He hadn’t bothered to do much recording over the last ten years. Mainly just when they’d gone on a cruise or other trip after they had retired. Agnes never smiled in any of those recordings. Just the ones when the boys came back home to visit—something neither had done in over a year. Maybe, if their sons had taken a different path, these last years would have been happier for Agnes. Maybe, if there had been grandchildren for her to fuss over and enjoy, her will to live might be stronger.
But their boys had the right to chose the kind of lives they wanted to lead. And even if those lives didn’t include marriage and children, they were doing something just as important and worthwhile—maybe more so. Even if Agnes had wanted their sons to grow up and be nice, sensible, stay-at-home college professors like their father, he was proud of them. He’d only managed to teach history. They were making it. Hell, when they were just old enough to talk he’d playfully planted the idea in their little brains himself. How could he have known that, when they got older, they would take it so seriously?
“Stop personal file.”
The image of the Vienna String Quartet expanded again to fill the whole ’screen. Dimly he noted that they were playing the F major quartet’s final movement. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Agnes sitting on the couch, looking at him. Although she didn’t say anything, he could hear what she was thinking. We’ve had a long and full life together. Happiness, and heartaches. It’s time to put our affairs in order, and go gently into that good night.
It sounded so convincing. Now it was his own voice saying, You’ve loved a wonderful woman. You’ve been a husband, and a father. You had a reasonably good career. Most of the dreams you had when you were young finally did come true. Why risk more pain and failure trying to achieve the unfulfilled ones you still have? Be content with what you’ve already learned and done.
Suddenly he felt very old, and weary. The full weight of all those years—the regrets, disappointments, and tragedies—seemed almost too great to bear. Maybe Agnes was right. Maybe, after all those years of struggle, it was time to just—rest.
And then he saw something in the night sky, outside the picture window behind the couch. The pale Moon, riding low in the heavens. If he looked carefully, he could even make out Mare Tranquillitatis. He remembered all the clear nights he’d taken the Schmidt-Cassegrain in the garage out to look at it. And, a much smaller, more elusive target.
He shook himself violently. Damn it, there is more to live for! No, it wasn’t’ a question anymore of gracefully accepting the inevitable. Now, “letting Nature take its course” because Life had become too difficult or challenging was just plain laziness. It was stupid. Worst of all, it was cowardice!
Then he shouted at the ’screen, “Access personal file, 2044!” Quickly he scanned through the recordings month by month until he found the one he was looking for.
It showed a room in the nursing home where they finally had to put Agnes’s mother. Their teenage boys, uncomfortable in their suits, fidgeted nervously in the comer. Agnes gently encouraged the person in the bed to look at the camera.
The white-haired woman’s body was shriveled and contracted, almost like a cockroach. Her dull eyes roamed vacantly. Low guttural noises issued from her mouth, and drool trickled out of its corners onto her chin. A thin tube snaked into her nose, its end secured to her withered cheek by a few strips of tape. Once, not too long before, she’d been a jolly, portly woman who’d enjoyed making delicious apple pies for her son-in-law and grandsons. Now, she had metamorphosed into—someone, or something else.
He’d wondered at the time why Agnes had wanted him to record that last visit with her mother. But, he realized later, as much as age and senility had changed her parent, it was still better than no remembrance at all. To a stranger, there was only an empty shell of a person on the bed. But to Agnes, it was still her mother.
He shouted at Agnes, “Look at it! Don’t close your eyes, look at it! Remember how the doctor said that if you don’t get the treatment, soon you’re going to get Alzheimer’s, too? Is this how you want to end up in a few years?”
Seeing his wife’s eyes turn moist, his resolve nearly failed him. He almost went over to the couch and hugged her. But, he told himself, just like when the boys were growing up, if you really care about someone, sometimes you have to practice “tough love.”
The recording ended. Once again the four musicians filled the ’screen, playing the concluding measures of Beethoven’s final string quartet.
Agnes dabbed at her tears with the sleeve of her blouse. “Do we have to do it, Tom? Must it be that way?”
“Yes, it must be!”
With a last few chords the quartet ended—and filled the room with silence.
“How are you feeling?”
Schrader squirmed uncomfortably on the bed. “Fine.”
Dr. Renard stared for a moment at the flashing numbers and graphs on the monitor suspended from the ceiling near his head, and smiled. “Everything looks good.” Then she turned to Agnes, who was lying on the bed next to his. “And how are you feeling?”
Agnes shrugged her shoulders, and said nothing.
Schrader glanced down at the tape covering the inner crease of his arm and the clear tube that led out of it. “How much longer will it be, doctor?”
“Another hour or so. You both have only two more bags of fluid to infuse, then all the medicines will be in your systems.”
He looked up at the latest small plastic bag they’d hung from the pole next to his bed. Before hooking it up, the last nurse had joked, “Another drink from the Fountain of Youth.” The fluid in the bag was bright yellow. He’d almost told the nurse, “Looks like somebody took a wizz in the fountain,” but stopped himself. Stuff must be working. My sense of humor is turning sophomoric.
The doctor continued, “When you’re finished, a nurse will give you instructions on the diet you should follow, and the pills you need to take. We’ll have you come back to the hospital in a few days for some blood tests and scans. I’ll see you in my office in a week to go over the results with you.”
“Are there any side-effects we should look for?”
“Excellent question. Actually, this soon, you shouldn’t have any. Later, there are a few you should look for.” The doctor lowered her voice. “Your wife is getting several medications you aren’t. One of them is designed to reverse the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Because of the particular brain cells it regenerates, sometimes it can cause temporary problems with memory and behavior.”
Schrader stared at her. “What kinds of problems?”
The doctor glanced knowingly at Agnes, who didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation, then back at him. “In most people, they’re barely noticeable. And they don’t occur for months after the treatment. I’ll go over them with you later, during an office visit.”
Noticing the worried look on his face, she smiled at him. “Don’t worry! None of the patients I’ve worked with have had any major problems with the treatment. I’m sure you and your wife won’t have any either.”
Then, to his surprise, she winked at him. “I can even speak about the benefits of the treatment from personal experience. Try to guess how old I am.”
For the first time Schrader looked beyond the doctor’s starched white lab coat at the trim curvaceous figure and shapely legs beneath it. She had beautiful blonde shoulder-length hair, and green eyes that twinkled when she smiled.