“What were you dreaming about? You were groaning terribly.”
“I don’t remember,” I lie. I can still picture the weird grin Barker had on her face as she stood in front of me with the knife.
“Try to relax, my sweetheart,” she says sleepily.
“I’m okay.” She’s already drifting off and I listen as her breathing evens out and she starts snoring quietly.
I strain to remember when the sleepless nights started. I was thinking it had to do with the arrest, but ironically, that was the one night I didn’t have bad dreams. It started weeks before that, about the time I started taking Aricept. Since then, that night in jail was the only night I missed a dose. On a whim, I decide to get up and look up the side effects of Aricept. The official website states that side effects are mostly things like nausea and upset stomach but when I study the anecdotal reports from patients, I see that people repeatedly mention interrupted sleep and bad dreams. On the flip side of that, they also mention how much sharper the medication has made them mentally and how much better they can remember things, which makes them willing to put up with the side effects.
I think about my own experience. The areas in which those faceless online people see improvement aren’t things I’ve had difficulty with in the first place. I never got lost, I didn’t forget how to drive, I wasn’t having difficulty remembering names of friends or family. I’ve always been a little vague about certain things, like numbers, and I’ve never been great at holding on to details, but when I picture how my mom was, I really wonder whether I need the Aricept. Of course, I know that those who most need it are the ones who will vehemently deny that they have any memory problems, just like Mom did. But doesn’t the fact that I’m aware of this, mean that perhaps I really am still compos mentis?
I think back to the day in April when Barker came home from work, bounding through the door, looking more relaxed than she had for a long time. She opened her briefcase and took out a large package of pills. “I got you a trial of Aricept, from Dr. Larson,” she said. She didn’t need to explain what Aricept was. Mom was on it for years.
“Dr. Larson? The pediatric doctor we visited the other day? How would she have access to medication for dementia? And why would she give you pills for me?”
Barker looked slightly annoyed but then said, “She’s not a pediatrician, she’s a child psychiatrist. Don’t you remember that I told you she used to work with older adults before she worked with kids? She still has older people in her private practice. She told me that you ought to see an expert for a full workup, but suggested for now you try the medication to see if it would help your memory. Maybe if you take it, you’ll remember when I tell you things!” I didn’t argue. I knew my memory was hopeless, and if something could help me out, so much the better.
That’s what I thought then. But now, reading through the websites and thinking about that whole weird interaction with Dr. Larson, it seems to me that she came to some very quick conclusions without knowing anything about me. I decide to call her first thing in the morning. Meanwhile I do a little more research on what steps go into making a diagnosis of dementia.
****
Dr. Larson says she will be happy to meet me at her home office this evening. I ask her not to mention the appointment to Barker and she assures me she won’t.
I drive over to her home and make my way to her office. After I climb the curved steps, inlaid with the colorful Mexican tile that I remember discussing with her, she ushers me into her office. I realize that this is the same room we sat in last time, not a private living room. I think back to that visit and how weird I thought she was, but if we were in her office and she thought I was there as a patient, then I probably made a similar impression on her.
As soon as we’re seated, I ask her, “When I came to see you last time, were you under the impression that I was here for an evaluation?”
“Certainly I was.” She looks askance, as if wondering what other reason we had for being there. I’m pretty sure Barker told me it had something to do with her work and I wonder whether she purposely misled me, or whether I wasn’t paying enough attention to what she said. We met with a couple of her colleagues socially that same week. Perhaps she really did tell me Dr. Larson was going to evaluate me.
“I thought we were paying you a social visit. As a result, I think you may have come up with some very false conclusions about me. In fact, I’d like you to do a formal evaluation now. Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything beyond menopausal fog combined with a few senior moments.” Dr. Larson sighs and I realize that she is so used to her dementia patients denying their diagnosis that I am not helping myself. “But, if you tell me that I have serious impairments, I will believe you one hundred percent. Does that sound fair?” She looks relieved and nods her head.
She begins by asking me where we are and who she is. She moves on to ask me who the current President is (I tell her) and which famous actor was President in the 1980s (“the one who had Alzheimer’s?” I ask with a twinkle in my eye, “Reagan.”). Then she asks me to remember three words which she will repeat later.
“Shirt. Brown. Honesty.” I’m a little surprised by the words. When I looked up the test online, it suggested they would be a little more commonplace, like apple and horse. But I’m determined to ace this part of the test and I immediately start to make word associations in my mind. I tell myself that Dr. Larson is wearing a brown shirt and that if I’m honest, I don’t like it. I repeat the words to myself as she continues with her next question. She asks me how the words arm and leg are comparable and I assure her that they are parts of the body. She asks me to spell World backward, which I do, and then asks me to count back from 100 to 50 in series of seven. I tell her that math isn’t my strongest suit, but still I stumble from 100 to 93 to 86 and so on until she stops me. She asks me what it means if someone tells me not to put all my eggs in one basket. I’m tempted to make a joke and tell her that knowing me, it would be because the basket is likely on the front of my bike and when I ride over a speed bump they’ll all crack; but instead I tell her as calmly as I can that it means it’s important to diversify, whether it’s money or hopes. I can see she’s impressed by that answer. She jots something down, then looks up and says, “What were the three words I asked you to remember?” For a moment my heart beats wildly and my mind goes blank. Horse? Apple? No, I made up a sentence: it had to do with her… “I honestly don’t like your brown shirt,” I blurt out and she smiles as I correct myself. “Shirt, Brown, Honesty.”
