Fluke

by David Elliott

  “Hi, Dr. Goldstein,” Sara said. She stood up, and hugged the man briefly. She turned, and introduced me. “This is my boyfriend, Adam Fluke.”

  “Hello, Adam,” Dr. Goldstein said. His voice had a melodic, soothing quality. He extended his hand, and I took the small pink hand in mine, surprised at the strength behind it.

  “Nice to meet you,” I sort of mumbled to him. I wasn’t sure what emotion I should be experiencing. I was a little confused, nervous, tense. It was how I had felt at the few funerals I had been to, except different, too. I never felt like I knew how to act appropriately.

  He began to talk to us then. Well, mostly to Sara. He spoke quietly, but sincerely, about her mother’s progress since she had last been here. Her mother was not doing great, but was still strong. There was a calming quality to his voice that worked to ease our tensions slightly. We followed him through hallways, which became carpeted as we moved into a different wing in the same building. He used terminology that I didn’t always understand, but I didn’t ask any questions. I felt extremely somber as we padded across the building, and finally came to a stop in front of a large doorway. The number 135 was on the placard, along with the name, “DuBeau, M.” My heart beat a little faster.

  “You know the procedure from here, Sara,” the doctor was saying. “If you need anything just hit the button on the wall, and I’ll be here. Is there anything I can get for you, or do for you?” he asked.

  “No. No, thank you, doctor.”

  “Okay, Sara. Good luck.” He said. He turned to me, nodded his head once, and said, “Good to meet you, Adam.”

  I nodded my head in return, but my mouth was so dry that I couldn’t open it in time to say anything before he left. I wiped my hands on my pants, and Sara took a deep breath. She extended her arm, in what looked to me like slow-motion, and knocked on the door twice. I waited with bated breath, and then we heard the quiet reply.

  “Come in,” Maggie DuBeau said, and we pushed the door open, and I met my girlfriend’s mother.

  In the car from New Orleans to Texas, Sara had talked to me a while about Alzheimer’s Disease. She gave me some background on the actual disease, as I really didn’t know anything about it, except the childish notion that it “made old people crazy.” She also gave me some background on her mother’s case, which was pretty rare, as her mother was only 60 years old. The average age at diagnosis is actually around 80.

  “It’s a disease that just, basically, eats away brain tissue,” she said. “And the brain tissue is gone forever; it never rebuilds or regenerates.”

  I piloted the car down the interstate, hanging on her words. She had never spoken much about her mother, and I took advantage of the time to learn as much as I could.

  “You know, it’s normally old, old people that get the disease. The odds of getting it when you’re still in your fifties are something like ten thousand to one. But, my mom,” she paused. “My mom beat the odds.”

  She shifted a little in her seat, and continued: “She was about 51 when she started forgetting things, which is an early symptom. She forgot little things, but progressed pretty rapidly into forgetting my name. By the time she was 53 years old, she was forgetting to take a bath. She was waking up in the middle of the night and walking out the front door and down the street. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have to jump in the car and go find your mother at three in the morning. And knowing that she might not even recognize you when you do find her…” she trailed off.

  I put my hand on her thigh. I wanted to say something, but had no idea what.

  “I couldn’t take it,” she said, her voice weak. “I was only 17 years old, and I was scared of my mother. I was scared of this woman who didn’t act like my mother at all. She acted like a crazy lady. Sometimes she just started yelling at me for no reason. I was sitting at the table one night, filling out one of my many college applications, and she came in, and just started yelling at me, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out, get out!’ She didn’t know me at all, Adam. And I didn’t know her, either, not by that time.

  My Aunt Karen had moved in with us, and was helping with mom. One night, Aunt Karen pulled me aside, and told me about the home. She talked to me like she was trying to convince me that it was for the best, telling me that mom wouldn’t know the difference anymore, mom could be better taken care of by professionals, reason after reason. She felt guilty about wanting to put my mother, her sister, into a home. But you know what?”

