“You did?”
“Yes. I built a lot of things here. The boathouse, for one. And the dock. In fact, I think I built this whole place.”
It’s a version of the truth. My father inherited this camp from an uncle when he was twenty-eight, not much older than I am now. Given its state of disrepair at the time, most would have considered it more of a burden than a boon, but Dad embraced the property and spent the next decade fixing it up. A civil engineer who specialized in water systems, he spent his weeks working for the City of New York; but he poured his long weekends and vacations into this property. He rebuilt the boathouse; revamped the guest cabin; fixed the dilapidated lean-to; and added running water and electricity to the main house. By the time he met my mother in his late thirties, the property was fully habitable, if a bit spartan. But most importantly: it was his own.
“I have all kinds of projects I’d like to work on when I get a chance,” he says wistfully. “I really should rebuild the dock this summer.”
I see no reason to contradict him. What’s the harm in letting him think he’s still capable of such a project? That he will still live here when summer rolls around?
He looks at me with renewed interest, as if he is trying to place me: “So, how long are you staying with us?”
“Just until tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Is that all?”
“I wish it were longer. But I have to get back to New York.”
“New York City? Is that where you’re living now?”
I nod. Everyone talks about Alzheimer’s as a decline, but that’s not quite accurate. It’s not a slope, but a spiral, like water circling a drain. Topics are trod over and over; questions are repeated; stories are retold. Maybe the worddeclineis too negative, too judgmental. Maybe there is a version of dementia that is liberating. I wonder what it would be like to be free of my memories, unburdened by the baggage of the past.
“Dad, do you remember Seth?”
“Seth…”
“Seth Atwater. My friend who lived here one summer.” This is silly.How could he remember Seth when he doesn’t even remember me? But I go on, venturing a detail that might activate his memory. “He rode a snowmobile?”
“Hmmm, it’s possible. I’m not sure.”
I’m relieved. My father loved Seth and had been devastated by the accident, and maybe even more devastated by what came after—the distance that emerged between us.Estrangedisn’t the right word. It’s more…stranged. While our relationship had once been so loving and natural—even conspiratorial—everything between us has gone, well, strange. I didn’t mean for it to last nine years, but before we could find a way to truly reconnect, his Alzheimer’s set in. Since then, it’s like we’ve been on two separate ice floes, drifting in opposite directions. But I’m relieved that he is no longer tormented by the memories that still plague me.
He is quiet for a while before he asks, “You mean the blond kid?”
I nod. Seth was blond.
“Oh yes, I see him from time to time. He comes by.”
I smile. There is a certain sweetness about my father’s confusion. He picks up his abandoned glass of ginger beer from the cribbage table and takes a long sip. “Ahhh, that’s good. Come, try a little fizz.” He holds the glass toward me, and I take a sip. It’s lukewarm but still snappy.
“Do you taste that spice?”
“Yep. It kicks you right in the esophagus.”
He laughs and says, “Let me get you one. We have all kinds of wonderful drinks here.”
As he shuffles toward the kitchen, my sadness shifts to curiosity. What if Alzheimer’s isn’t just a slow death? What if it’s another dimension entirely—an ascension, even? We humans are so fixated on our minds that we see their loss as a tragedy. But what if it’s a gift? Maybe the erosion of memory clears space for something truer. Maybe the intellect gets in the way of the heart, until little by little, it doesn’t.
How freeing, I think.For him—but also for me.Maybe we no longer need to be tied by this gloom. Maybe it’s advantageous that we have grown apart in recent years. Maybe we can see each other with afreshness. I can take him as he is, right now; and he can experience me as someone entirely new. A chance at a do-over (and over, and over). A chance to rewrite the narrative.
My father returns empty-handed, having forgotten why he went into the kitchen. He settles back into his chair, claps his hands on his corduroyed thighs, and shoots me a warm smile. “So, how long are you staying with us?”
Chapter 4
Nina has arranged for Carl to pull my car out of the mud the next day, and around noon, his blue pickup truck rolls into our driveway. From my room, I can hear him greet Nina and then my father, whose enthusiasm is palpable. “Carl, my good man!” I hear him say.
When I come down the stairs, they are all in the great room. Carl has a dark beard and shoulder-length hair that’s gray at the temples. He wears a blue canvas shirt and workpants in a darker shade of blue. Blue on blue. His outfit is not unlike what many of my male friends in the city wear on a typical day, even though they work in graphic design or music production. Carl seems to wear his Carhartts out of actual pragmatism, rather than to build street cred.
“Hi, I’m Cricket,” I say, shaking his calloused hand. “Thank you for helping with my car.”