She asks me to draw a clock face and make the clock point to ten to three and I wonder how future generations will do this task, since I suspect most of them think of a timepiece as a square digital device, whether on the wall or their arm. I’m tempted to draw something ornate and unusual—a round clock-face is so boring—but I remind myself why she’s asked me to do this task, and force myself to draw a simple circle with long and short hands inside it, pointing to the appropriate places. She asks me to take a piece of paper and fold it a certain way and I comply.
At the end of the test, she frowns and my heart sinks. What did I do wrong? Surely I answered everything correctly. I wait for her to say something, but she looks down at her pad.
“How did I do?” I ask, not able to wait any longer.
She looks up. “You did fine. Better than fine. You scored a perfect 30 out of 30.”
“Fantastic!” I heave an enormous sigh of relief.
“But you’re still on Aricept, so really there are two possibilities. Either you don’t have any form of dementia, or the Aricept is working perfectly. The only way to know which, is for you to stop taking the medication and for me to repeat the test next week, once the drug has exited your system. I’m willing to do that if you are.”
I assure her that I’m more than willing and we agree to meet the same time next week. Before I leave, I have another question for her.
“If someone is depressed, could it make them do things tha
t are completely out of character?” I ask.
“Do you feel like you’re depressed?” A look of concern comes over her. “Because sometimes the symptoms of dementia mask depression.”
“No, not me. B—” I stop myself. I don’t want to put Barker in any kind of awkward position at work. “But a friend I know might be. She doesn’t come across as sad or droopy, but she’s done a couple of things lately that I think are kinda off the wall.”
“It’s definitely possible. There are various types of depression, and one type is called depression with psychosis. It can be almost like having schizophrenia—people can have delusions or hallucinations, and get completely misdiagnosed.”
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it. This may just explain a whole lot more than I expected.
****
The next piece of research I need to do is to find out more about Mrs. Clark. Front and center, I need to find April and Astrid Clark, the twin daughters who will have nothing to do with her. As soon as Barker leaves for work the next morning I go back on the computer and try to locate the blog her daughter wrote. If only I could remember the daughter’s name, but I didn’t write it down and my mind’s a complete blank. I try to remember how I found it. I know I was looking up Ava and somehow stumbled upon that blog entry. I waste an hour trying every different way I can think of, and in despair, I type in ‘why I don’t speak to my mom’ and lo and behold, up comes a blog by April Clark. Yes! Now I have to figure out how I can interact with her. I click to become a blog reader of hers and scroll through other entries she’s written to see what else she may have said about her mother. But she never mentions her. Most of the entries are about living a life full of integrity. I go back to the one she wrote about her mom and reply to it, telling her that the post was very inspiring, and asking if we can talk about it in person.
“Who are you?” She writes back, and I realize that from her perspective I could be any kind of whacko and that it would make sense that she wouldn’t talk to a total stranger. I ask if I can private message her. “Only if you tell me who you are. Can I look you up on Facebook or LinkedIn?” Naturally, I do not have accounts on either of these sites. I decide I will have to be honest with her.
“I think your mom is getting me into trouble,” I write, hoping like heck that she won’t block me from the blog. No response. I go up to my studio and create a complicated necklace with amber and wire and then come back down to the computer. Still nothing. I must have blown it. Why was I so impatient? I could have been a little less blunt. But that’s me, I always barge into things without thinking. I wonder how I can find her sister Astrid to see if I could get any information from her instead. I Google her name but nothing comes up, not even a suggestion to look her up on Facebook. Damn. I need to know what happened with those daughters. An idea is forming in my mind, but knowing about Mrs. Clark’s past is essential. I go back upstairs and spend the rest of the afternoon creating a pendant with a gorgeous piece of olive-green Moldovite I found last year and have been waiting to use. I’ve read that it opens up the heart chakra and as I hold its jagged edges in my hand, I can almost feel the vibrations pulsing through me. I decide to set it in an asymmetric sterling silver base. I become so absorbed in what I’m doing, that I’m oblivious to the front door banging when Barker comes home, and am only aware of her presence when she pushes open the door to my craft room and says, “Who is April Clark? And why are you trying to contact her?”
Chapter Thirty-two
Wynn, June 29
My hand squeezes the Moldovite and I remind myself that it opens up the heart. This is what I need right now. To approach Barker with serenity and love.
“Why are you trying to contact April Clark?” she demands again. “What’s going on?”
“I’m pretty sure April is Ava Clark’s estranged daughter. I want to find out why they don’t talk to each other.”
