A Slender Thread

“I told Lacey I had an errand nearby,” Alex said, giving Margot a quick hug. He opened the passenger door for her before returning to the driver’s side. Margot had been surprised to see him in the parking lot when her bus pulled into the Portsmouth station.

Alex jerked the seat belt across his body. “She’s always reminding the girls not to waste gas.” He gave her a quick smile and put the car in reverse. “I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”

Margot felt ill at ease, uncertain about what might happen during the next few days. Alex said nothing, but appeared to concentrate more than necessary on backing up, as if he too was uncomfortable with the situation. He turned out of the parking lot and headed toward New Castle.

Margot recalled only one other time when she had met Alex by himself since his marriage to Lacey. He had come to New York to talk to her about buying out her half of the cottage at Bow Lake. Lakefront land had skyrocketed in value over the years. Alex and Lacey could afford to carry the expenses by themselves, and Margot could then invest the money from selling her half to provide her with additional income. Lacey had known Margot was having a difficult time making ends meet in New York. Alex had explained that Margot could still use the cottage whenever she wanted in August, sharing it with them. The solution had been Lacey’s idea.

Margot remembered Alex’s hand shaking slightly when he handed her the papers requiring her signature. Margot had signed quickly, feeling uncomfortable. Had it been the topic of money or the fact that Alex had known about her finances that made her uncomfortable? Or was it due to being alone with him?

Margot stared out at the grimy snowbanks along the highway. How different this was from the late fall weather during her last visit. Today on the bus, she had envied the other passengers on their way to New Hampshire. For them it might have been just an ordinary winter afternoon as the bus rolled northward. One woman had brought out her knitting, and worked on what looked to be a baby’s sweater, perhaps for a grandchild. Several people read newspapers, others fat paperback novels. An older man dozed peacefully behind her, awakened now and again by his own snores. Yet they too might be arriving to their own troubles, their own particular sorrows, hidden behind their complacent expressions.

“Too difficult. If this progresses further . . .” He paused. They had come to a red light. “If it gets worse, all language deteriorates. Sign language is its own language. She wouldn’t be capable of that.”

“Oh, my God,” Margot said. The enormity of Lacey’s illness hit her once again. Eventually, Lacey would have no way of communicating her thoughts, her needs. She would become out of reach to them, shut inside herself. Margot’s stomach flipped over in fear. Alex had said “if,” but the terrifying question was when.

Alex sighed. The light changed to green. He moved his foot to the gas pedal. His thigh was still long and thin. She remembered his skinny boy body, the way he looked wet from a swim long ago at Bow Lake—Alex out on the raft, his eyes following Lacey as she dove in to swim back to the dock, Lacey emerging from the blue water and calling back to him, urging him to race her to shore.

They reached the streets of downtown Portsmouth. Pedestrians hunched forward, buffeted by the wind. It was nearly evening. The decorative holiday wreaths that dangled from the light posts looked tattered. Margot wondered when the city would take the decorations down. They couldn’t last long in the harsh winter storms.

“Good,” Margot said, struck by the fact that she too had started to spend more time drawing this winter and, just recently, painting. Initially the brush in her hand had felt awkward. It was like being a first grader coping with a newly sharpened pencil and trying to keep the letters between the rigid lines of that funny school paper. Art was an escape for her. Maybe it was for Lacey, too.

Alex didn’t look okay. He looked pale, somewhat gaunt, as if his skin had been stretched across his face. His Adam’s apple protruded. Sitting in the car so close to him, Margot thought she detected tension in his jaw. He looked both angry and vulnerable in the waning light. It was obvious that Lacey was not the only one suffering.

“Wink was home sick. Maybe the flu. She’s better now. Still, it was a lousy way to start the new year. She missed the first few days of school and she hates falling behind. She takes after me. Worrying is her best subject.”

“Out with Ryan all the time. Lacey’s annoyed because she hasn’t finished her essays for the college applications.” He glanced quickly at Margot. “Toni will get them done. She works better closer to a deadline. She didn’t catch Wink’s flu, but she’s been unusually withdrawn lately. It’s like she knows something’s up. That’s why we have to tell them what’s wrong.”

“She won’t talk about it.” Alex drew his mouth into a tight line. They crossed the first causeway leading to the island. “I thought couples grew closer in difficult situations,” he said. “Every time we talk about it we start to argue. We never used to fight.”