  I looked at her, feeling horrible for not knowing how to comfort her. What do I say? I know what you mean? I understand? I didn’t, not at all. I couldn’t comprehend what she had gone through at all.

  “I didn’t hesitate. I told Aunt Karen, yes, put her in the home,” she said. “I actually felt relieved, Adam. That’s awful, isn’t it?”

  I shook my head no. One thing I did understand was personal limitations.

  “So, she went away one Saturday afternoon, in the car with Aunt Karen,” she continued. “I gave her a hug that day, which was one of her good days…she told me that she would see me soon and that she loved me, which made it slightly harder. Of course, all I had to do was think of the time she threw her coffee cup at me when she caught me in her room getting her laundry, to realize that I shouldn’t feel guilty.”

  I chose my words carefully. “It sounds like you did the best thing you could do for her, Sara.”

  “I suppose. That’s what Aunt Karen said and what the doctors said. I spent a lot of time thinking differently, though. Thinking that if only I weren’t such a selfish little bitch, I could have taken care of her. My mom was losing her marbles to Alzheimer’s, and I was busy filling out college loan paperwork.”

  “Sara…” I started.

  “It was okay, though. I learned to deal with it. I went off and moved into the dorms at the school, and I drove home every couple of weekends to see mom. Sometimes, she’d remember me, sometimes, she refused to see me. I just came to accept it all. Aunt Karen is the strong one in our little triad. She’s the one that’s held everything together.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry if I’m depressing you,” she said. When I started to disagree with her, she said, “I just want to you to be prepared for what you may see. She might be the sweetest woman you’ve met one minute, the next minute she may throw something at us. Or, she may not even acknowledge our existence.”

  “Whatever condition or mood she’s in, Sara, it’s okay. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said.

  “Let’s just hope she’s together enough to remember this guy,” she said, holding up the picture I found in her closet so long ago. I caught a glimpse of the guy, smiling, looking like me. It was fascinating and disgusting and I wished more than anything that I had never found it.

  I turned away and sighed and just hoped to God we’d make it through the day.

  “Mom?” Sara said cautiously. We had taken about two steps into the room, Sara in front of me.

  “Who is it?” I heard a voice ask.

  “It’s Sara, mom,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “I came to see you, and I brought a friend.”

  Sara moved further into the room, and I hung back a few steps. I wanted to give Sara a minute to see what her mother’s mood was like, since I already felt totally out of place.

  “Sara? I don’t know any Sara,” her mother responded.

  Sara turned back and waved me forward. I stepped in slowly, not wanting to aggravate the situation by my very presence, which I already sort of felt like I was doing.

  What Sara had told me in the car prepared me for nearly everything, but I was still caught off guard by how young-looking her mother was. If I had seen her on the street, I wouldn’t have guessed she was older than 40. She looked young, and very much like Sara.

  Her face was only slightly wrinkled, and her pale green eyes were carbon copies of Sara’s. She had thick, dark hair, with no visible gray. Her skin was pale, and she looked incredibly tired, as though she
had been awake for several days (which I guess was possible), but she wasn’t what I had expected at all.

  I guess I had expected a doddering old woman, frail and shriveled up, with thin white hair and age spots all over her skin. I suppose my mind had been confused due to the fact that, even though Sara had told me she was only 60, I expected all Alzheimer’s patients to look like centuries-old people. It was just another sign of how little I really knew about anything.

  It was a nice room, though, as far as I knew, anyway, having never been into an Alzheimer’s patient’s room. The walls were painted a pale pink color, and the floor was covered with a cream-colored carpet. There was a twin bed, with hospital railing along the side and a handset hanging on the rail, which I assumed controlled the bed settings and signaled the on-duty nurse. Next to the bed was a wooden nightstand with a lamp and a framed picture of someone, though I couldn’t tell who. The wall opposite the bed had a large window with white curtains drawn; I could see a large, grassy lawn through the window. Her mother was sitting in a chair, staring out the window when we walked in. She wore a white robe with her initials, ‘MD’ embroidered over her heart in red lettering.

