In a voice that shook with alarm, he said, “What’s going on?” and stumbled back another step, almost losing his balance.
Eyes stinging, Roxanne undid another button. “Isn’t this what you want?”
“Roxanne, no. Of course not. Why...?”
Taking Ben’s arm, Roxanne turned him to face the mirror, standing beside him now, locking eyes with his reflection.
She said, “Do you see yourself?”
At first there was no response, and Roxanne held his gaze in the mirror, his reddening eyes locked on hers. Then he looked away, first at the reflected image of the room behind him…then, more gradually, at himself, eyes widening as they ticked from the deep seams in his forehead to the pronounced furrows bracketing his mouth to the loose wattle of flesh beneath his chin.
His lips trembled as he said, “Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Ben Hunter.”
“And do you see me?”
He nodded.
“Who am I?”
“Roxanne. You’re my friend, Roxanne Austen.”
Buttoning her blouse now, Roxanne said, “Do you see us?”
Ben nodded, saying, “Yes, sweetheart, I do. I really do.”
They stood there a while, seeing each other in the mirror.
Then Roxanne said, “Ben, I should be going. Russ’ll be here soon, and I need to run down to my locker before he arrives. Are you going to be okay?”
Glancing at his watch, Ben said, “Well, you made me miss the beginning of South Park,” and Roxanne laughed so explosively it hurt her throat. He said, “Thank you, Roxanne,” and pulled her into a fatherly hug. “It’s been so confusing. I was furious at Ely and the guys for even bringing it up. I thought they were trying to make our friendship into something dirty…but they were right. They were only trying to help.”
Roxanne nodded in his embrace.
He released her now, nudging her out to arm’s length. “This wasn’t your idea, was it.”
“No.”
“Ely?”
“Uh huh.”
“She’s a crafty old witch, isn’t she?”
“She really is.”
He opened the apartment door. “That took some real courage,” he said. “Shocked the hell out of me, but you made your point.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “But listen, sweetheart. I’m sick. There’s no getting around it. Some days, I’m fine. Others, it’s hour by hour, even minute by minute. Like tonight. I remember punching in the code at the apartment door, but I don’t remember getting off the elevator.”
“I understand.”
“What I’m saying is, even in spite of what you did here tonight, I might be right back where I started before I close the door behind you.”
Roxanne said, “Maybe. But maybe not.” She walked him back to the mirror. “Besides, I can always remind you.” She popped up on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, then moved into the hallway. “Nite, Ben. See you tomorrow for lunch?”
Ben said, “I’ll have to check my schedule,” and laughed. “Our usual table?”
“Twelve-thirty sharp.”
She smiled and scooted down the hallway.
And with the abruptness of a lightning strike, Ben thought, That’s the girl I’m going to marry. He watched her till she boarded the elevator, then closed the door without locking it. He toed off his shoes and settled into the La-Z-Boy, hugging a pillow to his chest. He stared at the blank TV for a while, seeing their Hawaiian honeymoon in the blazing Technicolor of dementia. Until sleep claimed him, deep and dreamless, a dark refuge from his disease.
* * *
Ely squinted at the blank canvas, an elegant composition taking shape in her mind. She’d taped some faded Polaroids to the edge of the canvas, shots she’d taken decades ago in New Mexico: a trio of domestic geese; a primitive hay wagon; different angles on an aging adobe ranch house. Her idea was to combine these elements into—
There was a knock at the door now, so tentative Ely almost missed it. She glanced at the mantle clock—4:06 PM, too late for the pharmacy tech—then hollered, “Who is it?”
“Ely, it’s Roxanne. Can I come in?”
“Of course. It’s unlocked.”
Ely angled her chair away from the easel to face the hallway, eager to see Roxanne’s smiling mug. She looked forward to the kid’s visits now, her presence a ray of sunshine in the often lonely confines of the apartment.
But there was no smile today. The girl looked puffy and tired.
Ely said, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Roxanne plunked onto the couch, gathering her long legs underneath her. She tried to speak, but she was too busy biting back tears.
Ely said, “Is it Ben?”
Roxanne nodded, a single tear skating down her cheek to land on her jeans.
“You tried what we talked about?”
Another nod. “Last night.”
“And it didn’t work?”
Managing a thin smile, Roxanne said, “Actually, it worked great.” She cuffed her eyes dry. “I thought we’d made a solid breakthrough.” She went on to describe the encounter in front of the mirror and how hopeful she’d been, telling Russ about it on the drive home. “But I met him for lunch today and he was worse than ever, going on about our plans for after school, asking me if I wanted to go to the Centennial parade on the weekend.”
“That was in nineteen-sixty-seven.”
“I know. I looked it up.”
“So that’s it, then,” Ely said, heartsick for this precious child.
“I guess it is,” Roxanne said. “But I’ve decided to hang in with him anyway, Ely, now that I understand what’s going on. It’s not his fault, and it’s not all the time. And when he’s lucid, we have the most wonderful conversations. I learn something new nearly every time we’re together. He’s brilliant.”
“That he is.”
“And when he gets lost…well, it’s harmless, right?”
