wanted a boy. He just says he wants a golf partner.”
“That means a boy.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Girls play golf, Mom.”
“I can’t imagine your husband playing golf with a woman. Does he play with any women now? No!” Her mother chuckled, and Christine joined her, because it was true.
“Mom, let me ask you a harder question. Does it really not matter to you that we used a donor?”
“It really doesn’t matter to me at all,” her mother answered, easily.
“Is that because you know that the child is genetically mine? Or half-mine? Is that why?”
“No.” Her mother shrugged. “I didn’t care if you adopted, I didn’t care if you got a baby from China. I don’t care if it’s yours and not his, or his and not yours. You know why, honey?” Her mother paused, musing. “Because as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that there are very few things that are as big a deal as we think. This is what matters.” Her mother gestured to her father, then to her. “All I care about is around my kitchen table, and that’s all I ever cared about. As long as we have each other, nothing else matters. And your baby, whether it’s a boy or girl, or whatever it is, it’s going to sit right here and we’re gonna love it to pieces!”
Christine felt relief flooding back to her at her mother’s words, and they talked some more, sitting at the kitchen table where they always had. It struck her that she couldn’t have foreseen what would happen to her parents, or to her and Marcus, her father getting Alzheimer’s and Marcus infertile, both men betrayed by their bodies. She never would have realized, until she’d lived it, how the ripple effects of those illnesses would change her and her family, for all time.
And later, when coffee was ready, and Christine watched as her mother carefully cooled each teaspoonful before she placed it in her father’s mouth, she realized that love could endure almost any obstacle. Real, abiding love. It was right before her eyes, lifelong, in them.
And she knew she had to go to Pennsylvania, if only to save her marriage.
Chapter Sixteen
Christine was loading the dishwasher when her phone on the counter rang. It was Marcus calling, and on the screen was an old photo she had taken of him, from their first trip to Presque Isle, where his family used to have a vacation house. The Nilssons sailed, and Marcus loved to work on the boat; in the photo, he was hand-sanding its wooden hull with the boombox blasting. What Christine loved about the photo was how carefree he looked, his grin loose and relaxed, his shirt off, his back tanned, his muscles defined, his body effortlessly sexy in the way of twenty-one-year-olds. They had been crazy in love then, with their future ahead of them, their successes merely assumed, their struggles unforeseen. She ignored the lump in her throat to answer the phone.