While I still had some morality left, some sense of right and wrong, I knew what I had to do. I just didn’t want to do it. I sipped the tea, grimaced, and poured it out, filling a wine glass with the red I preferred. Wine wasn’t on my diet, but I wouldn’t drink it again after I made this decision.
I sat watching the flames, missing the crackle and pop of wood. The difference between Bill and Lynn and Ash and myself was that Bill and Lynn loved each other. Ash was still in love with his late wife. I couldn’t drag Ash behind the waterfall with me. I wouldn’t. He deserved a second chance at love, like Bill had found with Lynn.
SEVENTEEN
“OVER HALF THE FACULTY in this college suffer from some sort of dementia, Dart.”
As usual, Ash was trying to multitask, and no matter how many times I’d told him that no one could multitask and trying to do so made him less efficient, he persisted. “I know it’s here somewhere,” he murmured, searching through a drawer in his desk. “Faculty are like little kids, you know.” He shuffled some more papers around, peering under them and over the pile. “They’ll promise you anything just to get what they want. Then once they have it, they leave this office and don’t follow through. Well I’m tired of it.”
I knew what he was looking for. Evidence. He had people sign promise slips, that they would do X and by a certain time, Y. Some of the faculty had started to jot down their own promise notes that he had to sign. That hadn’t gone over very well.
“Thought signing promise notes was a good idea, but I hadn’t known keeping track of the pesky things would be so difficult.” He shut one drawer and opened another. “I know you have FTD. I was there on the beach with you, remember? I know McCloud’s diagnosis is flimsy at best and that if you do have it, your big brain will take a while to falter. Too many cells up there that you like to use.”
“Ash.”
That brought stillness to the frenetic searching. He looked up, shut the drawer, and sat back in his chair, studying me, his fingers tented against one another as he considered. “I knew when you asked me to leave you alone to cope that this is what would happen. You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?”
He dropped his head in his hands and dug his fingers into his hair. Alarm flashed through me. I wondered what was wrong with him for a fleeting minute, then felt the disinterest slow my reaction. Although these last two weeks of the diet, the DHA supplements, hormone therapy, optimizing vitamin D levels, and strategic fasting to regulate insulin levels had lessened my symptoms, the disease was still there. The doctor hadn’t been sure the regime would help, as this treatment was from a small study out of UCLA and done with patients in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. FTD was different from Alzheimer’s, but Doc McCloud had thought it worth a shot, as had Robbie, and I trusted Robbie.
The other thing I liked about the study was that it mimicked the work the Raindrops advocated for complex messy problems. We called it bringing the rain, while the Alzheimer’s study referred to their approach as patching all the holes in the roof instead of focusing on just one. Alzheimer’s results from deficiencies, imbalances, and inflammation, or at least that is the current prevailing wisdom, and the disease isn’t polite enough to punch one hole in the roof. Oh no, Alzheimer’s punches thirty-six holes in the roof, and you can’t fix just one to stop getting wet.
“That fling with Bill and Lynn,” he said. “You’ve got it in your head that I deserve a love like that.”
“He’s found happiness,” I said, “and I want that for you.”
“So did my wife,” Ash said. “I’m cursed to fall in love with women who want me to leave them. I told you, didn’t I, that she was fifteen years older than me. That was the first hurdle we had to get over. She was also brilliant, Dart, the smartest woman I’ve ever known, and I’m not so brilliant. I make faculty sign promise notes that I stuff into my desk and lose. Jennifer would be laughing herself silly if she were here.”
He stood up, walked around the desk to me, and folded my hand in both of his. “When she got sick, she too wanted me to leave her and find someone else. As if it were in me to do that.” He drew me close to him. Thank God the door was closed, but the window shades weren’t. People could see in, and I started to struggle a bit, but not too much because, as always, it felt so good to have Ash’s arms around me.
“You are my chance for redemption, Dart.”
Finally. As if he hadn’t given her everything he could.