Ely nodded. “I suppose so.”
“So I’ll just guide him through it. I’ll be moving to Halifax in the fall anyway. No reason to chicken out now.”
As if viewing the scene in slow motion, Ely watched Roxanne change positions on the couch, angling to the right now to lie on her side, head coming to rest on a shaggy pillow, hair pooling in artful whorls around her face—
Ely said, “Jesus H. Christ,” and spun her chair so quickly she almost knocked over the easel.
Roxanne said, “Ely, are you okay?” and started to get up.
“No,” Ely said. “Don’t move from that spot.”
In spite of her bewilderment, the girl complied, sinking back onto her side, that worry line furrowing her brow again.
Ely stared at her a moment longer, solidifying the image in her mind, then motored over to an antique chest with a stack of shallow drawers. She opened the bottom drawer and began thumbing through a sheaf of old sketches, her mind casting back to an autumn day many years ago…to a teenage Ben showing up at the lake house with this girl, looking like he’d been clapped on the back of the head with a plank. It had been Ely’s idea to sketch them, and she remembered feeling compelled to do so, the sight of them strolling hand-in-hand up the walkway in lush October sunshine one of the most stunning she’d ever witnessed. They had positively glowed with the heat of young love, and Ely wanted to capture it in case she never saw it again. And she never had. Not like that.
She ran the drawer closed and opened the next one up, wondering why she hadn’t twigged to this before now. There was a very good reason Ben had fixated on Roxanne and not someone else.
Ah, here it is.
She eased the pastel out of its plastic sleeve and felt the breath catch in her throat, these two gorgeous kids stretched out on a worn leather couch, Ben shirtless on his back with his face angled into the room, the girl tucked under his arm with her head on his chest, hair strewn in golden swirls around her placid face. The date beneath Ely’s signature was 1968.
Sixty years
. My God…
She ran the drawer shut, placed the drawing face-down on her lap, and moved to face Roxanne across the coffee table. She said, “You can sit up now, darling.”
Roxanne did, her gaze fixed on the overturned sketch. “What’s that?”
“Remember the girl I told you about? The one who broke Ben’s heart?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think you might know her.”
Ely flipped the sketch over and gave it to Roxanne, unsurprised by her startled gasp.
Wide-eyed, Roxanne said, “Is this who I think it is?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Angling the sketch toward the windows, Roxanne said, “I’ve only seen one picture of her at this age, in her high school yearbook. But I’m pretty sure this is Gram.”
“What’s her real name, sweetie?”
“Melanie Anderson.”
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“Oh my God.”
Roxanne was smiling now, ear-to-ear and bright as sunshine, and Ely knew what the girl was thinking. She wanted to run home right now and get the entire juicy scoop from her grandmother. But Ely had a better idea, one that might benefit all concerned.
She said, “Here’s what I’m thinking. If you and your grandmother are standing right in front of the man—no warning for either of them—number one, it’s going to be damned hard for him to mix the two of you up. And number two, depending on how your grandmother reacts, it might just fix this whole mess for good.”
* * *
Roxanne called Ben on her way down to the lobby.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ben.”
“Hey, Roxie, what’s up?”
Good, he knows it’s me. “If you have plans for tomorrow morning, I need you to cancel them. Breakfast is on me. I’ll pick you up in the lobby at nine.
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, July 10
BEN WAS READY BY seven-thirty, dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt, sandals over the executive socks on his feet. He’d stuck a Post-it note to the fridge last night after Roxanne called—Breakfast with Rox, lobby at 0900—but had managed to remember the arrangement on his own. He was aware of the current strategies for coping with dementia—he’d published a number of seminal papers on the subject himself—and had begun incorporating many of them into his daily routine. But on the few occasions he managed to get by without these simple aids, he felt a genuine sense of hope, even a little pride.
The phone rang at eight o’clock and Ben felt a stab of disappointment, certain it was Roxanne calling to cancel. But it was his friend and colleague, Dr. Jake Barbeau, the man he’d worked most closely with in the development of anti-aggregates. Ben was delighted to hear from him.
“Jake, what a nice surprise. How are you?”
“Hello, Ben, I’m well, thank you. I’ve been meaning to call you for quite some time now, but things have been so busy lately, I—”
“Put it out of your head, my friend. I remember the eighteen-hour days, catnapping on that godforsaken couch in the staff lounge. Have you set fire to that torture rack yet?”
Jake laughed. “It’s all leather in there now. And we have sleep rooms.”
“Is this your way of trying to entice me back into the fold?”
“If I thought you’d come back, I’d charter a plane right now.”
Ben and Jake had spent two years together at the University of Toronto, ironing the kinks out of their breakthrough treatment. Those had been heady times. In addition to the life-changing deal they’d struck with Pfizer, both men had been offered lucrative positions in research and development. Jake, twenty years Ben’s junior, had jumped aboard without hesitation. But Ben had opted to return to his geriatric practice, much to Jake’s disappointment.
Ben said, “I’m afraid I’m past all that now. Besides, in my condition, I’d probably end up torching the place with a forgotten Bunsen burner.” Jake had been the one to confirm Ben’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis.
