by JD Salyers
For half a second she paused, just looking. She didn't want to go into the main part of the house, even entertained the thought of going back to bed. Ethan wasn't home, but surely he'd come walking in before long. He might even be cold enough to join her under the quilts. They could snuggle.
She knew better, of course. Her husband loved his morning walks and he always, always came home full of energy. He was an early bird, and he proved it every day. His dark hair would be messed up from his toboggan and his cheeks would still be red from the cold. He would be full of stories about the beavers down near the river, or how fast the new calves were growing in the field that butted up to their farm. He might even have pictures, and she might even look at them, but only after a hot cup of coffee.
The warmer air drew her to the front of the house. As she walked through the kitchen, she glanced out the wide double windows to the world outside. Snowflakes were already falling, lazy soft things that nevertheless foreshadowed the storm to come. Icy grass spiked the yard and the fields beyond. At the edge of the woods, beyond the low-slung barn, she could see a few does grazing. Something blue swooped past the window, inches from her nose and vanished before she could see it. A jay, probably. They and the cardinals were forever fighting over the seed Ethan put out for them.
All in all, it was a peaceful scene. So why wasn't her tension melting away? Ethan most likely just lost track of time. He did that sometimes. He'd get caught up in watching the wildlife and forget to come in until he was stiff with cold. He'd be here eventually, dusting his hands together - or trying to stick them under her robe to make her screech - and then he would tell her about the owl or the otters or whatever creatures he'd seen. She would smack his hands away, pour him a cup of coffee (KAFE!) and then he would make breakfast.
Logically she knew all of this, but reminding herself didn't quiet the ping of alarm in the back of her mind. She checked the time. It was after eight.
There was nothing to be alarmed about, not at all. This happened all the time now. She had only recently gotten used to these slow, easy mornings, after the hustle of working in the city. No more scrambling out the door, no more traffic, no more trolling for parking while she kept one eye on the dashboard clock. No, these days were good. And now that she and Ethan were officially retired, they would be good for a long time to come.
She walked to the counter and shook out two of the anxiety pills that sat in a bottle there. This was something else their country adventure was helping – she wasn’t taking nearly as many of these as she had in the city.
Quinn had been nervous about Ethan's dream farm in the beginning, although she really had no reason to object. If he had always wanted to live in the country, who was she to argue? Neither of them had family to leave behind - hers was small in the first place, and her parents had died, one after another, while she was in college. His was nonexistent. He had decided that he wanted this place about a decade into their marriage and didn't mention it for another two years after that. She didn't know what sparked the idea, beyond his insistence that he had always wanted a place in the country, even when he was a child. In any case, she had balked at first, sure that neither of them would enjoy leaving behind the comforts and convenience of the city.
But he had worn her down, little by little. He'd made it all seem so romantic - fresh eggs from fat, happy hens, a soft-eyed cow, maybe even horses to ride in the summer. He promised a river full of fresh trout, which she had tasted once and loved. He promised long walks down meandering trails and funny side trips into a nearby picturesque, American small town. In his eyes, it was the perfect dream, and like a drip of water drilling through stone, he had made his dream hers.
She had teased him, saying that Norman Rockwell was his spirit animal, and he had laughed and nodded in agreement. But the sparkle of it all was alive in his eyes, and eventually she'd felt it, too, in spite of her fears.
Not that he disregarded her, not at all. Her anxiety was an established fact in their marriage, something he helped her work around on a day to day basis. He reminded her to take her meds, and he rushed home when the shadows threatened to solidify and choke her. He held her in the night when the world went quiet and her thoughts told her that none of her happiness would last, that the next time she stepped out of the house something unthinkable would happen. He was there every time she felt hostile eyes on her, giving her hard, quick hugs and telling her that they were imaginary ghosts of impossible events. He was right, every time.