He kissed my forehead. “Let me take care of you.” I felt the light touch of his lips on my cheek. “This time I’ll get it right, I promise you.” He kissed me as if he meant it and dropped his hand to cradle the softness of my breast. My legs trembled and, deep within, pleasure started to tingle. I forgot what it was that was so important and kissed him back before I remembered.
He didn’t deserve this.
“Let me go, Ash,” I said, pulling myself out of his embrace. I put my finger against his lips when he started to protest. “You are a wonderful man, and I’m so glad that you came into my life, but I want someone who will love me for me, Ash, and you aren’t that man.”
He started to protest but stopped when I shook my head and stepped back, out of his personal space. The sad, bewildered look on his face almost undid my resolve, but I couldn’t let that happen. “The experimental diet, medicine, meditation, all of it will work. I’m already feeling better, and I listen now to her voice, the old me who is still there and insistent I do the right thing. She’s the one who’s standing before you now, Ash, and she’s not sick.”
“You are so stubborn. Don’t do this to yourself, to me.”
“With Jennifer, you would have said, ‘Don’t do this to us.’”
And he knew then what I hadn’t been able to ignore. I turned to leave and he let me go.
Upstairs in my office, I noticed Brown Bear sitting on my desk where I’d left him. With Ash gone, he was all I had left. I picked him up and examined his kind eyes, his ratty fur, the bedraggled red ribbon, and that little stubbin’ of a tail. Beneath my fingertips, his fur felt soft, and I held him close but realized I didn’t feel the compulsion any more to keep him close.
Maybe everything I was doing was working.
I gave him one last long look; then I stepped onto the bottom shelf of my six-shelf bookcase, the one against the wall adjacent to the window, and stretched up to put Brown Bear on the very top of that tall bookcase. Brown Bear propped himself up against the corner. I stepped back down and Brown Bear shrank from sight.
That was good. I couldn’t see him. I wouldn’t be tempted. I dusted my hands and sat down at the computer. I had a program to fill for Salzburg, people to contact, and a speech to write.
And as I started to write, I remembered my father telling me to face what I feared. I’d always thought that meant finding the courage to do the right thing as I’d done with Ash, although my heart broke when I remembered the look on his face. I’d always believed that if I kept my brain engaged and active, it would take care of me. I’d been wrong about that as well. What my father meant when he said face what you fear is that it’s always possible to go on, even though going on might seem impossible.
Wherever this disease led me, I’d discover a way to find the firm sand beneath my feet so that I could keep on walking. Every person struggles with something. My something just happened to be standing alone as I faced FTD, but I would go on.
Five months later, I stood in front of the crowd of well-dressed men and women of every nationality who had come to Salzburg to participate in my seminar on world poverty. One final speech to deliver, and my work at the Salzburg Global Institute would be done. The week had been amazing.
Gradually, conversation quieted in the cavernous room. Fresh flowers at every table accented the snow-white linen tablecloths and provided color. The wait staff had filled the crystal wine glasses with sparkling wine. Everything was perfect for the final festivities.
“We’ve had a wonderful five days together in Salz
burg.” Applause from the audience filled the gilded room and overwhelmed me. Many of these people had become more than friends and colleagues as the week progressed. I felt as if we were united now, engaged in a quest to make the future better for humanity.
Staring at all those expectant faces raised to mine, my legs started to shake a bit, but then as if he read my mind, Ash moved, and my gaze went to the table I’d shared for the last four nights with him and Lea, Susan, Lynn, Classy, Mary Beth, Carol Lee, and Faye.
I started to speak and heard the quiver gather in my voice. All the people sitting there staring at me. I would fail them all. The terror I felt grew and grew until I saw Ash take up his knife and wave it back and forth like a fan. Had he lost his mind? The question made me forget my fears. When he saw my attention focus on him, he smiled and tapped the crystal glass with the knife. I heard that sound, somehow I heard the noise that pounded at my confidence abate.