  Sara’s mother looked at her, cautiously, as though she were frightened. There seemed to be no hint of recognition in her eyes, no trace of a motherly love for the girl standing in front of her. There was suspicion and apprehension.

  “Can I help you?” she asked Sara.

  “It’s me, mom…Sara. I know you remember me, ‘cause I’m your little girl,” Sara said, and she actually sounded younger when she said it. I could have closed my eyes and actually thought there was a little girl in the room with me.

  “My little…” Sara’s mother trailed off. She continued her gaze at Sara, and her forehead wrinkled a little bit, as though she were trying to remember something. I felt slightly uncomfortable and wondered if I belonged here.

  Quit being a chickenshit, Adam-boy. This is the love of your life’s mother, for Christ’s sake.

  Sara took her mother’s hand into both of her own, sitting on the bed across from where her mother sat in the chair by the window.

  “Yeah, mom, it’s me,” Sara said.

  The corners of Maggie’s mouth turned up in a small smile, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. Her eyes darted to me, and the apprehension returned.

  “Who is that man? Who is he?” she cried suddenly, sounding frightened.

  Sara had told me that paranoia was a problem in Alzheimer’s patients. I smiled, in an attempt to relax her, but the smile felt forced to me, and I realized that it probably looked awful. I abandoned it and chose to introduce myself.

  “Hi, Ms. DuBeau,” I said. “My name is Adam, and I’m friends with your little girl Sara.”

  Sara glanced back at me, smiling, and I wondered if maybe I had talked too slowly. I didn’t really know how to talk, to be honest. I didn’t know if she would comprehend what I said if I spoke normally or not, so I tried to talk slowly and with a bit more volume than my normal mumbles.

  “Sara? Sara is here,” she said, as though answering a question. She looked away from me and at Sara.

  “Yes, mom, I am here,” Sara said.

  “Hi, dear,” said her mother. She looked at Sara with what might have been some sort of recognition. I felt encouraged by the look; I hoped Sara felt the same way.

  “How have you been, mom?”

  “They took my cat,” she answered, looking down in her lap, which was empty.

  “They did?” Sara asked in an exaggerated voice. “Now why would they do that?”

  “They hate my cat, they say it pees on the floor everywhere,” she replied. “That cat was trained to use the litter box.”

  “Yes, it was,” Sara agreed. She stood up, and walked over to where the television sat on a wooden dresser, and picked up a small stuffed cat that sat on top of the television. It was a small, white cat. The fur was either supposed to be white with gray streaks on its head and back, or it was stained from too much handling, I couldn’t tell which.

  “Here’s your cat, mom,” Sara placed the stuffed toy in her mother’s lap. I realized that they had apparently been through the cat routine before.

  Her mother looked down at the cat for a long time; I thought she might have fallen asleep. I still felt uncomfortable in the room; as much as I loved and wanted to support Sara, I secretly hoped that we wouldn’t be staying long.

  “Here’s my cat, little girl,” she said, picking her head up and looking at Sara. Then she looked in my direction, over Sara’s shoulder, and asked me, “Sir, would you like to pet my cat?”

  I hesitated for a second, unsure of what to say.

  “Um, sure, I’d love to,” I said, moving to the other side of the room. I moved slowly, no sudden movements, for fear I might frighten her. I took it as a good omen that she had opened up to me, a complete stranger, and had asked me to pet her cat.

  I reached the side of her chair and squatted down. I glanced to my left, at Sara, who was smiling, and on the verge of tears, it appeared. How hard must this be for her, seeing her mother like this?

  I reached my hand out slowly, staring at the stuffed cat, which was just slightly stained from being rubbed so much, I concluded. My fingers touched the fur, and I started patting the cat’s back gently.

  I looked at Sara’s mother’s face, which wasn’t nearly as absent as it had been when we first entered the room, and she was smiling at me.

