"We've got Special K, Cheerios, and Fruit Loops." Mom motions to them as if she's presenting a gourmet menu. "I hope you like one of those."
I grab the box of Special K. "My favorite."
"Oh good. I would have cooked something hot, but the stove is broken."
Dad pats her hand. "We're thankful for whatever you serve us."
"You're so sweet." She smiles at him and points at the paper. "What's new in the world today?"
As Dad tells her about current events that won't matter to her in a few hours, I glance at the stove. It's an older model, the kind with knobs instead of push buttons. And all the knobs are gone. Every one of them.
Now I see the other things that should be in this kitchen but aren't. The knife block. The can opener. Even the toaster. All too much of a hazard to leave where Mom can get to them.
Tears pool in my eyes, but I blink them away and look down at my bowl before they can spill over. I'm glad Lindsay's still upstairs. I wish I was back there too. Back in the rickety futon, burrowed under the stuffy oblivion of the covers where I could sleep and sleep and sleep.
35
By the time Lindsay makes her way downstairs, there's no evidence of our breakfast drama. The dishes have been cleared, the cereal boxes put away. Dad and I sit at the table, each with a cup of coffee and a section of the paper he finally cracked open.
Lindsay shuffles in and sits between us, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Dad says. "You hungry?"
"Always. What's for breakfast?" She looks around, as if a waitress will magically appear and present her with a combo platter.
"How do eggs and toast sound?"
"Good."
"Coming right up."
Dad starts to scoot his chair back, but I wave for him to stop. "I've got it." After nearly three weeks and innumerable breakfast orders, I know how Lindsay likes her eggs. Besides, if I take care of Lindsay, there's less of a chance Dad will ask me to help with Mom. At least, that's what I hope.
As I stand up, Lindsay reaches over and grabs my mug. "You can't drink that," I say. "It's caffeinated."
"I know. I just want to smell it." Cupping her hands around the mug, she holds it below her nose and takes a deep breath. "Ah, sweet coffee. How I miss you."
"I can make you a cup of instant decaf," Dad offers.
Lindsay makes a face.
I take a carton of milk from the fridge, pour a tall glass, and set it in front of her. "She hates instant."
"Yes, I do. And I'm starting to hate milk too."
"But your baby loves it." I give her a wink, then start opening cupboards. I find a frying pan. I find a plastic plate. I even find a spatula. But there's one very important thing missing. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me you still have a toaster."
"It's on the top shelf of the pantry."
The white slatted doors squeak as I slide them apart. Sure enough, there it is on the top shelf, along with all the other questionable kitchen implements.
"Why did you hide the toaster?" Lindsay asks.
"It's funny, really."
As soon as he says that, I know it won't be funny. It will be sad and depressing, and I wish he'd keep it to himself. But he continues.
"You know how your mother likes her toast crunchy. Well, she thought it might turn out better if she buttered it before she toasted it. The way you do with a grilled cheese sandwich." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Of course, the butter dripped off the bread and burned as soon as it hit the coils. The kitchen was so smoky it set off the smoke detectors."
"So you hid the toaster? Because of one mistake?" Lindsay shakes her head. "That's pretty harsh."
"No," Dad answers, fingering the rim of his coffee cup. "I hid the toaster because she forgot what happened and she did it again. And again. After the third time of the siren blaring and her cowering in the corner with her hands over her ears . . . that's when I hid it."
"Oh."
I need to make Lindsay's breakfast quick. The sooner I put food in front of her, the better. But I've got another problem.
"Is there a way to turn on this stove?"
Dad points above my head. "Knobs are in that top cupboard."
"I don't get it," I say, taking a knob down and fitting it back onto the front of the stove. "What's to keep her from taking any of this stuff down herself?"
"Heights make her nervous. To her, those top shelves don't even exist."
I don't know what to say. Instead, I pour all my concentration into cooking. Spray oil in the pan. Turn on the burner. Crack eggs into a bowl and whisk with a little milk.
Behind me, Lindsay does what I can't. She takes Dad's hand in both of hers and looks him in the eye. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I want to be supportive, but I keep saying and doing the wrong things. I just don't understand any of this."
"You're not the only one. I don't understand much of it myself." He sniffs and has to pull his hand back so he can grab a napkin and blow his nose. "Even the experts, the ones who are supposed to tell us what to do, don't have a lot of answers. Mostly, they make educated guesses."
"Then we'll figure it out together." Lindsay says. She looks up at me as I bring her plate of scrambled eggs and toast to the table. "Right, Natalie?"
Together.
"Right."
For better or worse, we're all in this together.
36
Over the next few days, our family settles into an uneven rhythm. Thankfully, Mom is uninterested in cooking anything other than breakfast, so Dad and I take turns. As hard as it must be for her, Lindsay makes a point of eating lunch and dinner with us. I appreciate her effort, so when I realize that Ben plans to come over every afternoon, I don't make a fuss. Besides, I'd much rather have him here where I can keep an eye on the two of them.