As the room quieted for me, he laid the knife back down, and nodded as if to say, “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?”
For five months I’d avoided him, but I couldn’t avoid him in Salzburg. This entire week, he’d been there for me. When the electronics didn’t work, he fixed the problem. When my confidence broke, he reminded me of the good work TRI had done. When a lecturer had been late, Ash entertained the people who had gathered to listen. Now he was telling me, with that little smile and level gaze, that I couldn’t let myself down.
He was right. He was right about something else as well. I’d been a fool to let him go, but this was not the time and place to berate myself for that stupid decision. I had a final speech to give, and I didn’t want to let these people nor myself down. I’d spoken in front of large groups of people many, many times before, and I told myself I’d look back on this moment and laugh for having doubted myself.
I drew a deep breath and said, “When I first started The Raindrop Institute, I had a new dean who didn’t think my research was all that hot.”
Ash looked surprised as everyone at our table turned to look at him and then everyone else in the room as well. Then he laughed and said, “I was wrong,” and the audience laughed at the wry note in his voice.
“My tenure bid wasn’t going well, and I needed something that would get me through the short term, so I started The Raindrop Institute and coerced my reluctant tenants—stand up please,” I gestured to Classy, Susan, Mary Beth, and Lynn, who stood as the applause grew louder—“into letting me mess with their brains.” All four of my very good friends bowed as people clapped. I’d wanted a moment when their diligence and insight would be recognized, and this was that moment.
“I wish I could tell you that we solved some very real problems, but last fall, I realized that TRI had fallen into the trap of short-term thinking. The first and worst place we lose the futures that will live beyond us is within our own heads.
“Short-term thinking is costly, and it keeps poverty alive and well. If you think it’s not, consider that teachers can’t spend quality time with individual students so, as a result, a high schooler drops out every twenty-six seconds. That means in the few minutes I’ve been speaking, almost ten students have rejected accomplishment and opportunity and accepted hopelessness, for many of those dropouts live in poverty.”
The room grew quieter. “Thinking short term has prevented Congress from pushing for a real infrastructure bill. As a result, a bridge along the Mississippi collapsed a few years back, killing thirteen people. More bridges and tunnels and roads and electrical grids and sewer systems and water purification plants, like those in Flint, Michigan, will fail. The poor will suffer more because those of us who can afford to buy bottled water will, or we’ll leave.”
I paused and drew a deep breath. I’d decided last night that they needed to know what I’d pretended didn’t exist during these last few days. “A few months ago, I received a health diagnosis that made me aware of just how very little time I had left to make a difference.”
Heads turned as folks looked up at me. Brows creased with concern, the room grew quiet. I knew what they saw: a healthy, articulate, accomplished older woman brimming with vitality and intellect. “That forced me to think long term, past the diagnosis to what I could accomplish. I don’t have children, but I wanted—want—The Raindrop Institute to grow up.
“I want TRI to become a way of thinking that doesn’t rely on short-term fixes, like technology, or abating the symptoms instead of solving the problem. I want our mindset, our way of thinking, to build futures, not to be trapped within the present. Ari Wallach and others call this transgenerational thinking. It’s a process of thinking about the decisions you make that avoids the memes and heuristics that trap us into a defined future.
“Used to be the high priests in Rome determined our future, and now it’s the high priests of Silicon Valley. I urge you to push beyond that thinking. These days with me at Salzburg have illustrated how TRI has made that leap. Always think beyond solving the problems to envisioning what will our world be like when the problems are solved. Ask yourself, to what end are you making these decisions?
“And when you have defined that, people will go along with you, as you have come along on my journey, to craft a future for all generations.”
I waited until the applause died down, but it didn’t. Instead people rose to their feet, and I knew that the conference had been a success, and I’d given them the moral imperative they’d work to fulfill for the rest of their lives.
