“I—think so.”
Renard sat down at her desk. “The good news is, the effect usually lasts only a day or so and then, suddenly, the person is completely well. I’ve seen patients who were totally confused and disoriented and then, literally minutes later, were perfectly fine. Odds are, that’s what will happen with your wife too. The best thing you can do in the meantime is to watch her, and help her. Keep reminding her about the simple things, like who you both are, where she is, what year it is, and so on. When she makes a mistake, gently correct her. Be patient. She should get better soon.”
The doctor paused. “But, if she hasn’t improved by tomorrow morning, please call and let me know.”
Schrader spent the rest of the day following Agnes, trying to make sure she didn’t hurt herself. It tore him apart to see her like that—wandering aimlessly from room to room, babbling to herself. Where are the boys? They’ll be late for school! I can’t remember Mother’s number, and I need to call her to see if we can go to her house this weekend! He lost count of all the times he explained things to her, have her seem to understand what he was saying—and then a few minutes later hear her repeat the same nonsense. He’d had to feed her like a baby, spooning some food into her mouth, and clean her up after she’d soiled herself. Once, when he left her out of his sight for a few minutes to use the bathroom, she’d gotten out the front door. He caught up with her at the corner, pulling her back just as she was about to step in front of a speeding car.
That night, after finally getting her into her night clothes, she fell asleep in their bed. Lying beside her, he did something he hadn’t done in years. Fervently, meaning every word—he prayed. Please, God! Please make her well! Maybe there was no one out there listening—but, then again, maybe there was. Hoping that, magically, in the morning everything would be all right again, at last he fell asleep too.
But Agnes didn’t get better—not the next morning, nor the two after that. During his latest daily call to Dr. Renard, she looked worried. “I have to admit, your wife is taking longer to recover than any patient I’ve ever treated. However, the textbooks say that some people can take a week or more to respond.”
Almost too afraid to ask, Schrader said, “Does anyone ever not recover?”
The doctor hesitated. “Well, there are a few case reports in the literature. But please remember, such cases are rare.”
“But it does happen.”
Renard sighed. “Yes, it does happen.”
That evening, Agnes fell asleep on the couch in their living room. Sitting on the floor, looking at her sweet, angelic, but vacant face, he felt his eyes turn moist. Agnes, what have I done to you?
It was his fault. He was the one who’d browbeaten her into having the treatment. Oh, he’d done it for the best of reasons—“for her own good.” Just like when he’d browbeaten her to have Emily Marie. Just like all the countless other, lesser times he’d made her do things by taking advantage of her love for him, or her fears, when he thought it was “for her own good.” Yes, all those times, he really had done it because he loved her. Yes, he really had been trying to help her. But, like a pompous fool, he’d forgotten that he was only a fallible human being, who only thought he knew all the right answers. And that, even when you truly loved someone, even when you had the best intentions, you could still wind up hurting them more than anyone else possibly could.
And then he remembered something important. It had totally slipped his mind in the recent chaos and confusion.
Tomorrow was their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
The woman slumbering so peacefully in front of him now looked almost the same as when they were first married. But it wasn’t Agnes. Her personality, her intelligence, her mind—all the things she was, all the things she had been—were gone. What lay on the couch was an empty shell—a shadow, a remembrance of things past.
In the darkened room, a moonbeam glistened off the tarnished gold band around her finger.
I, Thomas, take you, Agnes, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you, in good times and in bad…
Whatever happened, he would be there for her. No, he didn’t know all the answers. But, he’d do the best he could. Whatever he could do to help her, to love her, he would do.
In sickness and in health.
Though her mind was gone, her body was still healthy. Even without the booster treatments, she might live like this for—what, another fifty years or more? Even if his love and devotion to her were strong enough to endure them, what about her? He thought of all the pain and indignities she would have to suffer. At least when her mother got Alzheimer’s it wasn’t long before her old worn-out body gave out too, and ended her misery. Agnes wasn’t going to be that “lucky.”
I will love and honor you all the days of my life.
There was a large throw pillow on the couch. As physically strong as he was now, it wouldn’t be that hard to cover her face with it and—
No!
No, he repeated to himself, a little more calmly. There had to be a better answer. He didn’t know what it was just yet. But, as hard as it was, the best thing right now was to wait, take each day one at a time—and pray…
He woke up on the floor the next morning, and heard someone praying. Agnes had dressed herself and was sitting on the couch, fingering her rosary. He stared at her in wondrous disbelief as she recited a monotonous string of “Our Father’s” and “Hail Mary’s.” Then, most of the way through, she paused, frowning. “Tom,” she said, “what’s the fifth Sorrowful Mystery?”
His own forehead furrowed. What the hell was it, anyway? “Isn’t it—”
“Never mind. I remember now. The Crucifixion.” The litany of prayers continued. When she was finished, she looked at him quizzically. “Why did you sleep on the floor last night?”
He stammered, “Beats me.”
She shrugged, then started another rosary. This time with the Glorious Mysteries.
When Agnes went into the kitchen to fix breakfast, Schrader made a call. Dr. Renard’s smile beamed at him from the ’screen. “Excellent! I think we’re finally out of the woods. Keep watching her, keep helping her remember things if she has a problem. Call me anytime if you need to.”
They spent a good part of the day in town, shopping. Whenever she could, she held his hand tightly. Several times she asked him what the date was. The second time she asked, he felt an instant of panic that her recovery was just an illusion.
But then she seemed fine. No, better than fine. For the first time in years, she seemed really happy.
That evening Agnes cooked them an elaborate supper. Afterwards, despite his protests, she insisted on clearing off the table herself. After gently pushing him into his recliner, she’d handed him one of his favorite books from the nearby bookshelf and turned on the ’screen. “Now you just relax until I’m finished.”
He tried to read a page or two from The Federalist Papers, but couldn’t concentrate. On the ’screen the New York Philharmonic was starting a performance in English of Haydn’s oratorio, The Creation. He barely heard the confused, unsettled harmonies of its opening section, “The Representation of Chaos.” The sounds from the kitchen—dishes rattling, a beautiful soprano voice humming a lively polka tune—kept distracting him Nor did he notice when the chorus faintly intoned the words, Let there be light. Simultaneous with the bright fortissimo outburst by the full orchestra on the following And there was light, Agnes entered the room. She pulled another book from the shelf, and curled up on the couch. He recognized the slim volume she was reading. Sonnets from the Portuguese. He could read the words on her lips. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.