“I’m so sorry,” Margot said, remembering how she and Oliver had argued when she decided to cancel her trip to California. They had returned to the apartment after their dinner at Nice Matin and gone to bed without speaking. That had never happened before. The next morning when she started to explain how she felt, he had snapped at her, “You’ve made up your mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Since the Christmas holidays Oliver no longer lingered at home in the morning while she sipped her tea. He left the apartment for his studio with no indication of when he might return. More books on mythology had appeared on the living room coffee table, and after dinner each evening, he would bury himself in the ancient stories. Margot didn’t mind too much. She had learned to recognize when he was in one of his intensely creative spells. She also went more often to her old apartment in the early mornings before going to the gallery to work. Her drawing was improving and it helped to keep her mind off Lacey’s situation.

But after their argument at Nice Matin, Oliver and Margot had spoken only briefly, and then only when absolutely necessary: she asking him if he had anything for the dry cleaner, he letting her know that he would be late on Thursday and to eat without him, she telling him that the plumber was coming back again to try to fix the drip in the bathtub. Once, she had tried to initiate a conversation by asking his opinion on a controversial article in Art News. He told her he hadn’t had time to think about it. Another evening she set out a large wedge of his favorite cheese, Saint André. He helped himself without remarking on it. It had been a miserable week.

Oliver’s silence had upset her. The atmosphere in their apartment was unfamiliar. Margot knew she had brought about this change. She felt exposed and raw, as if she’d lost a protective layer of skin. Oliver’s withdrawal made her feel fragile, almost like she was going to get sick. Yet part of her was annoyed at Oliver. She had made a choice, maybe the wrong one, but he didn’t have to be in such a snit. Why couldn’t he just get over it? Rather than argue further, Margot said nothing.

He had been quiet in the taxi to the airport. Soon the entire breadth of the country would be between them. Then, while the cab hurtled over the Triboro Bridge, Oliver reached for her hand. “You okay?” His familiar grip reassured her. She nodded and stared out the window as the city skyline grew distant. When the driver reached her terminal, Oliver spoke again. “I love you, Mags.” She kissed him, fumbled briefly with the door handle, and hurried inside to catch her flight.

Now, in Alex’s car, Margot stared at the passing scenery. The Piscataqua River looked turbulent and uninviting. There were few boats at this time of year. She knew the area so well, but on this visit she had the strong feeling that this was not where she belonged. Alex passed the New Castle post office and the white Congregational church at the center of the village. They were five minutes from the house. “I’m so relieved you’re here,” he said, breaking the silence.

Margot pulled at a loose thread in her scarf. It was a pale blue one that Lacey had woven for her several winters ago. “I’m not sure what I can do,” she said. The image of her sister arguing with Alex was unpleasant. She was uneasy about entering this controversy. Margot had always agreed with Lacey. She couldn’t recall ever having to take opposing sides, not in anything that really mattered.

“I hope you can get through to her. Now that she’s sick it’s harder to talk to her. I don’t want to upset her. I don’t want to leave for Chicago without letting the girls know what’s wrong. Maybe if Lacey hears it from you, Margot, she’ll agree.” He lifted his shoulders and released them, as if trying to shake off a burden. “After all, when is it wrong to speak the truth?” His voice had taken on an angry edge.

If he only knew what it was costing her. Oliver’s parting words at the airport had comforted her, but this was the first time they had gone through a rough patch. Sure, they had had small disagreements—her annoyance when he was in a bad mood, his impatience with her when she had misplaced her keys or forgotten to buy coffee on the way home from work. Those arguments had been superficial, like a minor cut that would heal overnight. Her decision to give up the trip had caused a rift between them, a deep wound that would take time to mend.

“I know telling them is for the best.” He reached over and put his hand on her arm, clutching her wrist. He held her firmly, as if trying to squeeze his message right into her bones. His awkward gesture was connecting them, bringing them together in this unexpected alliance. She considered placing her other hand on top of his, touching his skin, making a pact. “I’ll try to convince Lacey,” she said without moving.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He released his hand and Margot felt adrift once again. Her task wasn’t going to be easy. Alex’s reasoning made sense to her; making Lacey see his point was another matter. But as Alex pulled the car into the driveway, Margot became less sure of his argument. What was wrong with letting Lacey try to keep their lives just the way they were? Would it do the twins any good to know their mother was ill?

Margot stepped out of the car into the cold New Hampshire air. What was she doing here and not with Oliver on a plane to California? The gray clapboard house loomed large in front of her. Alex grabbed her bag and slammed the car door shut. Where did she belong?

