Anna
Eleven months ago …
There are three doors in my room. One leads to the hallway, one to the bathroom, one to the closet. Each morning I pick one, a lottery of sorts, figuring I have a one-in-three chance of finding my clothes. At first I used to put the effort in—to use logic and reasoning and memory. The bathroom would probably be closer to the bed, that sort of thing. These days, though, it’s basically a crapshoot.
“Eeny meeny miney—” I point to door number two. “Mo!”
Young Guy (who showed up in my room a few minutes ago to take me to breakfast) flicks open the door, revealing a toilet. “Better luck next time.”
Some days, it drives me fucking crazy when I can’t find things. A few weeks ago, or maybe it was a few days ago, I picked up a glass thingy and hurled it against one of the doors because I couldn’t find the bathroom. When you need to pee as often as I do, you don’t have time to mess about, looking for the toilet.
“That one is definitely … the hallway,” I say, pointing to door number one. I have no idea if this is right, and I can’t be bothered to look for clues. But we’ve already found the toilet-room, so I figure I’ve got a good chance.
He peels open the hallway-door, revealing a row of clothes hanging from a pole-thingy.
“Damn!” I say, but as he pulls an item off the thingy (an item that may or may not be weather appropriate), I laugh. There was a time when I had no desire to live beyond a point when I couldn’t tell what was behind a door. But today I’m very glad to be alive.
* * *
We’re in the upstairs room again. Young Guy dips the stick-thingy on the record player and music starts playing. I wonder how long we will be able to find our way to this place, this upstairs room. It feels like our place. The idea that we won’t be able to remember it seems somehow more tragic than not being able to remember my own name.
He holds out his arms. “W … would you like to…?”
“What?”
He moves his arms and his hips jauntily. I know what he’s suggesting. I’m supposed to walk into his arms and hold his hands and jiggle about to the music. I can’t think what it’s called either.
He tries a few times to produce the word and then grimaces. “You kn-know,” he says finally, with effort. His eyebrows crease uncertainly. It also makes me laugh.
I stand and shuffle into his space, but instead of taking his hands, I lay my cheek right against his chest. Together we begin to move.
“Yes,” I say. “I do know.”
* * *
It’s that day when people visit. I hate that day. And I’m not the only one. Really Old Lady hates it because she rarely gets a visitor. Baldy doesn’t like it, because the middle-of-the-day meal is served earlier, and according to him, Myrna doesn’t like her schedule being messed with. More and more, I’m seeing the plus sides to Myrna. In fact, I think I might befriend her myself. Sorry, can’t play bingo today, Myrna doesn’t like it. Not my fault, I’ll say. Myrna’s.
Jack usually comes on his own these days, or with just one of the little boys. I haven’t seen his wife in a while. Even so, I find his visits stressful. Here, at this place where I live, when I forget something or say something weird, people either don’t notice or don’t react. But when I say something weird in front of Jack, he looks confused. Corrects me in a slow, simple voice. “Don’t you remember, Anna, it was Aunt Geraldine?” or “Yes, Anna, you already said that.” Worst of all is the long silence followed by the nod. The look that says, I have no idea what you’re saying, but it’s not worth my time to try to figure it out.
Today, I’m feeling pretty anxious. Not just because it’s the day when people visit but also because of Luke. (I know his name is Luke because he introduced himself to Jack a few seconds ago.) Luke has had the gloriously misguided idea that we should introduce each other to our families—you know, like a regular couple. Sometimes he has some pretty messed-up ideas. I told him that. I think.
So we’re in the big front room. Jack is sitting opposite us, staring at our joined hands. I have no idea what I am supposed to say. Eventually I decide, as I do so often these days, to say nothing. I have Alzheimer’s, after all. Surely that gets me out of uncomfortable small talk?
“This m-m … ust be weird for you, Jack,” Luke says finally. He’s trying hard, and though his words are slightly labored, he’s doing a wonderful job. “I’m sure you … thought your days of meeting your … twin sister’s boyfriends were over.”
Jack’s eyes seek mine, a little incredulous. I force a smile.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, wobbling on the word “better.” “I can promise I’ll be the l … last.”
I can’t help myself, I laugh. For someone with dementia, Luke is pretty smooth. He smiles a little shyly and glances at me. I’m impressed. I haven’t heard him speak so many words without pausing in a while. But Jack doesn’t so much as crack a smile.
Luke, I notice, keeps glancing at his hands. He has a few little tics, but this one is new. It’s not until he tips his palms upward that I notice the blue ink scrawled across them. I see the words Jack, twin, and boyfriend. My heart breaks a little.
Jack looks like he wants to respond, but he’s thinking very carefully before he does. I’m happy to wait. But before he can get his thoughts together enough to speak, a woman sweeps into the room, kisses Luke’s cheek, and falls into the sitting-thing beside Jack.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “You must be the brother. I’m Sarah. The sister.”
This woman is as blond as Luke is dark. She wears jeans and a thin-jacket with lots of shiny stuff at her wrists and neck. Her face is upturned, suggesting friendliness. She looks from Luke to me and then finally to Jack. “So? They’ve told you?”
Jack stares at her. “You know about this?”
“Of course. Luke tells me everything.”
“Terrific,” Jack mutters. “Anna tells me nothing.”
“Look, there’s no reason to be upset,” she says. “My brother is a wonderful guy.”
Luke’s sister sounds remarkably calm, even happy. This, I know, will rile Jack no end.
“I’m sure he is,” Jack says. “I just don’t want him taking advantage of my sister so he can live out his last wish to have a girlfriend.”
There’s a short silence. “Luke’s had plenty of girlfriends,” the sister says. “He doesn’t get into anything unless he is serious.”
“Great!” Jack says. “That’s just great.”
“Besides,” she continues, “why shouldn’t they have a little happiness in here?”
“It all depends,” he says, his voice a little louder now, “on what kind of happiness they are having—”
“They’re adults! It’s none of our business what they do!”
“Whose business is it if Anna gets pregnant? Hmm? Theirs? Maybe they could raise the baby together in this place? You’re right, this is a fantastic idea—”
Jack’s face is red and his voice is loud. The sister’s face closes over. I shrink back into my sitting thing, away from them.
“St-st-st … Stop it!”
I blink up at Young Guy, who’s standing now. Jack and the sister are wide-eyed, blinking but silent. It’s lovely, the silence. I’m grateful to Young Guy—I want to say thank you, but the words drift away from me before I can catch them and use them.
“Anna?” A helper-lady jogs into the parlor, frowning. She doesn’t usually jog. Or frown, for that matter. She squats beside me. “You have a visitor.”
I hear, but it doesn’t make sense. Don’t I already have visitors? “I’m sorry.”
Jack’s eyes are focused beyond me, and for this reason, I turn around. There’s a tall man behind my chair, dressed smartly in black pants and a white shirt. A thick brown coat is tucked under one arm. The man is, all at once, familiar and unfamiliar.
Behind me, I hear Jack clearing his throat. “Dad,” he says. “You’re here.”