A Slender Thread

Margot heard the news that changed everything just after the bus from the airport reached Portsmouth. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. She scanned the parking lot as the driver slowed and brought the bus to a halt. She saw Lacey and waved from the bus window. Her sister didn’t respond; her attention seemed fixed on some distant place, her mind apparently elsewhere. Margot descended the steps and pulled her bag toward the silver Volvo wagon. She called out to Lacey, who smiled abruptly, almost as if she had forgotten why she was there, and then hurriedly came forward to pull Margot into her arms. Margot immediately felt the tension of her New York City life slip away.

“So great to see you,” Margot said, barely containing the silly childhood excitement she always experienced when reunited with her sister. Lacey was her only real family.

“You, too.” Lacey hugged Margot firmly and then pulled back, studied her briefly, and gently drew her hand across Margot’s cheek, a motherly gesture, as if to make sure she was really there. “How’s Oliver?” she asked.

“Complaining about his work. He needs this break.” Margot shrugged, wondering if she would get the “why don’t you guys get married” lecture that Lacey offered periodically. When Margot had bent to kiss him good-bye early that morning, Oliver, still asleep, had put his hand on her neck, the weight of his palm a soundless reminder that he loved her. He was leaving the next day to see his daughter in Atlanta. Margot hoped his trip would take his mind off his worries for a while.

They began the ride out to New Castle, a small town on an island near Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where Lacey and her family lived. It was then, in the car, as they left the C&J Bus Terminal and headed toward the city of Portsmouth, that Lacey told Margot about her symptoms, the visits to doctors, and the diagnosis that would eventually change her life. Margot would think later how odd it was that they both remained so calm. Margot didn’t cry then. Lacey didn’t drive off the road.

“That’s how it started. It’s been a couple of years . . . like this. I’d be talking”—she paused—“and couldn’t come up with a word—something stupid, like I’m going . . . to the post office. I couldn’t say ‘post office.’ Or, Alex . . . Alex would ask me something. I’d open my mouth and nothing would come out. This fall it’s gotten worse.”

Margot remembered thinking that Lacey had seemed distracted the last time they spoke on the phone. She had pictured her sister stirring something on the stove, glancing at a recipe, all the while listening to Margot’s explanation of her travel plans for this Thanksgiving holiday. Perhaps one of Lacey’s twin daughters, Wink or Toni, had been hurrying past, mouthing something silently to her mother at the same time.

Yet Margot’s sister had always been able to do many things at once, a veritable multitasker before the term was invented. She was organized, unflappable, while Margot was the scattered one—searching through her closet at the last minute for the black skirt to wear to some art opening with Oliver, only to remember that it was still at the cleaners and that the pants that also went with the silk top she wanted to wear had caught on her heel the last time she had worn them and the hem of one leg was still undone. Oliver would fidget in front of CNN looking annoyed while she rummaged in the kitchen for Scotch tape to do a temporary repair job.

Lacey stopped at a light. They’d crossed over Route 95, and were driving into Portsmouth. Margot was still foggy from getting up early to make her flight. Lacey’s news was impossible to grasp, inconceivable.

“Lack of sleep, some memory loss, sure, that’s”—Lacey paused—“normal when you’re menopausal. Forgetfulness now and again.” She stopped speaking, as if the telling of this string of ideas was exhausting. “Now it happens every day, several times a day. I thought I had Alzheimer’s.”

“Primary Progressive Aphasia.” Lacey said it like a mantra, as if she had practiced the phrase to be able to say it with ease. These were words she had to know—the words that would come to define her life. She reached into the handbag and handed Margot an index card. “It’s hard for me to explain. Read this,” she said. “I can give you more information later.”

Margot recognized Lacey’s handwriting, though her once large and elegant script looked wobbly on the small card. Perhaps Lacey had still been in shock as she copied out the essential facts that the doctors had told her.

Primary Progressive Aphasia, a form of frontotemporal dementia, is caused by brain cell degeneration. “Aphasia” refers to deficits in language functions. The patient slowly loses the ability to use language—first the use of speech, and later the ability to understand, read, or write. The onset of this form of dementia occurs in younger individuals, the symptoms possibly presenting as early as forty-five years of age.

“It’s fine. Everything in my brain is fine. I understand. I can do everything.” Lacey paused. “Only . . .” Her chin lifted as if in determination. “It’s getting more and more difficult to get the words out.”

For the next few minutes neither sister spoke while Lacey navigated through downtown Portsmouth and onto Pleasant Street. Margot stared out the window, stunned, barely taking in the passing scenery. Portsmouth was an old city, a Colonial settlement, the home of once-prominent ship captains. The Portsmouth harbor was still a working port. Arriving ships bearing loads of salt for the soon-to-be-snow-covered New England roads would depart heaped with loads of scrap metal, the chopped remains of the rusty vehicles that were victims of the salted highways. Red tugboats were moored along the city wharf, rugged and ready to guide the ships through the mouth of the river and pull them to the docks.