What I want most is to sit down and have a long talk with Dad. I want more details about Mom's condition and what we should be doing. I want to know what to expect in the future. And I want to know how he's holding up. He presents a good front, but he's probably a big ball of stress on the inside. Every time I bring up the subject, though, we're interrupted. Usually, it's because Mom needs something, and since we can't talk in front of her, and we can't leave her alone, a lot has gone unsaid.
Out of desperation, I turn to the Internet.
For the first time since we arrived, I venture into the room Dad uses as an office. As I sit in his desk chair, a sense of peace washes over me. Back when I still thought people wanted to read what I wrote, I spent most of my working hours pounding the keys. It's been more than three weeks since I basked in the monitor's artificial glow, so this is almost like a homecoming.
I type "Alzheimer's" into a search engine and am rewarded with more results than I could read in my lifetime. There's certainly no shortage of places offering information. The problem is that so much of it is general. Phrases like Patients may experience and some symptoms may include fill the screen.
Clicking from site to site, I hope to find something specific. I read about plaques and tangles, which are thought to damage and kill nerve cells in the brain. But then I read that researchers don't really know what role they play with the disease. I find details about the changes that occur in the brain, but also read that scientists haven't been able to pinpoint what causes those changes.
Now I start clicking random links, hoping I'll accidentally stumble across something helpful. It doesn't take me long to follow a rabbit trail of links far away from my original purpose. Treatment turns to diagnosis, which turns to risk factors, which turns to heredity. And that link leads me straight to fear.
A person whose parent, sibling, or child has Alzheimer's is at greater risk of developing the disease. With each affected family member, the risk increases.
Mom has it. Grandma had it. Great-grandma most likely had it. How many generations back does this curse stretch? And how far forward will it extend? Will I get it? Will my sister? And what about he
r baby? With all my heart, I hope she has a boy, despite my earlier misgivings. Not that males don't get Alzheimer's. It just doesn't seem to work that way in our family.
Discouragement settles around my shoulders like a mothball-infused shawl. All I want to do now is turn off the computer and try to forget everything I've just read. But then I see a link for Prevention. If they don't know what causes it, how can they know how to prevent it? It's probably just more bad news, like one sentence in the middle of the page, screaming There is no way to prevent this! Deal with it!
I click it anyway. It starts out pretty much like I expected, only nicer. It's not known whether or not Alzheimer's can be prevented. But then it goes on to talk about how to lessen the risks. It's mostly commonsense-type stuff, like a healthy diet, exercise, and taking care of your heart. But there are other things I hadn't thought of, like keeping your mind active and challenged, maintaining social and emotional connections with friends and family, and engaging in some sort of community faith experience. I've been falling down on all of that lately.
A strategy starts to formulate in my head, accompanied by abridged bits of Scripture. I have a plan for you, says the Lord . . . Whatever is good, think on these things . . .
I click the print button. As pages whir out of the printer, I navigate to another page and click a PDF link. The Caring for Someone with Alzheimer's publication is long, but I print it anyway. I can always buy Dad more paper and ink.
"What are you doing?" Lindsay stands in the doorway.
"Research. What's up?"
"I need to run an errand, but Dad won't leave Mom alone, and she's watching Lucy. Again." She leans her head against the door frame. "Can I borrow your car?"
I pull the pages from the printer and straighten them out, pounding the edges against the top of the desk. "I was just getting ready to go out myself. We can go together." She doesn't look too happy with my idea, which immediately makes me suspicious. "Where do you need to go?"
"To see Ben."
I should have known. "No way."
"You are such a hypocrite." She shoves away from the door and propels herself into the room. "You talk about forgiveness and giving people a second chance, but you don't do it yourself."
While I used to talk about forgiveness all the time, I haven't done it lately. Not since my husband did the unforgivable. So it's a little surprising to have her throw it in my face. "There's a difference between being forgiving and being stupid."
"I am not stupid."
"I didn't say you are."
"You just did."
I sigh. Are we ever going to get along like real sisters? Or is that what we're doing now? Do all sisters fight like we do? "What I meant was, it would be stupid of me to take you to see a man that I don't trust."
"But I trust him. It's my decision and my life. You can't control me, you know."
"I know. But unfortunately for you, I control the car."
She doesn't argue on that point. Instead, her lip begins to quiver and she looks down at the floor. "Fine."
As she turns to leave the room, a delayed pang of guilt zaps me. She was right about the forgiveness thing. But I was right too.
"Wait."
She looks over her shoulder, ready to keep on going if I don't say what she wants to hear.
"How about a compromise?"
Now she turns completely around to face me. "Like what?"
"Call Ben and tell him to meet you at the coffee shop in Old Town." It's the first place I think of where they can sit and talk but still be around other people. And if we happen to see Adam, that wouldn't be a bad thing. He can help keep Ben in line.
Lindsay considers my offer, then leans over the chair and hugs me. "Thank you." She dashes out, calling behind her, "I'll meet you downstairs."
Just like that, she's happy with me again. I'd like to blame her wild fluctuations of mood on the fact that she's pregnant, but I have a feeling this is just Lindsay being Lindsay.
Picking up my pages, I smile. It's taken twenty-five years, but I'm finally getting to know my little sister. What a challenge. What a blessing.
