by Jane Peart
She hadn’t wanted to go during his regular office hours. In order for the doctor to see a reasonable number of patients, the patient flow had to be kept moving. Conscious of the necessity of keeping each visit to twenty minutes, the nurse moved patients quickly from waiting room to examining room. To avoid this, Coryn requested an after-hours appointment. When the doctor’s secretary had attempted to elicit the nature of the visit, Coryn had used her most assertive tone. “It’s a personal matter. I’m sure if you give Dr. Iverson my name and tell him that I’ll come at the most convenient time for him after his last appointment, he will see me.”
She was put on hold, and a few minutes later the secretary came back on the line. “If you can be here at five fifteen sharp, Dr. Iverson will see you.”
Long before it was time for her to leave the house and drive downtown, Coryn was dressed and ready to go. Wondering how to fill up the time before she had to leave, she paced restlessly. Then the phone rang. She grabbed it on the second ring. In reply to her greeting she heard Mark’s voice.
“Coryn?”
For him to call today, of all days was a shock. After all the days she had hoped and waited in vain for his call coming now was an anti-climax. That encounter in the supermarket had hurt badly. But she had already accepted that their brief romance was over. Regretted it, but had determined to recover. Instinctively, she steeled herself from letting her hopes be stirred up again.
“Coryn, I’ve been thinking about you, thought about calling several times, but—” he broke off, then, “What I’m calling about is that I’d like to see you. I want to see you. I feel—I mean I know I owe you an explanation—”
Coryn cut in. “Not at all, Mark,” her voice sounding sharper than she intended. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I feel I do,” he said firmly, quietly. “Could we meet? I’d like a chance to talk.”
She hesitated. Why was he starting this up again? Mixed feelings churned. Why now when she was just getting over him? She hesitated. His voice came again, “Please, Coryn, it’s important.”
“Well,” she still hesitated. Why put herself through another emotional scene? Yet, something within her wanted to hear what Mark had to say, what kind of explanation, excuse was he going to give. What harm was there in that? “I have an appointment downtown at five,” she countered.
He jumped at that. “Great. Then we could meet at the little espresso place on the square.”
She knew the one he was talking about. They’d met there before. It was right across from the newspaper. The Medical Arts building where Dr. Iverson’s office was close by.
“All right. In about an hour?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks,” Mark said and hung up.
To her chagrin she arrived first. She found a table and sat down. Out the window she could see the front of the newspaper building. She could also see children playing around the fountain in the middle of the square, young mothers pushing strollers, couples walking hand in hand. Watching, she felt a thrust of nostalgia, a yearning to somehow trade places with any of them, a deep longing for something she had never had, possibly never would…
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Something came up just as I was leaving—”
Startled, she looked up. It was Mark. His hair was windblown, his tie askew, the collar of his corduroy jacket turned up.
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll get our coffee,” he said and walked over to the counter.
Coryn turned away, looked out the window again. The couple she had seen before were kissing. She felt a hard lump in her throat. Why had she come here? Why put herself through whatever Mark was going to say? Could she just get up and walk out? Leave before he came back to the table?
She heard the hiss of the espresso machine, smelled the warm scent of coffee, chocolate, cinnamon.
“Here we go.” Mark was back, carefully placing the glass cup in its metal holder, containing the fragrant foamy brew, in front of her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said in a low voice. “I really wanted to talk to you—needed to.”
“It wasn’t necessary, Mark, I told you on the phone.”
