“Sometimes, like how do I know to fry his eggs over easy or where do I get these terrific mugs. He doesn’t ask about the money part of it. I’m not sure he can relate to that.”
“To running a business?” I ask in surprise. “Business law was his specialty in private practice.”
“I think it’s just the fact that I’m doing it. He still relates to business, at least, to hear his remarks when he’s going through theWall Street Journal.”
“So he does read it?”
“Well, he must if he’s able to repeat what he does. He still gets it, Mal. Just not,” she hesitates, “all the time.” Her back stiffens,eyes sharpen. “But I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. This isnotcause for dragging him to an Alzheimer’s specialist. He’s seventy-two. Everyone who’s seventy-two forgets things. By the time you reach that age there’s so much junk crammed in the brain that stuff just overflows and is lost. Dad does not have Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t want him labeled that way. So if that’s why you’re here—”
“It’s not, Annie, not.”
“But you’re worried that I’m not taking care of him.”
“No. I’m worried that he’s doing things behind your back.”
“Like buying a gun? I told you Jack was dreaming that up, but okay,” she nods, “I searched the house anyway. I checked his bedroom and the kitchen. I looked inside planters in the conservatory and under cushions in the living room and behind hats and gloves in the hall closet. I looked behind books—I’m telling you, I looked everywhere I could think of where he might have hidden a gun, but there was nothing. Nothing.”
I glance at the hatch. “Not up there?”
“Especially not there.” She seems wounded that I suggested it. “That’s the first place I checked, because he likes going up. I think there’s something about the oldness of what’s there, or maybe the smell of time, and hisdiaries,he loves reading those. This isn’t the first time he’s brought a few down.” Her voice has risen. “So, yeah, it was thefirstplace I checked. That would be an obvious place to hide a gun, right? But there isn’t one up there. And here’s another thing, Mallory. He’s so forgetful that I honestly think if he stashed a gun somewhere, he’d forget where it is.”
Which returns us to his mental health. “There’s medication for that.”
Her eyes flare. “Not. Alzheimer’s.”
“It’sokay,Annie,” I try to soothe her. “It doesn’t have to be Alzheimer’s, doesn’t have to be dementia at all, it can simply be memory loss, but unless you go to the right doctor, you won’t get the right help.”
“Will you tell him that?” She is indignant now. “Will you convince him that his mind is failing and he needs help? Will you take him there?”
“Yes.”
Anne barks out a laugh. “And you seriously think he’ll agree to it?” Pulling free, she stands. As she looks down at me, her drawn-back dark hair with its burgundy streak seems too stark, her jaw too tight. I barely have time to brace myself, when she says, “See, that’s what I hate, Mallory. You don’t see him every day, like haven’t spent any significant time with him intwenty years,but suddenly you’re an expert?”
Put that way, I feel totally wrong—both for having abandoned Anne and for disagreeing with what she’s chosen to do on her own. But there’s a flip side. Gently, sensibly, pleadingly, I say, “No, I’m not an expert, and you’re right, I haven’t spent enough time with him to know much. But because Idon’tsee him every day, I can see the change since I saw him last.”
“Since you saw him last.” She rolls her eyes and sighs, though she is anything but relaxed. “So he’s three years older. So he forgets things. So he doesn’t want to go places. So he’s sometimes depressed, because he actually loved Mom and she’s gone, and he actually loved Margo, and he actually loved you, and all he’s got now is me. So I try to make things easier for him, and if that means overlooking small stuff, I do. I don’t care if he sits reading in his chair for hours. I don’t care if he’s turning pages just for the heck of it. That doesn’t mean he’s sick.”
Put that way, it doesn’t. Unless he isn’t reading at all, because the words make no sense. Unless he’s depressed because he knows his mind is rotting. Unless he doesn’t want to go places because he fears he’ll meet friends whose names he can’t remember.
“Andbesides,” Anne says, “do you think I haven’t thought of these things? Do you think I haven’t searched the web to compare him with other people his age? Do you think I haven’t read and reread the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease? I’m not stupid, Mallory. I knowthe possibilities. I just refuse to assume the worst because other people think they know better—”
“I don’t—”
“Youdo,but howcanyou? How cananyone? It’s impossible to diagnose Alzheimer’s for sure until a person is dead, and—here’s a flash—Dad isn’t dead. He’s still living, and he may live for a long time. Am I supposed to treat him like he has one foot in the grave? I refuse to do that. I’m living here with him, trying to keep up his spirits, trying to make his life easy and pleasant, even fun. So if you suddenly think you have all the answers, let’s hear them.”
She juts out her chin, rounds her eyes in demand, and stands there, waiting.
I hold up my hands, half-afraid to speak. I always think of Anne as young, because she acts it and dresses it and is just that little bit younger than me. But there’s something weary in her now. Somethingwary.The Anne staring at me is someone new.
“Why did you come?” she finally asks. “If it’s because you want to see whether I’m taking care of things, you can head back to New York in the morning. Everything’s fine here.” She turns to leave, then swivels back. “And anyway, how longareyou staying?”
“Joy wants to stay the week. Actually,” I try to make a joke of it, “she wants to stay the whole summer.”
Anne looks horrified. “Thewholesummer? You can’t do that.”
“No. I can’t.” But her tone annoys me. It is everything I’ve always dreaded about this place, the sense of not belonging. Annoys me?Infuriatesme. This is as much my house as Anne’s. Technically, I can stay as long as I want. “Part of the reason I’m here,” I tell her, doing my best to sound conciliatory while I make my point, “is because you made me feel guilty when we talked on the phone. I can’t stay here long—I have to be back at work a week from tomorrow—but I thought you’d want my help, even for a little while.”
“Not if it comes with strings.”