In the end, one of the big reasons that she relented was his promise of open spaces and fewer people. That, in fact, was her dream. He told her that he could make it happen, and he had. In the space of a single year they had found the farm, traveled to inspect it, sold their home in Atlanta and made their way north to a brand new kind of adventure.
She and Ethan had closed the deal on the little cabin just last summer and they only moved in during November, just in time for the tiniest thanksgiving celebration ever. It was just the two of them, surrounded by boxes and bags, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace. They had pancakes, because her big roasting pans were packed away. In her opinion, it was the best thanksgiving of their lives together.
She walked back into the bedroom and dressed. Jeans and a t-shirt, another easy thing. No more heels and skirts and pantyhose, and for that she was eternally grateful. A thick sweater over the t-shirt, just until she warmed up. She wasn't old - only forty two - but on mornings like this, the cold made her feel closer to seventy. No matter - she would shake it off. In fact, she decided, pulling her hair into a more proper ponytail, she would make Ethan breakfast for a change.
Bacon first, because Ethan liked his eggs fried in the grease, and then a quick mixing of drop biscuits and she slid them into the oven. She fried her eggs when the bacon was done, but since she didn't know when he'd be home, she waited to put his into the skillet. Biscuits, eggs, bacon. Breakfast was fabulous, if she did say so herself.
Yet. He still wasn't home. She ate quickly, cleaned up after herself and covered the skillet. Pushed it to the back burner, still warm. Looked out the window to see the jays still fighting, the deer long gone. Day was brightening over the blue Appalachians, thawing the frosty grass a little. Not much, though. The sky was heavy with storm clouds. Leo would be here soon.
The phone rang, startling her. For a moment she simply stared at it, not quite comprehending the sound. The kitchen was suddenly too bright and the floor was cold under her bare feet. She tiptoed her way to the phone on the wall - no cell phones out here in the mountains - and put out her hand to answer it. For a second she faltered, her belly seizing as if the phone receiver were a hot skillet. A dreadful fear rose up, threatening to choke her.
Don't answer it.
Then, with a shake of her head and a quick, deep breath, she swallowed down her sudden nerves and jerked the receiver off its cradle. Looked at it, wondering what in the world was wrong with her this morning.
“Hello? Ethan?” The voice was tiny and shrill in the cold light of the kitchen. She put the phone to her ear.
Don’t answer it. “Hello?”
A moment of silence. Then, “Quinn?”
“Yes.” Her voice was brittle. Her throat ragged. She swallowed hard and tried again. “This is she.”
“Quinn, it's Marvin.”
“Hello.”
Her mind snapped to, all at once. She shook her head again. Why was Ethan's doctor calling here during office hours? That wasn't right. Doctors didn't call people at home, did they? “Ethan isn't here right now,” she said.
“We spoke yesterday, and I have some more information about his diagnosis. I was wondering if he could come back to the city and stop by my office tomorrow.”
“Diagnosis?” The dread twisted into a solid beast in her gut. Sour. Savage. Clawing its way into her mind. “What diagnosis?”
“The Alzheimer's? He told you, didn't he?” Marvin's voice was suddenly hesitant.
She s
tared at a spot out the window, where the neatly cleared front walkway met the sharp white edge of snow, and tried to make sense of the question. Marvin Scopes was not only Ethan's doctor, but a family friend. He and his wife Annette had come to their house for supper several times in Atlanta, and Quinn knew their two daughters from school. The girls, red-haired twin beauties, had been smart kids, easy to teach. Marvin and Annette were good people, offering their time and attention to several charities in the city.
Ethan, who didn't like doctors in the first place, had made an exception for Marvin, and even though they now lived five hundred miles to the north, he insisted that he would rather fly down to Marvin's office in Atlanta for his yearly checkup than brave the small clinic in the nearby town of Randolph, Virginia. He'd done this very thing last Friday, taking a quick round-trip flight south for the day.
“His checkup?” she asked. Her mouth didn't seem capable of forming the words.
