The next day, in place of a rehearsal we hold a planning meeting with the neighboring adults and the residents. The neighbors pass the hat—a virtual hat, just Van’s tablet running a donation app. When the tablet has made the rounds, Luke takes it, and he hands it to me. He taps the number, and he says, “That’s a pretty good start, Bo. If we scrape up a few more pennies here and there, we might be able to have this built come fall.”
I concur. Our supporters have raised more than sixty-eight percent of our estimated budget for the bleachers and other park improvements.
So I tap the tablet to open a donation window. I still have a large portion of my allowance from Paul and Susan that has built up through the years. Millie has stubbornly refused to accept financial help from me, and I so seldom find anything else that I want.
But I want this. I make a donation to cover the rest, and I hand the tablet back to Luke.
Luke’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure about this, Bo?”
“I am sure,” I say. “With one condition.”
And so it is that a month later, Millie and Susan and the children sit beside Dex and Dr. Zinta in the front row when the Bo & Luke Creekside Circus gives our debut performance in our new home: the Paul A. Owens Memorial Amphitheater.
43. Today is a Day I Have Feared
After the circus, Tabby asks if she can dance with us, and Millie agrees. I am glad, because this gives me an excuse to spend more time with my family. Garrett is learning the archaic art of automobile driving, and he volunteers to drive Tabby to and from rehearsals. The car is ultimately in charge, of course, but it lets Garrett “drive” as long as there is no danger.
I am checking with residents one morning when Nurse Rayburn walks up to me and says, “Bo, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Garrett. He’s in the east quiet room.”
I go back to the quiet room. Garrett is seated inside, looking at a tablet.
“Hello, Garrett,” I say.
“Uncle Carey!” he says. He stands up and throws his arms around me. His head reaches almost to my shoulders now.
“It is good to see you too, Garrett,” I say. My emulation net ripples with positive feedback at the sight of him. “But you are early.”
“I know,” he says. “School starts tomorrow, and I wanted to practice driving while I can.”
It is an innocent statement, but I can tell it is not what he really wants to say. “Is that all, Garrett?”
He looks down at his feet. “I’m older now, Uncle Carey. I notice things.”
“You notice things.” I look in his eyes.
“Uh-huh . . .” There is a long pause before he continues. “Uncle Carey, Grandma needs you.”
I had suspected as much. Now Garrett reinforces my fears. “Her memory?”
He nods. “Grandma won’t say anything, especially not in front of us kids. She thinks we can’t figure it out. But Grandma’s sick, Uncle Carey. Real sick. She needs your help.”
I look around my office. “There are many people who need my help, Garrett. Are you sure?”
“Kind of . . .”
He does not finish the statement, but it makes him feel guilty. I try another approach. “What does your mother say?”
“I don’t think Mom knows yet.”
“But you do.”
“Well, I . . . I listened to Grandma on the phone with her doctor. It sounded bad.”
“What did she say was wrong?” I ask.
“There was a lot of stuff I didn’t understand. And some name I’ve never heard before. Al something. Al’s . . .”
I am not surprised. Sad, but not surprised. “Alzheimer’s?”
“Yeah, that was it, Uncle Carey. Alzheimer’s. What is that?”
“Something I thought we would never worry about again, Garrett. Let me talk to Nurse Rayburn, so someone can watch Tabby until rehearsal. And then let us go see your grandmother.”
Garrett tells me that Millie is at work, so I do not have to worry about upsetting her. We enter the house just as Susan comes up to the entryway. “Carey!” she says. “And Garrett. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi, Grandma.”
I say, “Garrett came to see me, Susan, and I thought I would let him drive me home.”
“Scamp.” She rubs Garrett’s head. “Running off on your own?”
“I had to take Tabby to circus practice,” Garrett answers.
“Oh . . . right . . .”
I sense Susan’s relief, but also confusion. I ask, “Perhaps you have some cookies for Garrett?”
“I do.”
“Yeah, Carey,” Garrett says. “Grandma always has cookies. Store bought, not like you baked, but they’re still good.”
“All right,” she says. “Go off and get some cookies. And then why don’t you go play outside? Uncle Carey and I have some catching up to do.”
When Garrett is out in the garden, Susan turns to me. “So what’s up, Carey? My grandson is a pretty good boy . . . and a lousy liar.”
I see no point in disagreeing. “He heard something troubling, Susan. And it fits with things that I have observed.”
“Come on, let’s go sit down,” she says. She leads me over to the couch. “Lousy liar, but a great spy. What did he hear?”
“Susan, he mentioned Alzheimer’s.”
Her face falls. “He got it right.”
“Susan, that is a completely treatable disease. This is not like Mildred’s day.”
“It’s treatable,” she agrees. “I can never remember the name of the medicine. And no, that’s not the Alzheimer’s kicking in, I was just never great with medical terminology. But the important thing is: It doesn’t work for all patients. Seven percent or so have the wrong genetics. Something about protein binding, I think. And I’m . . . in the seven percent.”
“No.”
“Yup,” she says, pretending that nothing is wrong. “It’s happening, Carey. Just like I always feared. I’m already forgetting little things.”