“About that,” Jake said. “I may have some good news. Some very exciting news, in fact.”
Ben felt his scalp tingle. “Do tell.”
“As you’re well aware, Aggrecene induces a profound anaphylactic reaction in greater than one percent of patients treated. Considering the enormous population we’re dealing with, that's highly significant—”
“Listen, Jake, I keep up with the literature. And no one’s more conversant with the drug’s allergic potential than me. So please, cut to the chase.”
“Fair enough. About a month ago, we began testing a group of allergic patients with an isomer of the drug, which, so far, has failed to trigger an allergic response.”
The news struck Ben like a hearty back clap. But the scientist in him said, “What about efficacy?”
“So far, so good. The patients we’ve been testing appear to be stabilizing. The onset of therapeutic effect is less abrupt than that of the original formulation, and a small number of patients experienced an actual worsening of the disease before the drug kicked in. But it’s early times, Ben. We’ll need six months to a year to be certain. But I’m optimistic. If you’re interested, I can include you in the trial.”
Ben said, “That would be fantastic.” Yet something about it bothered him. He said, “But tell me, why’d you wait so long to let me know about this?” He flashed on the darkening cloud the disease had cast over his life in the recent past and felt a pang of resentment. “I could’ve used this stuff a month ago. The timing would’ve been ideal.”
“I understand how you feel, my friend.”
“No, Jake, you don’t. And you should thank God you don’t.”
“Come on, Ben, you know what I mean. I waited until now to bring you in because I didn’t want to engender false hope. I don’t want you as a guinea pig.”
Ben had more to say on the subject, but he thought of how excited Roxanne was going to be—and Ely and Wilder and Quinn and Ray—and said, “You’re right, Jake. Of course, you’re right. I apologize.”
“No need.”
“I appreciate you involving me in this, I really do. When do we start?”
“A tall-dark-handsome UPS guy will appear at your door with a box of blister packs sometime between nine and eleven this morning.”
Ben laughed, thinking he’d get Quinn to wait in the apartment for the UPS guy so he could keep his breakfast date with Roxanne. He jotted Quinn, UPS, this AM on a Post-it note and said, “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you. I might’ve answered your call this morning as Little Red Riding Hood and told you to go screw yourself.”
Jake laughed now, too. “It’s a chance I was willing to take. But listen, Ben. You must take the first dose in the presence of a physician in an emergency treatment facility. This is absolutely mandatory, do you understand?”
“I do.”
“There’s still a chance you might react. It’s vanishingly small, but it exists. If I’d been thinking straight when I shipped the samples, I’d’ve sent them directly to the hospital.”
“I’m writing it down as we speak. And trust me, I never want to go through a reaction like that again. I won’t take any chances.” He stuck the note to his plastic med dispenser.
Jake said, “I’ve already spoken to a Doctor Skeen at the hospital there.”
“The ER department head. I know him well.”
“He’s agreed to oversee your first dose. You have an appointment with him this afternoon at three.”
“Thanks, Jake. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Millions of people around the world should be thanking you, my friend. That the brains behind such a marvelous discovery should be unable to benefit from it is a travesty of justice at the cosmic level.”
“Thanks for saying that. But it’s just bad luck.”
“Okay, Ben, I have to go. Be sure to call me as soon as you know.”
Ben said, “Count on it,
” and cradled the receiver.
Grinning at the old man in the entryway mirror, Ben let out a whoop and checked his watch.
He couldn’t wait to tell Roxanne.
* * *
“Oh my God, Ben, that’s amazing.”
He smiled. “Ain’t it though? I take my test dose this afternoon.”
Merging onto Bronson off Hog’s Back Road, Roxanne said, “Test dose? So there’s still a chance you might react?”
“Yes, but it’s minimal. If I know my friend Jake, he’s just being overcautious. I’m not worried, not even a little bit, so you shouldn’t be either.”
Roxanne said, “Tell your story walking, Mister,” and Ben squinted at her, the sun in her side-window casting her in gilt-edged silhouette. It was an expression he hadn’t heard in decades, and he thought, Who used to say that?
Now Roxanne said, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll promise not to worry if you’ll promise I can come along.”
“To the appointment? Don’t you have to work?”
“I’ve got the day off.”
“All right then, sure. That’d be nice. It’s at three o’clock.”
“Okay, good,” Roxanne said. “I’m trying to remember my grade twelve chemistry. Isomers… Aren’t those molecules that have the same formula, but a different arrangement of atoms in space?”
Ben smiled. “Good for you. Exactly. It’s a subtle change, but sometimes the effect can be significant.”
“I’m so excited for you, Ben. You deserve this more than anyone.”
“Well, let’s just see how it goes before we bust out the champagne.”
“Fingers crossed. But it’ll work. You’ll see.”
They were quiet now, Ben trying to place that expression—Tell your story walking, Mister—Roxanne keeping to the right-hand lane on the busy thoroughfare. The radio was tuned to a pop station at a discreet volume, and on a few of the songs Roxanne hummed along, the sound pitch perfect and really quite pleasant.
Now Ben said, “So where are we going for breakfast?”
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