“Thank you,” I said and I kept repeating that until the noise died away, and people resumed their seats. “We have a lovely dinner ahead of us and more work to do, but before we commence with that agenda, I want to ask my colleagues and friends, Faye and Carol Lee, who join us from the Busy Bookers book club in Anchor’s Pointe in Southport, North Carolina, to speak for just a few minutes before dinner is served. They are going to tell you how The Raindrop Institute’s way of thinking has changed their discussions, their mindsets, and the future of their community and county and possibly that of North Carolina and the United States.”
I sat down at the table as Faye and Carol Lee took the podium.
Ash’s hand reached for mine, and I didn’t pull away as I listened to the Bookers discuss the growing number of book clubs that were transforming themselves into Raindrops. Yes, they still discussed novels, nonfiction, and other works, they told the crowd, but for a half hour of their meeting, they pushed beyond the short term to consider how they might bring about the eradication of poverty. And much to their surprise, they’d come up with some ideas that had impacted their community, the county around them, and given purpose to their own lives. I looked at the two of them standing before the immense crowd in this gilded room that glistened with gold in the soft lighting and I reveled in the emotion that swept through me. I felt hope for the first time that TRI would go on when I was gone.
EIGHTEEN
tHE NEXT AFTERNOON, my one free day in Salzburg before I flew home, I walked toward the arch at the center of the Makartsteg pedestrian bridge over the Salzach River that divided Salzburg. Padlocks hung from every woven wire and chain link in the fence anchoring the railing to the bridge. Far below, the river gleamed gray-blue in the afternoon sunlight. A light breeze stirred my hair as I stopped in the middle of the bridge and tried to make sense of what I saw.
A novel had inspired this, a novel—and they say fiction can’t make a difference. Before me was tangible proof that it could. I should have included that in my speech.
The locks symbolized unbreakable love.
I remembered reading about them the last time I’d been in Salzburg when Christmas shoppers crowded the bridge and the town’s sidewalks. Today, the town was more crowded than before, and the bridge had many, many more padlocks than the last time I’d been here. So many I couldn’t believe the bridge hadn’t tumbled down from the accumulated weight, but the fence hadn’t sagged and the arch hadn’t weakened.
Around me, strangers pressed close as th
ey rushed past. Children dashed in and out among the adults moving from one side of the city across the broad river to the other side. Surrounded by evidence that love is undying, lovers stood tightly together looking into each other’s eyes, and, as if loath to intrude on that private moment, the crowd respected their space.
That might have been Ash and me, but I’d dismissed that future for myself as improbable. After my speech last night, I knew that to be a mistake, that I’d been so caught up in the short term of my diagnosis that I hadn’t seen the possibilities. But it was too late now.
I pressed closer to the railing and the open woven fence beneath it, partly because the view from the middle of the bridge up the river was spectacular and partly to avoid being jostled and pushed. An older woman standing alone, in the way of folks who needed to be somewhere, wasn’t a good place to be. An old fort sat high on the hill to my left and, to my right, beautiful white buildings gleamed in the setting sun with an ornate gilded clock tower dominating the business district.
My hands gripped the railing, the beauty of the spot holding my attention until an older couple stopped a few paces down from me. They both had silver hair and, from their dress, they weren’t rich but neither were they poor. Ordinary people, grandparents probably, no threat to you, my Sentinel decided.
He withdrew something from his trouser pocket. She smiled, and I looked from her delight to his steady hand and the bright red padlock that he cradled there. He turned the key and the hasp opened. With a gentleness I couldn’t imagine, he bent to affix the bright red padlock on the chain link fence. He had a bit of trouble finding an open spot, but persistence paid off. I watched him snap the shiny, silver hasp closed. Then he straightened and gave the key to his wife.
She held it for a moment as if to savor their pledge, then threw the key out into the placid but white-capped river below. Holding hands like the teenagers they used to be, they stood together, then moved on.
Bring the Rain Page 23