“Yes. We found some anomalies that indicate early onset Alzheimer's.” Marvin's voice softened a little. “Oh, dear. He did tell you, didn't he?”
Quinn shook her head. He hadn't. “No.”
The dread became something else, something dark and hot behind her belly button. She placed a hand there, pressed inward. Her gaze slid to the small kitchen table, where her latest project waited patiently for her. “No, Marvin. He didn't.”
Marvin made a small noise on the other end of the phone, far away in Atlanta. “Have him call me, will you?”
“I will.”
“Have a good day, Quinn,” Marvin said. His voice was still soft, but now it was full of something that sounded a lot like sadness, or maybe worry.
“Thank you.” She hung up the phone, placing the receiver on its hanging base in slow motion. Her eyes were still on the table, and she followed her own gaze there, shuffling slowly to the chair she'd pulled out just a few minutes ago, and sank into it. She grabbed the tail of her sweater, balled her hands into cloth-filled fists in her lap. Stared at them.
Alzheimer's.
Chapter Three
Ethan hadn't said a word. He never mentioned it. During supper the night before, she noticed that the lines around his eyes had gone deeper, but she had chalked that up to his not sleeping well. For the last week, he had tossed and turned a lot. She wondered at the time if the line of winter storms rolling through was messing with his sinuses, causing headaches. Or maybe, she remembered guessing, he was worried about something that he would discuss with her when he was ready.
Now she knew. It had never occurred to her that his restlessness and his checkup were related. He was the healthiest person she knew.
He hadn't told her.
She stared out the window at the jays again. Her throat felt tight and hot.
He hadn’t told her.
Every time the thought touched her mind, it felt like a punch to the gut. Underneath the vicious fear that clawed at her chest, she felt something even worse - betrayal. It wasn't the beast of dread like before, but something smaller and more slippery. Something as cold as the floor under her feet. It skipped upward along her ribs and needled at the edge of her heart. Nausea threatened her vision for a moment, before she took a deep shaky breath and blinked it away.
She reached for the boxes of photos on the far corner of the table, and flipped through some of them. Her project. Ethan's hobby. The photos were from all over the world, every trip they'd taken in their twenty years together. A history of their life. A history of their history.
Every summer, they had taken two journeys from their little tract house in the Atlanta suburbs to somewhere that felt exotic to them for one reason or another. Trips to Brazil, Yosemite, Las Vegas, Madrid. Every jaunt to a new world had strengthened their marriage and given them fresh excitement for the rest of the year. Ethan had catalogued almost every one of their moments in those places, constantly snapping bits and pieces of a foreign world. He wanted to remember. Needed to remember.
His life before Quinn had been chaotic and jagged, with too many forfeits to count. His parents were gone before he knew them, dead in an airplane crash just outside of New York City. After that, his life became a series of losses as he wended his way through the foster care system. People left behind, memories eclipsed.
So he had determined to remember everything of their lives. “You are my second chance,” he'd said at their wedding, his suit too hot and his hands shaking in front of fifty people. That crooked, charming smile on his face.
And then he had set out to do just that – remember everything. From crazy, colorful bazaar stalls in Italy to a zoo in London. All of it was right here, piled in mounds on their dining room table in Virginia. How many trips had there been? Forty? Fifty? Ethan could name and date every single one, but he wasn't patient enough to put his thousands of pictures into their proper albums and boxes. Now that they were settled, Quinn had wanted to get the photos into some sort of order.
She shifted in her chair. It squeaked, like a wounded bird. Her gaze went to the window again, to the back yard. A lone jay dive-bombed the empty bird feeder, scaring away some small, fat brown bird on the banister. She wondered where Ethan was, and when he might come home. Then she wondered if she should ask him about the call, or let him tell her in his own time. A diagnosis of Alzheimer's of all things, would strike him down faster than almost anything else. His memories were everything to him. Losing them would be his own personal version of hell.