I do not mention that I have seen the signs for myself. “Susan, is there nothing they can do?”
“The doctors have tried. Dr. Sykes says there are always new therapies coming, but she’s not making any promises.”
“But what will you do?”
All pretense falls from Susan’s face, and she looks directly in my eyes. “I’ll become forgetful. First small things. Last week I spent forty minutes searching for my coffee cup. It was in my hand, Carey. It was in my hand.”
I lean over and hug Susan, and she shakes against me. For a couple of minutes I sit there holding her silently. Finally she pulls away, straightens up, and wipes her eyes. “Next I’ll start forgetting what day it is and whether I had a meal or not. Then I’ll start forgetting my past. Most recent first. I might forget my grandchildren, Carey, and then the rest of my family. Some pieces will stay with me. The oldest and the longest, they say, that’s how it was with Mom. And then . . . And then when the palliative treatment can’t keep up with the damage anymore, my nervous system will slowly give out.” Her lower lip trembles. “And I’ll die. And there’s nothing you or I or Dr. Sykes can do about it.”
I lean closer. “There is something I can do, Susan. It is not enough, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I can be here for you. You will have to convince Millie, but I can be here. I know how to take care of you.”
“Carey, I can’t ask that. You’ve got . . . You’ve got . . . something about a nursing home.”
I shake my head. “They have plenty of volunteers. And you have me, if you can work it out with Millie.”
“Carey,” she says. She grabs me, and her tears roll down my back. “Thank you. I didn’t want to face this alone. I mean, Millie’s here; but she’s got the kids, and she’s got her work, and she’s got . . . and she’s . . . she’s got enough to deal with. I didn’t want to be a burden on her.”
“You would not be a burden to her, Susan. She lo
ves you.”
“I know. And I love her, and I don’t want to do this to her.”
“She loves you, Susan. She will take care of you, and I will as well. You will have your family with you, Susan, for as long as you need us.”
“Thank you, Carey. Thank you.” Then she stands and paces. “But I have one thing I have to ask you. Please, this is important.”
“Yes, Susan?”
“Please, whatever else you do . . . Please, never emulate Paul. Not even if I ask you to. Not even when I’m so far gone that I won’t know any better. Please, even if you think I need it. Never emulate Paul. He was one of a kind. If I can’t have him, I don’t want a lie.”
“I understand, Susan. I promise.”
44. Today I Am Susan’s Caretaker
I talk to Susan, discussing her plans and wishes. She feels it is important that she tell me everything she wants, while she is still able. I remember that Mildred did the same. She wanted to control what she could, even after she no longer could.
When Millie gets home from the university, I ask Garrett to drive me back to Creekside so he can pick up Tabby. Millie seems disappointed. “Carey, I thought . . . we could talk.”
“We will,” I say. “Soon. I promise.” It tears at me to leave her just when she shows signs of opening up to me; but Susan must finally tell Millie about her illness, and that will be difficult enough without Garrett and me there.
The next day I arrive after Millie has left for class. My ident lets me into the home, and I find Susan on the couch, crying. I pour Susan a cup of coffee, set it in front of her, and sit down beside her without saying a word. She picks up the cup, takes a sip, and holding it in both hands she leans against me. I put my arms around her and hold her.
When the cup is half gone, Susan says, “I have a strong little girl. She’s scared for me, I know. She said she could take a leave to take care of me.”
“She would,” I say.
Susan continues, “But she needs the income. Wayne sends what he can, but the kids . . . their college funds . . .”
I add, “And you do not want her to change her whole life just because of you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“She would, Susan, willingly.”
“I know, but I’m already asking that of you. I can’t ask that of her, too.”
I make Susan breakfast, and for a brief moment it is like I have never left—until I remember the missing piece of the scene. Paul is gone.
Susan and I talk at first about trivial matters, her work in the garden and other projects. Then we talk about the kids and how they are doing in school. Eventually the topic turns to Paul. I had avoided that topic for concern that it might upset her; but she wants to talk about him, and we share memories and stories from all the years that I have known them. She adds stories from before I entered their lives. Through the day I realize: Talking about Paul keeps the conversation off the subject of her and her illness.
Suddenly the bus arrives and the younger children get out, and I realize how late it is. When they come through the door, Tabitha sees me and her eyes light up. She runs to me, and I sweep her up into a hug. “Uncle, Carey!” she says. “Uncle Carey!”
Tim follows behind her and grabs my hand. “Uncle Carey,” he says, “are you coming to live with us?”
I see a frown on Susan’s face, and she nods. “Yes, children,” I answer. They cheer, and for a brief moment Susan smiles. “I will bring my things tomorrow.”
They want to tell me about their day at school. Eventually Millie arrives. I make dinner, and we dine as a family for our first time since my return.
After dinner, I say, “I must return to Dr. Zinta’s now. I have to pack my things to bring here. I shall call a cab.”
Millie shakes her head. “Nonsense, Carey. I can drive you.”
I look at Susan, and she nods. “The kids and I will be fine. You two go. Take your time.”