The town was filled with stately eighteenth-century mansions, charming clapboard houses, restaurants, and shops, along with a few worn-out taverns that refused to transform themselves to be like their more fashionable twenty-first-century neighbors. Eventually Lacey turned onto Route 1B, the road that would take them out to Lacey and Alex’s home in New Castle.

New Castle, an island reached by bridges and causeways, was a gem of a town, a village really. Since the death of their parents many years before, Margot had been coming to Lacey’s house every Thanksgiving. Lacey, her husband, Alex, and their twin daughters had included Margot in many of their family holidays, though since she’d lived with Oliver, she came less frequently. Thanksgiving was the only holiday Oliver spent with his grown daughter and Margot thought he should have some time alone with her, thus the separate trips.

Margot read the card a second time. “Lacey, this can’t be true.” Margot swallowed and cleared her throat. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t know what to say. The irony of being inarticulate made her feel worse.

“I didn’t think it was serious. Not at first anyway. We weren’t even sure . . . until last week.” Lacey was speaking very carefully. “Alex doesn’t want to believe them.”

“He wants to see more . . . more specialists. Like someone else can fix it. Like it’s a business problem. And he can find”—she swallowed—“the solution.”

They passed the Portsmouth Naval Prison, a huge, gray, decaying monster of a building across the Piscataqua River on their left, abandoned since the 1970s. Since then it had remained empty and silent, but for the rats and seagulls. “He thinks different . . . doctors might come to a different conclusion.”

“He’s not,” Lacey said sharply. Her voice pitched higher. “The top neurologists aren’t going to lie to me.” Her hands gripped the wheel of the car, the beautiful white fingers that loved the feel of yarn, that savored the softness of the fibers she wove into elegant designs. In the near-winter light the skin of her fingers seemed almost translucent, as if the very bones might show through.

“Lacey, I only mean . . .” Margot tried to push away the growing fear inside her. Her mind clattered with questions. She felt like she was sinking underwater, being pulled down into darkness where she could no longer see or hear.

Margot watched her, the strong sister, as she seemed to calm herself, taking slow, even, deep breaths. Lacey’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead and her lips, though pressed together, trembled.

Margot cracked her window. The sharp saltiness of the sea air assaulted her nostrils. The sky was heavy, a pewter tightness, but there was no wind and the temperature was disarmingly mild. This couldn’t be happening to her sister, her lovely older sister, who had turned fifty only last summer.

Margot had come for Lacey’s birthday in August. Alex had had a small dinner party for Lacey, their twin daughters, and their best friends, Kate and Hugh Martin. That night they’d served steamed lobsters, corn on the cob, and champagne. Kate had brought fresh tomatoes from her garden. It had been a perfect evening and the love of family and friends had been palpable.

Oliver had accompanied her on that trip. He was always charming to her nieces and asked them their opinions on art and music as if they were grown-ups. He enjoyed Lacey’s company too, although when he and Margot were alone he complained a bit about the busy schedule she imposed on them—set times for meals, ritual walks, trips to Portsmouth. Though Oliver, an artist, and Alex, a businessman, didn’t share many interests, they joked about their very different lives, making money using opposite sides of their brains.

But on that visit Oliver had been a bit impatient. He was caught up in a new painting. Margot recognized the signs. He would appear to be listening to those around him, looking in the direction of a conversation, nodding periodically in agreement, cocking his head with interest, but she knew from the way his eyes grew darker, the pupils almost shrinking in size, that he was seeing something in the far reaches of his mind, an image or an idea that he couldn’t let go of. He rarely spoke about a painting in the early stages, like a protective parent not wanting to expose an infant child to germs. She knew that when he seemed to be staring into space he was actually looking at colors, shapes, and shadows. He remained polite and cooperative, but she could tell he was eager to return to New York.

The road from Portsmouth to New Castle curved along the water, with clapboard houses clustered intermittently on either side. Those on the left looked out directly at the river and the ocean beyond, vast and gray. Lacey’s mouth was pulled into an angry line. Still, she was beautiful. She had that New England outdoorsy healthiness that makeup or a complicated hairdo would spoil. Today she wore corduroy trousers, a heavy sweater, and a scarf, more like a shawl, pulled around her shoulders. It was a textured fabric, thick and nubby, in colors of turquoise and teal, with flecks of gold, most likely something Lacey had woven herself.

“He acts like everything is normal. Like I said, he’s convinced he can fix it. Except now. You know how he loves riding his . . .” The tendons in Lacey’s neck seemed to tighten, her jaw tensed.

“Yes, his bike.” She seemed to blink back tears, but went on. “He goes out and disappears for hours. Sometimes I think he’s running away. I don’t know what he’ll do when . . .” She swallowed. “When the roads get icy and he can’t ride.”