“But why? What business is it of yours? Do you still think Mrs. Clark set you up?”
My heart starts to hammer. I have to think quickly. How should I respond to this?
“No,” I reply calmly. “I don’t.”
Barker comes in and clears a space off the other stool in my studio so that she can sit down. “Then why would you want to know about her relationship with her daughter?”
“Because I need to know whether or not she’s an appropriate foster parent for the girls.”
Barker’s expression turns to one of disbelief. “I can’t believe you. This has nothing to do with you. Why don’t you focus on what’s going on with you, instead of some stranger?”
“It has everything to do with me.”
She looks at me like I’ve gone completely mad. I lean across the table and take her hand. “Sweetheart,” I speak very slowly, and distinctly. “I know what you did and I think I know why you did it.”
Her face pales. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you set me up. No—don’t deny it. I’ve spoken to Parminder.”
She pulls her hand away from mine. “What? How?”
“I also know you don’t hate me and that everything you’ve done, could only have been in my best interests.” I take her hand again and hold it firmly in mine. She lowers her face, her chin disappearing into her neck. I pull it up gently, and look into her eyes. I will not be afraid. I know what is there. “I love you Barker, and I know you love me. And I also know you framed me.” Her pupils grow big within her blue eyes as her expression changes from fear, to love, to shame. I see it all, the emotions that she has bottled up for so many months. “I don’t understand it all, but I think I may know the gist of it.”
Suddenly her whole body starts heaving and she bursts into loud, wailing sobs, the tears pouring down her face. She folds her arms on the table and buries her head within them.
“What have I done?” She looks up for a moment and whispers, “What have I done?”
I get up from where I’m sitting and kneel on the floor next to her. I lift her face gently and cup it in my hands. “Nothing that we can’t solve together, my love, nothing that we can’t work out.”
****
Downstairs, we head back to the computer. April has responded to my request and it was the pop-up on the screen that caught Barker’s eye before she came upstairs to find me. April has agreed to email me. A rapid-fire back and forth of emails quickly nets me the information I’ve been looking for. Mr. Clark was a mean-spirited bully. April doesn’t know whether her mom didn’t mention the bats earlier on purpose, or whether she truly didn’t think of it until it was too late.
Did she love him? I ask. Was she sorry he died?
Hard to know because she always stood up for him, always took his side.
His side?
Yeah. I told her Dad did something inappropriate to me when I was younger and she told me I must have imagined it, that perhaps I was too young to understand what his true intent was. I said I knew exactly what his intent was. She just kept saying, “I know he can be a bit of a tough nut sometimes, but he loves you girls, he always wants the best for you.” I couldn’t get through to her, so I stopped trying and decided to just cut off the connection altogether.
Did you ever report him?
No, it was so long ago, and I had no proof.
Did you know that your parents had become foster parents?
What? No! Oh, please don’t tell me—
No, nothing as far as we know. It sounds like your mom never did anything to you girls, though, right?
Nothing physical. But I wouldn’t ever want to see her parent another child. If she didn’t stand up for her own birth children, how would she ever stand up for her foster kids? What if she gets involved with some other guy and the same thing happens?
Barker is watching as we type back and forth. I have found out what I need to know and I end the conversation.
****
Next, we head into the kitchen. “I’m going to make us some peppermint tea and we’re going to talk,” I tell her.
Barker’s always the one in charge, but today it is my turn. She nods and follows me, seating herself at the kitchen counter, watching as I put the hot water kettle on the stove. I think about what I want to know first and I realize it’s not the part about me.
“Why the girls?” I ask gently. “Why Kallie and Michaela?” Why would she send two harmless foster children into a potentially dangerous situation? It’s so out of keeping with who she is.
“I guess I just snapped. They finally had a good home, but I could see that their moms were never going to let them go. I got so sick and tired of all these amazing foster parents cleaning up after people who just don’t seem to get what they’re doing to their kids. I wanted to shock those birth moms into caring enough to do the right thing.”
The water boils and I pour it into our mugs as I ponder what she is saying. What I realize is that she is burned out, completely burned out. Over the years, we’ve talked about how social workers deal with all the horrors and tragedies, day in and day out. She’s told me stories about colleagues leaving the profession and taking their lives in a totally different direction because they can’t face the sordidness of their work. She’s told me about some of the more hopeless situations that can never have a happy ending. But I always thought she was taking care of herself. We tried to do all the right things for her. We traveled to exotic countries, took plenty of fun vacations, did everything we could to ensure she was leading a balanced life, but somewhere along the line it’s caught up with her.
“I know you, Barker, I know you wouldn’t want to harm those girls.”
“I didn’t. I love them, you know? It wasn’t meant to go on for so long. Mrs. Clark wasn’t meant to leave on a trip and delay me starting the ball rolling. I didn’t know that stupid prison officer would put the letter aside instead of showing it to someone straight away. I didn’t know they’d run out of food. I was desperate to get them out of there. I just had to wait for it all to fall into place.”
Along Came the Rain Page 17