  “Such a pretty cat,” she said, to no one in particular. Then she reached up and rested her hand on the top of my head and said, “And such a pretty boy.”

  I felt my neck and face flush; I was a little embarrassed at being called “pretty,” and I felt like I wanted to laugh. I already knew that it was going to turn into a joke for Sara and I once we got back into the car, but for now I just said, “Well, thank you, Ms. DuBeau.”

  “And so polite,” she added. My blush continued; I felt like a little kid.

  “Mom,” Sara said. I looked at her, and she was digging in her purse.

  Her hand left my head, and she turned in her chair, seeming suddenly oblivious to my presence. I stood up, listening to my knees pop, and backed up a step, leaning my back against the wall.

  The picture emerged from Sara’s purse, held between her long, tan fingers. Sara fingers.

  And suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt like telling Sara, “No!” I felt like snatching the picture from her fingers and running. The last thing I wanted was to show that picture to Sara’s mother. I didn’t know if it was fear of what she might say about the picture, or if it was worry that we might upset her, but it didn’t feel right.

  I looked at Sara, who wasn’t looking at me, but at her mother. I opened my eyes wide, and tried to shake my head no, but I couldn’t. We had traveled so far for some kind of answers, for some kind of resolution to this mysterious triangle that had formed between Sara, me, and an unknown man in a picture. We couldn’t stop now.

  The man in the picture looked so much like me, and he had abused Sara. What if this sick bastard did turn out to be some sort of blood relative of mine? How would I deal with the fact that he had molested the woman I love? I started feeling nauseous standing there.

  Would Sara hate me if it turned out that the man was my father? My brother? My uncle? Would she turn her anger, her rightly deserved bitterness, on me? Would this be the end of the mystery, or the end of Sara and I?

  I walked over to the dresser, which was just the right height for me to sit on. My stomach tightened in anticipation as I heard Sara say, “Do you know who these people are?”

  Sara’s mother took the picture from her and studied it, squinting slightly.

  “No, I don’t know who these people are,” she said after a moment, and I almost collapsed to the floor, relieved. More than ever, I wanted to believe that ignorance was, indeed, bliss.

  “I’m blind as a bat without my glasses,” she told Sara. “Do you know where my glasses are?”

&n
bsp; I looked on the dresser, and just behind me lay a pair of glasses. I picked them up, almost reluctantly, and handed them to her. She put them on slowly, adjusting them on her face.

  “That’s better,” she said, looking back at the photograph.

  She didn’t say anything for a long time. I glanced at Sara, who returned my glance with a confused look of her own. We sat like that, very quiet, for almost five minutes.

  “Mom?” Sara finally said.

  “Hmm?” she responded.

  “Do you know who the people in the picture are?”

  “Picture,” she repeated, as though it was the first time she had heard the word.

  Sara gently took her mother’s wrist in her hand and moved the picture into her mother’s line of sight.

  “Picture,” she said, again, smiling. “This was such a nice day.”

  I shifted a little on the dresser, and Sara leaned in closer.

  “What can you tell us about the picture?”

  “It’s a nice one,” Ms. DuBeau said.

  “Mom…” Sara started.

  “It was on Evergreen Road,” her mother interrupted.

  “Do you know the man in the picture?” Sara asked.

  I swallowed slowly, hearing the sound of it in my head. It sounded like a wave crashing.

  “Who’s that pretty little girl?” Sara’s mother asked.

  “Evergreen Road, mom. That’s me,” Sara said. I started catching a hint of frustration in her voice.

  Patience, Sara, patience, I thought to myself.

  “That’s Sara,” her mother said.

  “Yes…” Sara started.

  “Sara is here,” she said.

  “I’m here, mom. Do you know—“

  “Sara and Frank,” she said. “Sara loved that man.” She stroked the stuffed cat in her lap with her free hand.

  “Frank?” Sara asked. “Is that the man’s name?”

  “Frank used to come over and play with Sara all the time when Sara was a little girl.”

  “What did Sara call Frank, mom? Did she call him Frank?”