Alex stood up from tending the fire and took a seat beside Lacey on the sofa. He, Margot, and Lacey had just finished dinner. Wink and Toni had gone off to get pizza with an old friend, a girl who was still home on winter break from her freshman year at college. The twins probably wouldn’t be back for a while.

Alex was fairly certain that Margot hadn’t said anything yet to Lacey about telling the twins about her diagnosis. He had left Margot alone with Lacey in the kitchen while she made the butternut squash lasagna for their meal. At the table Margot hadn’t avoided his questioning looks, but she had seemed to be making an effort to keep Lacey in good humor. As much as he wanted to get the tough conversation over with, it was probably wise to have Lacey in a good frame of mind. He hoped she would be more understanding of his point of view with Margot there. All during the meal Margot had been great, keeping the conversation going and never speaking of Lacey’s illness. Alex thought Margot was giving him secret signals now and again, with a glance or a nod, as if telling him that it was important to make everything seem normal and to be patient until the time was right. Or was he imagining that?

The house still smelled of cooking and of the pot of herbal tea Lacey liked to serve after dinner. Alex would have liked a brandy, but decided against it. With repeated prodding, the fire seemed to take hold and amazingly it didn’t smoke. After all these years he still didn’t understood how the flue would somehow draw without a problem, and then the next day fill the house with smoke. Margot sat in the wing chair opposite them. Lacey, tall and athletic, glowed with health, while Margot, the smaller, darker version, had deep circles beneath her eyes. He marveled at the bond that held these two women together.

The house was quiet without the girls moving about upstairs. Margot had been telling Lacey about Oliver’s trip and the possible show in San Francisco. Alex noticed how Margot’s hands shook slightly as she lifted her cup from the saucer to take a sip of tea.

“Partly for a change,” Margot said. “New York’s a bit dreary at this time of year. Also, his career. You have to keep putting your work out there. It’s part of the job of being an artist.”

He nodded. “Yeah, sure, depending on when it is.” Since he had agreed to take on the consulting job away from home, Lacey had seemed a little less tense around him. She had actually laughed the other night at dinner when he told her about the cast of characters who ran the fertilizer business in Chicago—the uncle who refused to sign a paycheck for his nephew who came to the office at forty seconds past nine, and the elderly grandfather and founder who had his sons so terrified they wouldn’t speak up at board meetings. He had described how one son, the only one who really knew the business, had to contact Alex by cell phone from out of the building, as his two younger brothers were threatening lawsuits. Lacey had suggested that Alex show up wearing a Superman costume when he arrived to save the day.

“I agree with Alex,” Margot said, as if on cue. “I think maybe it’s time that Wink and Toni know about your illness. You’re okay now, but what if things were to change? I mean, with Alex so far away . . .” Her voice trailed off. She appeared to be watching him for the next signal.

“We?” Lacey interrupted, her voice high-pitched. “What do you mean, we?” She set her cup down abruptly. She turned to Alex, her eyes intently focused. “This is about us.” Her eyes opened wider, as if she suddenly understood. “What? You wanted Margot to—”

Lacey looked at Margot. “You don’t remember.” Her voice was accusing. “I was in high school when . . .” She seemed to search not only for one word but for words strong enough to remind Margot of something she had forgotten. “When Mother was really sick. You were still little.” Lacey groaned. “If you had any idea—” She stopped and drew in a breath. “I don’t want that for my girls. I want their last year to be . . .”

“Stop!” Lacey covered her ears. “This is about my family. Not you.” Her face was flushed. Margot moved to the edge of her chair. Lacey pointed at Margot as if reprimanding a child. “You listen to me.” Her chin thrust forward. “I will tell my girls. When I’m ready.”

Alex stared at his daughters. He froze, incapable of saying a thing. All the breath had been knocked out of him. He and Lacey had lived with the diagnosis for several months. Primary progressive aphasia, frontotemporal dementia, cell disintegration—a tragic vocabulary that had entered his lexicon. Not an hour went by when some part of him didn’t pause and cower, fearful of what was to come. He had become used to the knowledge. He didn’t know how their lives would change, how they would cope, but the hard reality had settled into his consciousness, had become part of how he saw his life. It blurred his expectations.

“You started this, Alex,” Lacey said, backing away from Margot. “You tell them.” She pointed her finger in his face. Her entire arm shook. A horrible sound rose in her throat. She turned, sank down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. “You, you . . . how could you?” When she looked up, her face was wet with tears. He had never seen such anguish on her face before.

