“It was inevitable. My car might as well be a go-kart.”
“You drove the Raisin?” she asks, referring to the unfortunate purple-brown hue of my jalopy. “No chance of that car making it up the road. The mud is really bad this year.”
“If you visit during mud season, you must really mean it,” I respond, looking to bring the moment home, but I can tell my father does not recognize his own famous adage.
For a second, I feel a stab of sadness, and I clench down on it. Alzheimer’s is a devious affliction. Not necessarily for the people who have it—who can say what their experience is, ultimately?—but for those who witness its machinations: a forgotten name or sacred memory, the lost thread of a story, the endlessly repeated questions. The ground is always shifting beneath us. Every time I speak to my father, I brace for minor heartbreak, but it still sneaks up on me.
“We can call someone to pull you out tomorrow,” says Nina. “Do you want to go get your suitcase?”
“No need. I brought my desert-island items.” I hold up my lumpy tote bag. “Excuse me for a moment. I’m going to primp.” They know this is a joke. No one primps around here—it’s a no-makeup, no-hairdryers, no-fuss kind of place.
As I leave the kitchen, I see the neatly painted sign my father created for our childhood dog, who had a penchant for nicking food off the table—or sometimes right out of our hands.
Crumpet’s Rule
On the plate?
You must wait.
If it drops,
Lick your chops.
Crumpet died sixteen years ago, but her rule remains. I pass through the narrow doorway that leads to the great room, where the stone fireplace ripples with warmth, the flames casting spasmodic shadows on the ceiling, whose dark wooden beams are sturdy as ever. This house is well over a century old and was built according to the tastes of a long-gone generation that flocked to the Adirondacks in the late 1800s, erecting camps on the many lakes and ponds that dot the region. The Rockefellers and their ilk owned stately, sprawling properties, but more understated ones, like ours, were the norm. Many still don’t have electricity or road access, which makes our main house—which is equipped with both—relatively modern. But it’s nothing fancy, and it still bears the look and layout of a bygone age: constructed from heavy spruce logs, with exposed timber dominating the interior. Today, people build houses with airy, light-filled kitchens that open to fluid living-dining spaces. But here, the aesthetic is darker and more cordoned off. All of the rooms in this house have doors, designations, decisiveness. They don’t flow; they function. They endure.
I ascend the worn wooden staircase, whose landing jogs left and then leads up to a small central hallway. My room has a set of bunk beds, a separate twin bed, a single window that peers toward the pond, and a steeply sloped ceiling that I smack my head on every time I return. The walls are paneled with knotty pine, giving it the feel of a tree house or a squirrel’s drey, cozy and contained, if a bit claustrophobic. I switch on the wobbly ceramic lamp that sits on the dresser. There is a framed photo of me and Nina standing on the porch of this house. I must have been around ten, with braces and a Speedo tan, which means Nina would have been sixteen. I am dramatically mugging for the camera, while Nina looks as though she is barely tolerating having her photo taken. She has one foot up on the railing as she ties her running sneakers. In those days, she was always either about to go for a run or just coming back from one. She rarely stood still.
Beside the photo sits a wooden box (also pine, always pine) with aCcarved on the lid. Technically,Cstands for Christine, my realname, but my nickname took hold almost as soon as I was born, because, as the story goes, I never cried—I chirped. The contents of the box have not shifted in the last decade: a tangle of woven friendship bracelets, a hair clip that’s missing a few teeth, a smattering of coins, and a ring made out of a fishing fly with magenta feathers. I slip it on my middle finger, where it still fits perfectly. At the bottom of the box sits a slightly faded Polaroid. A blond teenager is airborne, having just jumped off a huge boulder by the edge of the pond. One of his legs kicks sideways and his wavy hair extends straight up over his head as gravity does its work. I remember waiting for just the right moment to snap this shot. Somewhere, there is an identical photo of me, taken by him. But that one is lost.
I remove the ring, put it back in the box, and slam the lid closed. Suddenly feeling cold, I move to the closet in search of a sweater. When I open it, I am confronted with the red swimsuit I used to wear as a lifeguard. It is faded now and starchy to the touch, its elasticity eroded. On the floor, my old Birkenstocks sit, bearing the imprints of my sweaty teenage feet. I take a green sweatshirt from a hanger, and as I pull my head through the neck, I notice the surprise that Nina has left on the pillow of the twin bed: it’s Dandy, my beloved stuffed lion on whom I performed so many medical procedures (a tail reattachment, an eye replacement, a fluff realignment) that he now looks like an abstract approximation of a feline.
My phone lights up on top of the dresser, and I take a quick look at my texts. Nothing from Dylan, which is no surprise. We see each other when we see each other, without expectation. But I do believe he appreciates me, on some level, at least some of the time. And I feel the same way about him, more or less. There’s a comfort to what we have. A sufficient compatibility. “It’s not nothing,” as he likes to say.
I know from experience that when people love you—reallylove you—they can end up in peril. So a long time ago, I resolved to date only people who didn’t quite love me. It’s not that they didn’tlikeme, but there was no possibility of their making any kind of major effort or sacrifice on my behalf. To this day, I prefer a partner whovalues himself more than he values me. That way, I can protect us both.
“I’m glad to see Dandy is thriving,” I say as I reenter the kitchen.
“He might be indestructible.” Nina grins. “I found him in the attic. Never go up there, by the way. Unless you like mouse poop.”
“Nothing wrong with a little mouse poop!” my father calls from the dining room. “It’s fortifying.”
Nina hands me two plates, and I carry them to the table where Dad is already seated and wearing an adult-sized bib whose pattern showcases a dizzying number of tropical fish.
“That’s nice,” I say. “Is it new?”
“New-ish,” says Nina, settling at the head of the table. “And he looks great in it. Don’t you, Dad?”
“It’s very attractive,” my father confirms, admiring his accessory. I realize that even if we had put a bib on him a decade ago, long before it was necessary, he would not have objected; nor would he have objected the decade before that. He has always been game for frivolity, delighted to oblige our whims and happy to laugh at himself. The opposite of our mother, who is ruthlessly goal-oriented and believes that any form of relaxing will lead to ruin.
“So what’s the latest? What’s been going on here?” I ask.
“Here? Mostly just birds,” says my father. “Magnificent red birds.”
“Cardinals,” Nina specifies.
“That’s right. Cardinals. We have all manner of wildlife here,” he explains, as if I’m visiting this area for the first time. Then he whispers, as if disclosing a secret: “And soon it will be time to swim!”
Nina offers him a bowl of grated Parmesan.