“Look, Coryn, allow me this. It may not seem necessary to you but it is to me. I feel I’ve let you down and it wasn’t fair because it had nothing to do with you. It was me. My fault.” He paused, lowered his voice. “So that you understand, I have to go back to when Shari died. That first year afterward was rough going for both Ginny and me. I was so devastated, I wasn’t much good for anything, mostly not for her as the parent she needed so desperately. When the shock started to wear off and I got myself together again, I decided to make her my priority in life. Concentrate on being a good father-being everything to her. We had a shaky start but finally we somehow got our life together. We moved up here and a kind of pattern was established. I began to think I had to stay the course, so to speak. To add another factor—a third person into our life wouldn’t be a good idea.” Mark’s hands were clenched together on the table, so tightly the knuckles were pale. “That’s why, when I found myself attracted to you. I got scared—asked myself was I ready? Was Ginny ready? Relationships take time, concentration, to build, develop—” he sighed heavily, “That’s what I wanted to explain. It had nothing to do with you, actually. You’ve been wonderful. Ginny is crazy about you. She asks about you all the time. Then, when we saw you in the supermarket that day, I realized…I’d let you down. Hurt you without meaning to. And I’m sorry, Coryn. I’m truly…”
Coryn felt her heart throbbing in her throat. She couldn’t take any more of this. It was too late for Mark to be telling her all this. Too late for his apologies, however heartfelt. She didn’t need to hear them. Not now. She gathered up her purse and said, “Mark, I have to go. I have an appointment-” she got up and he put his hand on her arm.
“Wait, Coryn, do you understand what I’m saying?”
She shook her head. “Mark, my life is very complicated right now. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She rushed out of the café and outside the brisk wind was cold and she shivered. Her vision blurred by unshed tears, she walked quickly toward the Medical Arts building.
It was all just too much. There might have been a time, not too long ago when she could have listened, accepted what he was saying, but not now. She had enough to deal with.
She had to focus on her mother now and get to the bottom of this mystery. She pushed through the glass doors of the medical office building, she pushed aside all thoughts of Mark. She hurried through the lobby and caught an elevator before its doors were about to close.
When Coryn arrived at Dr. Iverson’s office the waiting room was empty. She could see his office staff behind the glass enclosure turning off computers, putting folders into file cabinets, clearing off their desks. Nervously, Coryn sat down, automatically straightened some magazines on the low table in front of it.
Soon, the door opened and Dr. Iverson, wearing a white lab jacket, stuck his head in. “Hello, Coryn, come on in.”
Roger Iverson was a tall, lean man with a deeply lined face, thick steel-gray hair, kind eyes behind rimless glasses. He held the door for her and she entered the hallway that led to his office at the end. Someone called his name, and he stopped to sign something on a clipboard one of the nurses brought to him. “Good night, Doctor,” she said, and gave Coryn a curious glance before retracing her steps to the glass-enclosed space.
Dr. Iverson shut the office door and indicated the leather armchair opposite his desk. “Sit down, Coryn. I’m glad you came. It’s about your mother, isn’t it?”
Coryn’s heart gave a surprised little jump. She nodded as Dr. Iverson settled his tall frame in the swivel chair behind his desk. She watched as he reached for a manila folder, placed it in front of him and opened it Then he clasped his hands together and looked over at her.
Coryn swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Instinctively she knew that whatever he was about to say would change things forever.
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So she began to talk, chatter really, as if to delay what eventually he was going to tell her. “Yes, Dr. Iverson. Since I’ve come home, I’ve noticed some changes in her that are puzzling, so unlike her. I mean, she seems confused, uncertain, forgetful. I think she’s depressed, she’s not herself at all. I just thought maybe you could give her something that might help—a prescription or—maybe she should see a psychiatrist…” Coryn’s voice trailed off faintly as Dr. Iverson’s gaze met hers steadily.
He shook his head slowly. “Your mother doesn’t need a psychiatrist, Coryn. If it would help, I would have suggested it. Normally, I wouldn’t disclose this kind of information without a patient’s permission. But I’ve known your family for so long. And knowing the type of person your mother is, perhaps I should tell you everything.”
“Tell me what, Doctor?” Coryn pressed him.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we’ve already made some tests. She came to me herself several months ago. She didn’t want Neil to know but she was worried about herself. Although she tried to downplay the situation. You know how Clare is. She even made it sound slightly humorous…mentioning her forgetfulness, some incident or other that was funny—if it weren’t so symptomatic of what her trouble is.”
Coryn sat forward in her chair. “And that is?”