“But there has to be something you can do,” Margot said. What was happening? Where was modern science, for God’s sake? Hell, they were curing cancer. Her sister was a good person, a wonderful mother, a loving wife. She was an amazing weaver, an artist really. “There’s got to be a cure,” she said. “I don’t know—medicine, surgery.”

“Without an autopsy,” Lacey said, emphasizing each syllable of that brutal word, “there’s no way to . . .” Again she paused, but quickly added, “To know for sure.”

Lacey pulled the car off the side of the road just beyond the New Castle post office. She put the car in park and took her hands off the wheel. They were almost to the house. Lacey drew in a breath and let it out. Still, she didn’t cry. Margot imagined her at the moment she’d received the news. She could picture Lacey and Alex in the car outside Mass General, the huge hospital in Boston. He would have held his wife. Kind, dear Alex, the best of husbands, would have held Lacey tightly as she cried, maybe as they cried together. What thoughts had gone through his mind? Margot reached across and placed her hand on her sister’s arm and waited, knowing that she was about to say something more. She fought back her own urge to weep at the unfairness of it all.

Silence settled between them. The old Colonial houses in the village, painted in dull ocher, faded green, white, and gray, were another world to Margot. It was amazing that only this morning she had taken an elevator down nine floors to the noise and clamor of the Upper West Side. A taxi ride, a shuttle flight, a bus, and now this car, where Lacey had told her the devastating news.

“I can’t tell them. Not yet. They’re waiting to hear about college. They’ve got another round of college boards. Exams coming up.” Lacey uttered this series of facts in short bursts. As she spoke, she slowly lowered her head, burying her chin in the richly textured shawl. “And Toni’s got this boyfriend. He’s older. I’m worried about that.” She turned to face Margot. “Don’t you see? I can’t be sick.”

A sudden flash of something gray, amorphous, slowly eroding like the coastline in a storm, swept into Margot’s mind. She brought her hands to her eyes, no longer able to hold back tears. How could they celebrate the family holiday with this tragedy looming over them? Shock, sadness, and disbelief overwhelmed her, tangling up inside her chest.

Margot rummaged in her bag for a tissue. Lacey handed her one, conveniently stowed in the pocket of her door; then she put the car in gear and looked over her shoulder before easing back onto the road. “Please,” Lacey said. “This time I need you.”

Margot nodded. She wiped at her eyes again, drew her hands into fists, and put them in her lap. She looked outside the car window. Beyond the comforting houses where families would gather for the holiday lay the ocean. Fear, a sickening sensation as heavy and menacing as the water, knotted inside Margot’s chest. Lacey turned the car onto Wiley Road. They were almost home.

Early in the week it had been unseasonably mild, but the temperature had dropped overnight. Late November, the day before Thanksgiving—it was supposed to be cold. Alex bent forward on his bike, his face in the wind. He wanted to do the eighteen miles out to Sandpiper Point. He should have worn a hat. His eyes teared up in the stinging air.

He pedaled harder, curling his body into a deeper crouch. Thanksgiving, thankfulness, thanks. All that he had to be thankful for—his wife, his family, his home—was going to change. A vast uncertainty lay ahead, as if he were trying to follow a route that was off the map.

He would never forget that afternoon in Boston—Dr. Braith-waite in his starched white coat sitting safely behind the mahogany desk as he explained Lacey’s condition. “I’m sure you have questions.” His voice was inviting, though probably underneath, the doctor was eager to have them leave so he could get on to his next tragedy, his next neurological disaster. Fury built in Alex’s chest.

“Mrs. George,” the doctor said, as if his patient was not in the room with them, “may have a few more years when she will be able to articulate her thoughts. Long, complex sentences are already challenging. Gradually shorter utterances, fewer words. Maybe even two or three years without dramatic change. Speech goes first, along with small motor skills, eventually the ability to write. Down the road she’ll need therapy. You’ll both want to develop other strategies for communication. And, of course, eventually she will need total care.”

Strategies were for saving businesses, getting companies back on track. It was what Alex did for a living. So now he would need a strategy to talk to his wife? Counselors, support groups, psychobabble crap. He’d find some other doctor.

Now he pedaled hard in one final burst, then let himself coast along a flat stretch of road. His breath was ragged. Thankfully, last week he had found a research doctor at Harvard who had agreed to see them this afternoon. He was also glad that Margot had come and that Lacey had promised she would tell her sister what was going on.

Alex reached a turnout along the road overlooking the ocean. The sun had come out. The burning in his lungs subsided. He got off his bike and leaned it against a stone wall. The hideous events of the last few weeks pounded in his head. He leaned over, clutching his stomach as if he had been hit, then struggled upright once again. He stared out at the cold ocean, a deep navy blue in the November light. He remembered how it was at Bow Lake in the beginning of the summer: the hot sun on your back, taking that first dive of the season, and the momentary smack of oblivion as you plunged into the icy water.