He took a deep breath and launched into the sequence of events and the doctor’s final evaluation. Toni leaned against the doorframe and Lacey remained on the sofa, saying nothing. Wink sat beside her mother and took her hand. When Alex finished speaking, Toni stepped over and faced him squarely, and began firing questions, her anger clear. “I can’t believe this. You’ve known since before Thanksgiving and you didn’t tell us? Why? God, you treat us like babies. That’s called lying.”

“Daddy, have you talked to other doctors?” Wink, on the verge of tears, turned to her mother. “Your speech isn’t that different. It could be years before you get worse, couldn’t it?”

“And you believe that?” Toni asked. “It’s not like we’re getting the truth around here.” She walked away from Alex and stood before her mother. “So you were giving me all this ‘must be menopause’ shit when you have some weird brain sickness?” Toni’s face crumpled like a child’s before crying. “You lied too, Mom. You’re just as bad.”

“So it’s like—” Toni made a choking sound, then continued. “You won’t be able to talk one day, and eventually not understand, and then one day . . .” She couldn’t go on. She too began to weep.

Margot remained silent, clearly distressed. Alex could see that the damage had been done. What could Margot do now anyway? “I’m going to set up a meeting with Mom’s neurologist,” he said.

“You’re right,” he said, relieved that one of his daughters was looking on the positive side. “Further deterioration might be years away. We need to help your mother, be supportive, care for each other.” As he said these words an overwhelming dread came over him.

Alex watched her stomp up the stairs to her bedroom. He leaned against the banister, feeling sick and unsteady. Toni hadn’t called Lacey “Mommy” in years. In the meantime Lacey had taken Wink in her arms and was swaying gently, almost cooing. “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay.” Alex continued to stand away from them, as if he were the monster that had brought this tragedy on everyone. Margot, looking forlorn, gathered the cups to take to the kitchen.

He drew in a breath and straightened before going back to Lacey and Wink. “It’s hard, Winky, but your mom and I are adjusting.” He searched Lacey’s face as he put his arm around his daughter. Lacey turned her head, avoiding his gaze. “We’re going to manage. We’re going to find ways.” He couldn’t think of what else to say. The fire had gone out, but he didn’t get up to put on another log. Lacey pulled away, drawing herself into the corner of the sofa. He stroked his daughter’s back, feeling each fragile vertebra.

Margot rinsed the cups and put them in the dishwasher. She wrapped the leftover lasagna in foil. The casserole dish was riddled with hardened bits of cheese and charred cream sauce stuck to the rim. After scraping it as best she could, Margot set it to soak and slumped down at the kitchen table. Sorrow, nothing but sorrow, overwhelmed her. She felt like a fool. What had made her think she could do any good here? This was Lacey’s illness. She and Alex would have to find a way to help their daughters live with it. Lacey’s piercing stare when she learned that Alex had called on Margot to help him had gone straight to Margot’s heart. Alex was wrong to have brought her into this decision. They had hurt Lacey deeply.

Margot thought again of the terrible week with Oliver. She longed for him now. What a mess. She kept turning the awful days over in her mind. If only this gallery in San Francisco would take his paintings and give him a show. That would be some solace. But then what? Lacey’s illness wasn’t going to go away. Now, by taking Alex’s side, Margot had become involved more deeply than ever. And she had thought she could help. What a joke.

“You wanted the girls to know. Did you really expect it to be any different?” Margot pushed her chair back, wishing to be anywhere but here. “You knew the girls would be upset. Remember, we agreed they should know.” Margot was struck again that agreeing with Alex and ignoring her sister’s wishes was a breach of loyalty—like switching sides, going over to join an enemy army. But she had chosen, and part of her still thought they had been right.

“You have the rest of the weekend. Keep talking to the girls. Do something fun. Something normal—maybe go to the movies together or out to eat. Just live the way you usually do. That’s what Lacey wants.”

Margot pulled the blankets around her. The guest room on the third floor was not well insulated and cold air from the outdoors leaked in around the window frame. The sheets felt like ice. She shivered and longed to cuddle up against Oliver’s warm body. After leaving Alex in the kitchen she had come upstairs to bed. From Lacey’s room had come the sound of muffled voices. Lacey was with her daughters. Margot had slipped by unnoticed. Now, curled up in the dark, she knew sleep would be a long time coming.