37
Unlike the first time I was here, the coffee shop is packed. Still, it only takes a second for Lindsay and Ben to find each other. He stands up and motions her to his table. She runs to him, and they embrace as though he's a returning war hero.
They're drawing a wee bit of attention, the oh-isn't-that-sweet kind. To look at them, they could be any young couple, deeply in love and excited about the birth of their first baby. If only. The truth of their relationship sits like cement in the pit of my stomach.
"I knew you'd come back." Adam stands next to me, his hands full of empty cups, paper plates, and napkins.
Blush heats my cheeks. "Oh really? Why's that?"
"We're the best coffee shop in town."
I laugh. "As far as I can tell, you're the only coffee shop in town. On this side, anyway."
"Which is why we're the best." He motions sideways with his head. "Follow me."
He walks behind the counter, throws away the trash, then leans over in my direction. "So what'll it be? Iced latte, or are you in the mood for something different?"
The fact that he remembered my drink both surprises and pleases me. And the fact that it pleases me bothers me. "I'm not staying." When he doesn't answer, I continue. "I just brought my sister here to meet her boyfriend."
Looking over my shoulder, I see they're engrossed in conversation. He laughs at something she said, then reaches out. His palm nears her face and I flinch, my jaw set. But all he does is cup her cheek in a gentle caress. Another move that would look completely innocuous to an uninformed observer.
Adam clears his throat. "I take it you don't approve."
"Is it that obvious?"
"I'm extremely good at reading people."
"Goes with the job, huh?"
He shrugs. "It's a gift. Like mind reading."
"I see," I say with a chuckle. He has a quality about him that's so genuine, so bright, I feel like I'm talking to an old friend. Someone I can trust. "Listen, you don't know me from . . . anybody. But would you do me a favor?"
"Depends. What is it?"
"I've got some shopping to do. While I'm gone, would you keep an eye on them?"
He opens the back of the pastry case and starts moving things around. "What am I looking for?"
There's no way I can go into all the details. "You'll know it if you see it. Just use that gift of yours."
"Okay. But on one condition."
"What?"
"One day, soon, you'll sit down with me and we'll have a conversation."
"Why?"
"I want to get to know you better."
Did he just ask me on a date? It's been so long, I don't remember what it feels like. Hope rises up in me, but I quickly squash it and blurt out, "I'm married."
"Good to know." He closes the case and wipes his hands on a paper towel. "So, do we have a deal?"
Do we? I look back at Lindsay, then at Adam. "Okay." What did I just agree to?
He grins. "Good. Now, if you're going shopping, you should take one of these." He thrusts a sheet of paper at me. "Most of the Old Town merchants have coupons on there. Hopefully, they'll come in handy."
"Thanks." I fold the paper and put it in my purse. Maybe I totally misread him. Maybe he's just a very good salesman. Yes, that's probably all his attention was: a sales ploy.
He smiles and moves down the counter where a customer is waiting to order. That's my cue to go. I stop over at Lindsay's table. She doesn't notice me until I put my hand on her shoulder.
"It's not time to go already, is it?"
"No. I'm going to do my shopping, then come back and get you. I'll be about an hour. Will you be all right?"
She rolls her eyes at me. "Of course."
"Okay. I'll meet you right back here." I catch Ben's eye and hold it. "Right here." I jab the table with my finger. "Got it?"
He leans back in h
is chair, a smirk twisting up his mouth. "It's a difficult concept, but I think I got it."
Lindsay laughs. So does the man sitting at the table beside them. Gee, I wonder who else in earshot thinks I'm a huge jerk. I muster as much dignity as I can. "Good. I'll see you soon."
On my way to the door, I glance at the counter. Adam's looking at me. He winks and nods his head. We're coconspirators now. But in what?
My shopping takes about half an hour longer than I expected. Entering the coffee shop, I look around at the now mostly empty tables. This shop definitely operates in ebbs and flows.
Ben is sitting at the table where I left him. But Lindsay's not there. I don't see her anywhere. I charge up to Ben. "Where's my sister?"
He raises his head slowly. "Some place where you'll never find her." I feel my eyes bugging out, then he laughs. "She's in the bathroom. Seriously, you have got to relax."
"As long as you're around? Not likely."
"Well, I'm not going anywhere. So you're going to be uptight for a pretty long time."
We stare at each other, neither willing to look away first. Finally, he points across the table. "If you sit down, maybe we can talk about this."
He's the last person I want to sit with. If the world was on the brink of destruction and my sitting with him would stave it off, I'd still have second thoughts. But until Lindsay comes to her senses, I'm going to keep running into him. Maybe now's a good time to draw up some boundary lines.
I sit, pushing the chair back from the table and keeping as much space between us as I can. But I don't say anything.
He leans forward. "I love Lindsay."
"Do you always hit the people you love?"
He presses his lips together, stretches his fingers, then lays his palms flat on the table. "I did not hit her." Each word is said precisely, emphatically, as if each word is its own sentence. "But I understand why you think that. Running into a door is the most clichéd cover there is. But I swear that's what happened. I didn't do what you think I did."
The Mor Road Page 15