Oliver Levin’s long legs jammed up against the seat in front of him. The plane had begun its descent into Atlanta. Shifting his weight, he thought about his day at the studio. It had not gone well again today. He had started a new painting, another large one, a scene in Riverside Park of an old man with his dog staring out at the Hudson River. He wanted to paint that elusive moment just before dark when it was still light but on the verge of night. He wanted to capture the feeling of closing in and the smallness of the man and the dog in the vast, empty park. He hoped that their figures would appear as abstract shapes blending into shadows.

The huge rush of enthusiasm that came when he began something new wasn’t there this time. Most mornings when he opened the door to his studio in SoHo he couldn’t pull his coat off fast enough. His mind already had paint on the brushes, his hand itching to get the color on the canvas. Today, he had had to force himself to stay in front of the new painting, push himself to keep dipping the brush into the paint. A dealer in San Francisco had expressed interest in his work. What if he had nothing new to show? Maybe it was just the feel of winter coming on? The idea of a possible show in California should have spurred him on. Change might be a good thing. New York was feeling stale to him.

The plane lurched. The woman on the aisle opposite him whimpered. The captain announced that they were less than one hundred miles from Atlanta and that there would be additional turbulence during their descent. A child kicked the back of Oliver’s seat. He looked down at his hands. There was still paint under his nails, and a smear of magenta looking like a stain rimmed the back of his knuckles. He hadn’t allowed enough time to clean up properly.

His painting was taking on a heaviness, the colors growing murky. Why couldn’t he get that light? Shit. What was the matter with him? His mind’s eye had it, but his hands couldn’t get the color right. It was as if he could no longer handle his brushes, as if he was painting wearing boxing gloves. Some of his work veered toward abstraction, but something always kept him grounded in nature: a wash of sky, the underlying sparkle of water, the girth of trees. The figures in his pictures created a narrative underpinning, whether he wanted it or not.

The airplane continued to bump its way down through the uneven atmosphere. If Margot had been with him she would have given him one of her pep talks, telling him not to worry, to be patient, that eventually he would accomplish the effect he wanted. Oliver closed his eyes. It was good of Margot to let him have this time with Jenna. His ex-wife, Linda, almost a stranger to him now, had remarried and lived in Phoenix, yet they would always share their child. Hardly a child. Jenna was thirty.

His grown-up child had become his friend. After Linda had remarried and moved to Arizona, it had been difficult to see his daughter. He continued to pay child support, but it had been cumbersome and expensive to fly back and forth across the country. Jenna came to him every July, but by high school she wanted to have a summer job and stay close to her friends. For a while, there was a growing distance between them. Eventually, after dropping out of college, she had moved to Atlanta with a friend to work for a catering company. “Daddy, I don’t want to study. I want to do things.”

Four years ago, with his help, and his insistence that the money was in lieu of two years’ worth of college tuition, she opened Super Soups, a tiny restaurant in midtown Atlanta. Jenna loved the food world, and to Linda’s surprise, the business venture was thriving. Jenna’s starting the restaurant had brought Oliver into a much closer relationship with his daughter. He liked Atlanta and he liked seeing Jenna there, away from Linda’s realm, where the desert landscape reminded him of his failed marriage.

The flight attendant, collecting the final round of trash, bumped his arm. Oliver tightened his seat belt. Jenna. Freckles, that shiny hair, now cut short, nonstop energy, the silly laugh that accompanied a shake of her head, her determination. Always on her feet, always working, always sure the restaurant would be a success. Margot was right. He had only these few days, but it would be good to be with his daughter.

He shut his eyes, imagining Jenna’s funky apartment. She had painted the rooms in food colors—aubergine, celery, and cream—and filled them with her treasured “antiques,” the kind of furniture dating from his own boyhood. Oliver knew that Jenna’s Thanksgiving table would be surrounded by a hip, ragtag group of friends and covered with all the expected dishes, along with some unexpected ones too. She made delicious dishes with tofu and bowls of brownish grains for her vegan guests. Leo, Jenna’s boyfriend, would valiantly carve the turkey into strange, uneven lumps, while she smiled indulgently at his ineptitude.

How different from the meal that would take place in New Castle. There, the always competent Alex would carve the bird into thin, elegant slices, and the dining room with its sleek sideboard made by a Maine cabinetmaker would be covered in an array of artfully plated dishes. The silver on the table would be gleaming, the napkins starched and white, a fire crackling in the grate. Lacey, a natural hostess, would bring everyone into the conversation, putting her guests at ease. Everything would be perfect with Margot’s sister at the helm. In his present frame of mind, Oliver was glad he didn’t have to be there.