“Your mother is in the initial stages of Alzheimer’s.”
“Alzheimer’s,” Coryn repeated woodenly.
“You must have heard or read about it.”
She had, of course. Alzheimer’s. The disease of a former president and a glamorous movie star of the fifties. But it was an old people’s disease. Her mother was barely fifty. An image of vague eyes, tottering people on walkers or in wheelchairs, heads drooping, bodies slumped. The image had no connection with her beautiful mother.
While Coryn sat frozen, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, Dr. Iverson’s voice went on as if coming from a long distance.
“Alzheimer’s is a progressive disease. It is, so far, incurable. The patient deteriorates to the point of being helpless. Unable to remember places, events, people. Unable to even recognize family members, or dress or feed themselves.” He hesitated, then said, “This is hard for me to tell you, Coryn. I tried to talk to Neil about it not long ago. But he is in denial. He doesn’t want to hear this. No one could blame him. It isn’t the kind of diagnosis a doctor wants to give to a family. Especially not to friends. I’ve known Clare as long as I’ve known you.” Dr. Iverson shook his head. “He has to know, Coryn. He has to be told and he has to accept it. I guess it’s up to you.”
Her lips pressed close together, she nodded. “What can I do?”
“I suggest you learn as much as you can about this disease. That way you’ll know what is ahead for you as your mother’s condition worsens. At least it will prepare you for what to look for, what to expect. And you can help your father.”
It was already dark when Coryn left Dr. Iverson’s office. She drove slowly, but when she nearly turned twice into a one-way street, she knew she shouldn’t be driving at all in her state of mind. She pulled to the side of the road and sat there for a few minutes taking deep breaths. It was all so unreal. And yet it was happening. She had to go home, somehow tell her father.
After a while she turned on the engine, started her car and drove the rest of the way home.
Coming into the house she saw the light in her father’s den. The rest of the house was in darkness. She walked through the house turning on lamps as she went. At his den door she halted.
“Dad? Anything wrong?” the words were out of her mouth before she realized she’d said them. Momentarily she forgot she was the one with the bad news.
Her father lifted his head from his desk. His face was drawn, his eyes were circled with shadows, the lines around his mouth seemed to have deepened since she had seen him that morning.
“Hello, honey. You’re late. Been shopping?” He tried a smile.
She shook her head. “Where’s Mom?”
“Oh, she had a slight headache. Went up to bed.”
Coryn felt she had to sit down. Her legs seemed suddenly to have lost their strength.
Her father looked at her, frowning. “What is it? You look—I don’t know—worried.”
“Dad, I have something to tell you. Something you have to know,” she said. “I’ve just come from Dr. Iverson’s office and—”
“You’re not sick, are you?” her father asked, concerned.
“No, Dad, not me. It’s Mother I went to see him about. Surely you’ve noticed that there have been changes. Things you’ve mentioned yourself, like her leaving the stove burners on, that sort of thing. Well, she’s sick, Dad. Very sick. Seriously sick.”
He closed his eyes, looking pained.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Dad.” Coryn’s voice broke. “But it’s something we can’t deny any longer.”
“I know.” Her father spoke heavily. “I guess I’ve known for months, just didn’t want to admit it was anything but may be…a woman her age goes through changes.”
“It’s more than that, Dad. It’s Alzheimer’s. Dr. Iverson confirmed it. We can’t ignore it.”
Her father rubbed his hand across his forehead wearily and then, almost as if speaking to himself, he said, “One day a few months ago, before Thanksgiving, before you came home, she went out to do some errands…ordinary things, things she’s always done, grocery shopping, taking clothes to the cleaners, getting gas for her car—” He halted, his expression was anguished. “Mike, at the service station, told me that not fifteen minutes after he’d filled her tank, checked the oil and tires, she came back. Evidently didn’t remember she’d already been there. He made a joke of it. But I tell you, Coryn, it made my heart stop. She shouldn’t be driving in her condition.