She sat there, watching lazy snowflakes swirl. Minutes ticked by in silence. She realized after a while that she was waiting, listening for Ethan to come stomping through the door. She had no interest in moving from her place. She needed answers. Information. Reassurance. She needed these things from Ethan, and he wasn't here.
Eventually she roused herself to get a cup of coffee. There was nearly a full pot - Ethan had made it that morning and left it for her after his single cup. It was bitter and strong now, and she savored it. After that, she was able to bring in an armful of firewood from the crate on the porch and build up the fire, which had dwindled to a few orange embers in the fireplace. Then she stood beside it, her forehead against the tall wooden mantle, with her hands in her pockets. Still listening. Her throat hurt. She was tired.
Marvin had mentioned more information. Maybe it turned out to be nothing. Maybe it was a mistake, and he was calling to tell Ethan about the stupid technician who didn’t know how to read the test results. That was probably it.
That had to be it, and she made herself believe it to keep her panic at bay. She would ask him about it when he came home, and he would explain.
He hadn’t told her because he wasn’t sure, of course. Marvin would have said something like, “Don’t worry, Ethan. We’ll run these tests again.” Ethan would have waited, so that she wouldn’t worry for nothing.
So why wasn’t he here now? Why wasn’t he here, waiting for that phone call? Where was he?
The rooster crowed from the pen in the back, startling her. It was enough to reset her spiraling thoughts and bring her back to this moment. There wasn’t a thing she could do until her husband got home and told her what was going on, now was there? She would have to wait, and that was OK. She chuckled at herself, pushed her worry down deep, and went to feed them.
This was one of the ways she dealt with her anxiety – by putting things into mental boxes, keeping them out of the way until it was time to deal with them. If she didn’t do that, she would be a sniveling mess all the time.
Halfway across to the rickety little lean-to shed, the panic came back. It slammed her like a blow to the head. Her feet stumped to a halt. She turned, slowly, trying to figure out what. What was wrong? What new thing had happened? She fought to think, fought the urge to run back to the house, and momentarily ignored the chickens that had come rushing out to greet her, pecking at the fence and squawking for their breakfast.
The feeling of something wrong clawed at her again. Why? Was it that she was outside now? That happened sometimes, w
hen the sheer vastness of the outside world threatened to overwhelm her. It had been that way even back home, in Atlanta. Some days it took all the fight in her to keep walking. But this felt different...more like she was missing some vital piece of information.
The dogs. She stood in the center of the back yard, between the deck and the barn, and turned her head toward the kennel and fenced run that banked the left side of the cabin. Retro and Burns, Ethan's large and playful German Shepherds, were standing at the fence, watching her. They were still pups, really. Big and goofy, not quite a year old. When Burns saw her looking, he chuffed. He wanted breakfast, too.
Why hadn't Ethan taken them with him? He always took them. Always.
She squeezed her cold fingers into fists, willing herself to stand still. Burns chuffed again, raising one giant paw to the chain link fence and watching her steadily. Retro, on the other hand, was hopping back and forth, wanting to play, snuffing Burns's ear with his nose and yipping. Every once in a while he would go still and glance toward the woods, but then get distracted by his brother again.
Think, Quinn. It’s fine. It’s just the dogs. Ethan forgot them. That’s all.
She looked at them, and that helped her thumping heart. They were beautiful dogs, caramel colored with the classic black saddle and large, black-tipped ears. Ethan had gone to pick out a pup - one pup - from a private breeder last September. He had come back with three. She remembered staring, open-mouthed as he opened the rear door of their SUV and puppies had come spilling out. Then she had laughed, because she'd won that bet. She knew he wouldn't stop at one.
But three? He had batted his dark blue eyes at her and explained that the pups were kept in an old sewer drain in the breeder's muddy back yard. How it had been raining, and he couldn't just leave them there, could he? No, of course he couldn't.