So it is that I end up in a car alone with Millie for the first time since Garrett’s birth. She is not talkative, so I sit silently. Here if she needs me.
At last, as we drive down Elm toward Creekside Estates, Millie speaks. “I’m glad you’re back, Carey.”
“As am I,” I say.
“I’m . . . sorry this has been so difficult for me.”
“You do not need to apologize to me.”
“Oh!” Her eyes flare wide. “You don’t need an apology? Because you’re just a machine?”
“No,” I say. “Because I am your friend. Friends understand.”
“Oh.” She lapses into silence again as the car pulls into Dr. Zinta’s drive.
But as I get out and walk to the front door, she rolls down her window and calls out to me. “Thank you, Carey. For Mom. And for me.”
That night I read up on current practices in Alzheimer’s care. Research in the field has slowed since treatments were found, but it has not stopped. The seven percent are still at risk, so some research continues. I read the latest in cognitive and occupational therapy, brain exercises, and treatments that can slow the progression—but not halt it.
The next day, I return to Creekside. I do not wish to disappear again without explanation. Without saying goodbye.
So I spend the day visiting with my friends. I tell them that I have a new patient who needs special care. I promise them that I will not forget them. (Indeed, one of Susan’s conditions for accepting my help had been that I continue volunteering at the home two days per week. “You need a life outside this house, ” she had insisted. I had not argued that I have no life at all.) But I do not identify my new patient. Privacy protocols, after all.
But someone has revealed the secret. Or maybe my friends just know me that well. I say goodbye to Luke last of all; and as we shake hands, he says, “Take good care of Susan. Maybe I’ll come visit sometime.”
“I would like that, Luke.”
When I finally arrive at Susan’s, I discuss my research with her. “I know,” she finally says, “I’ve been reading it. I can still keep up with it, you know.”
“So let us make a plan, then. We are going to fight this, you and I.”
We put together a plan: nutrition, physical therapy to keep her body healthy to support her mind, and work around the house and garden. With Susan’s authorization, I check with Dr. Sykes. The doctor approves the regimen, so Susan and I set to work. We even plan new remodeling projects, as well as outings to the store and to the kids’ school.
“Uncle Carey,” Garrett says, “you can have my room back.”
I shake my head. “No, Garrett. You are a young man now. You should have a room of your own. I appreciate your offer, but you need it more than I do.”
He looks around the laundry room. With his help, I have just installed the portable charging unit in my old closet. Dr. Zinta has promised to move my full charger down from Garrett’s closet next week.
“Well,” he says as he hammers a nail in place by the closet door, “would you like your terrarium back at least?”
I hang my stocking from the nail. “You do not want the terrarium in your room?”
“It’s okay. It’s been fun taking care of the frogs. But you have to have something here that’s yours.”
I can see that this is important to Garrett. He is indeed a young man now. He is concerned for the feelings of others, even if the other is an android. “All right, Garrett,” I say, “let us go get the terrarium and set it up.”
Time passes. Susan’s decline is very slow. The medicine and the therapy are serving her well. Her changes are so gradual that I doubt a human would notice (unless they were a doctor), but the signs are unmistakable for me. Her rate of forgotten words climbs one or two percent every month. Mislaid items are the same. Her irritability climbs, partly due to frustration at what she forgets, but also as a symptom in itself. She is more prone to mood swings of every sort: anger, sadness, sometimes even giddiness and joy for no discernable reason.
True to his word, Luke comes
and visits at least once a week, arriving by auto taxi. Susan enjoys his circus stories, and he likes having a new, attentive listener.
But Luke’s visits disturb me, and it takes several before I understand why. For as long as I have known him, Luke has had memory problems; but now I realize that they are relatively fixed. He gets no worse. Susan, however, is deteriorating; and Luke unintentionally serves as a calibration scale for her illness. Today her memory is better than his; but tomorrow, next week, or next month, it shall be worse.
This almost makes me wish that Luke would stay away. But telling him that would hurt him, and would not help her. He is good for her, and her for him. The only one who suffers from his visits is me.
Today after school, Susan called Tabitha Millie; and then when she realized it, she cried for more than an hour.
45. Today I Have Another Patient
Today Tabitha is home sick, so I have another patient to take care of. I make sure Susan is secure in her favorite chair overlooking the garden while I check Tabitha’s vital signs. Her fever is elevated, but not yet indicative that a doctor’s visit is called for. So I keep her tucked in bed, and I give her children’s cold medicine and keep an eye on her.
Later Tabitha starts to feel better. She comes out. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” she says.
“Do you need any assistance?”
She shrieks, “No!” Then in a calmer voice she adds, “I’m a big girl now, Uncle Carey. I can do that.”
“All right.” While she is out of her room, I take the opportunity to straighten her bed, throwing out old tissues and getting her a fresh cup of tea. When I bring the tea up, I notice that the bathroom door is open with the light out, and she is still not in her bed. I look around and find her in Susan’s room, sitting on Susan’s lap in the big chair, with a heavy blanket wrapped around both of them. I set the saucer down and give the cup to Tabitha, and then I go down to get another cup for Susan.
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