“Then, coming home one evening and finding her still in her bathrobe, sitting at the table in the kitchen staring out the window, the breakfast dishes still on the table. When she saw me, she was amazed…what was I doing home? She couldn’t believe it was five o’clock. The whole day had passed and she wasn’t even aware of it.
“I wrestled with that incident not knowing exactly what to think or do.” He got up and started pacing. “I didn’t want to alarm her. Every time something like that happened, she got so upset, apologetic…as though it were her fault, as if I were blaming her. I thought with you here, things would get better. That maybe she felt isolated, useless, lonely in this big house…you know, the empty-nest syndrome. Maybe, that she was depressed.”
“I suggested that to Dr. Iverson,” Coryn interrupted. “Asked him if seeing a psychiatrist might help, but he said—” Her father stopped pacing and looked directly at her. Hope seemed to leap into his eyes. Coryn shook her head slightly. “He told me a psychiatrist can’t help Alzheimer’s victims. It’s a disease of the central nervous system. Not emotional. psychotic or neurotic.” Coryn bit her lower lip, struggling to go on. “She won’t get any better, she’ll get steadily worse. She won’t recognize us…”
Her father sat down again, put his head in his hands. “Oh, no dear God, no!” Then he mumbled, “Is Dr. Iverson sure?”
“Yes, Dad. There isn’t any doubt.”
Her father’s face seemed to crumble, and he buried his head in his hands again. Hearing the wracking sobs, seeing the broad shoulders shake, Coryn watched helplessly. She had never heard a man cry before. Certainly not her father. It was heartwrenching. It was something she would never forget.
Tears ran down her own cheeks. She reached out her hand and placed it on his arm. “Dad, I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”
He groped for her hand, clutched it. “I can’t go through this alone, Coryn. I need you. Will you stay? Help me through this?”
“Yes, Dad, of course. I’ll do whatever I can.” Coryn tried to sound reassuring. She knew she was walking into a dark tunnel the end of which she couldn’t see, even if there might be a light there.
They talked qui
etly for a half hour or so. Her father looked so drained, so weary, Coryn persuaded him he should go to bed, get some rest.
As he left, she gave him a hug, patted his shoulder. “Try not to worry too much, Dad. I’ll be here for Mom—for both of you…”
“I know you will, sweetheart. I appreciate that.”
Coryn watched him cross the hall to the foot of the stairway. His step was slow, his shoulders sagged visibly. She realized she was holding her breath.
She turned back into the room. The fire in the hearth sputtered, the logs crumbled to a blaze of glowing embers. Dr. Iverson had finally answered Coryn’s questions about her mother’s behavior. But it was not the answer she’d wanted to hear.
“I can’t go through this alone, Coryn,” her father had said. But could she really help? She desperately needed someone to talk with about this awful thing that had attacked her mother, invaded their family life.
The thought of Mark came to her but just as quickly left. Not now. If things had worked out for them it might be different. He had known tragedy himself, would understand. Even as that possibility fleetingly came and went, the words of an old country song came into her mind. A plaintive ballad they all used to sing in the car on their way to go camping when she was a child. Her dad would put on a throbbing twang as he sang it. The lyrics spoke so poignantly about walking in a lonesome valley. Walking it by yourself.
Did everyone have to walk some lonesome valley by themselves in life? Was this hers?
Chapter Seventeen
A week later, on a cold, rainy night, Coryn and her parents were just finishing dinner, when the phone rang. Neil answered it. “I see. In about twenty minutes? Sure, that will be fine.” Her father put down the receiver and came back to the table with an odd expression on his face. “That was Mark Emery. He asked if he could come over this evening.”
“I think he wants to interview you,” Coryn said, feeling guilty she’d forgotten to mention that to her father. Since that painfully awkward incident at the supermarket and her meeting with Dr. Iverson, she’d had other things on her mind. “He said something about wanting to when we saw him at the inn the other evening.” She glanced at her mother for confirmation. But she was rearranging the flowers in the centerpiece, not paying attention to this exchange between her husband and daughter. Her father frowned. “Maybe it’s something Glenn set up.”