January, she thought. Look how the new year was starting out. Margot clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She pictured the unheated cottage on Bow Lake. Sometimes in late August the temperature dipped into the forties at night. She and Lacey would huddle under the moth-eaten blankets that Granny Winkler took out of the trunk at the foot of her bed.

The August when Margot was eight and Lacey twelve had been incredibly hot. The temperature reached record heights in New Hampshire and one July day it peaked at 104. There, at Bow Lake, Granny Winkler gave each granddaughter a Japanese hand fan, and they sat on the shaded porch in the late afternoon playing Crazy Eights, one hand clutching the limp cards, the other fanning gently at the wisps of hair clinging to their sweating foreheads. Margot had particularly loved that game, being eight herself.

The old cottage had no air-conditioning and the hardest time of the day came at bedtime when the girls tried to fall asleep in the creaky old cots upstairs under the eaves. Margot remembered that night when the temperature hardly dropped, there was no breeze, and the sticky air weighed them down like an unwelcome wool blanket that they couldn’t kick off. Margot tried to lie still and Lacey was telling her about the locker she would have for the first time when she went to junior high in the fall. Margot was already worried about what it would be like to be at the grammar school without her sister. The junior high started an hour earlier in the morning. They wouldn’t even leave the house at the same time.

Lacey flipped on the light. Margot stared across at her sister, amazed. This had never happened before. Grandmother Winkler was warm and loving, but she ran an ordered household. Going to bed early was a virtue in her book. Swimming at night was not part of her routine.

The sisters hurriedly pulled off their nightgowns and reached for their bathing suits, which hung drying on hooks on the open stud walls. Margot had to yank at her wet suit to pull up the stretchy fabric. The cool, damp cloth felt good on her skin. When they reached the foot of the stairs, Granny Winkler met them with towels and flashlights. The path under the trees was dark, but the air was still as hot as daytime. The dry pine-covered ground seemed to crackle under their flip-flops. Once they reached the lake they turned off their flashlights. The full moon shone brilliantly on the water. Margot gasped in awe. “It’s so bright,” she said.

“It’s nighttime and we have to swim together,” Grandmother Winkler said. She announced they would each take an inner tube and float together in the lake. The black inner tubes were heaped in a pile next to the dock.

Granny Winkler wore a billowy cotton bathing suit with wide straps and a skirt. Tonight she didn’t put on her bathing cap with the unpleasant rubber smell, but her hair was pulled high in a topknot on her head. Margot never understood the bathing cap, as her grandmother swam a ladylike breaststroke, her head and neck always well out of the water.

The lake felt delicious. Neither girl shivered or squealed as the water touched her skin. The surface was smooth, broken only by the gentle wake made by their bodies as they glided along. The event of swimming at night alone with their grandmother felt ceremonial, and in keeping with the occasion they followed her, nearly silent. Grandmother Winkler rested her fleshy arms on her tube and moved her legs in a scissors kick. She glided slowly and evenly through the water. Margot followed, her own legs moving faster and froglike while she clutched the black rubber ring. Lacey brought up the rear of their little procession. The water felt like silk. Their progress out into the lake was almost effortless.

Lacey spoke. Her voice rang out clear in the night. “Granny,” she said, “the moon is making a path for us.” Her laughter carried across the water. “We’re swimming the moon path.”

The wind was howling the next morning as Margot packed her bag. Despite the costly penalty, she had changed her flight to return to New York a day early. A steady thumping and clanging came from Lacey’s loom across the hall. When Margot went down to the kitchen for breakfast she was relieved to be alone. She made tea and put a slice of bread in the toaster. A large flock of birds had gathered around the feeder outside the kitchen window. They dove and circled, all trying to grab what they could. Smaller birds scurried beneath, taking with relish the seeds that had fallen to the ground. In the garden the last of the perennial flowers were nothing but raggedy brown stalks against the snow.

Margot was sitting at the table eating her breakfast when Lacey came into the kitchen. Her hair was pulled tightly into the barrette at her neck. She didn’t smile, but there was color in her cheeks. She wore jeans and a teal-colored sweater and had taken the time to put on dangling silver earrings. She took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with granola.

“Lacey, I . . . ” Margot began, her words coming out in a jumble. “It wasn’t easy for any of us. It’s terrible, terrible. But it was time they knew and better for them to hear it from Alex and you together.”

“I tried to tell Alex. I wanted a few months. A few more months for everything.” Lacey stopped and took in a large breath. “I wanted my girls to live with me like it . . . always was. I wanted to give them normal days. It’s over now.”