“IT SLOWS YOU DOWN, my dear,” Anne said when she came by my camp the next morning and caught me straightening up my tent.
“What does?” I gave my pillow a vigorous shake and plopped it on top of my sleeping bag, deciding this mega tent was one hell of a shelter; the kind of hideout I craved every now and then, where I could feel insulated and in control. No bushwhacking, no carving my own trail, no testing myself or taking a risk. A place where I could stay as I was and where I was, rather than face the struggles that awaited me outside.
“Your tent,” Anne said. “It’s magnificent, but—”
“I love this portable cottage.” I patted my pillow for emphasis. “It’s colorful and roomy, and—”
“Hard to put up and take down,” Anne said with a laugh.
She had a point there. This weighty monster was a bit glampy, though I wasn’t about to admit it. “It makes me want to stay put,” I said.
Anne frowned as if I’d given the wrong answer to an important question. “It limits you.”
“So, what do you suggest?” I wasn’t exactly thrilled with her choice of morning topic. Sure, I was here to connect with nature, but there were limits to how close I wanted to get.
Anne backed away from the tent and beckoned me to follow. “Why not stretch your boundaries a bit and sleep under the stars?”
I bit my tongue to keep from admitting that the thought of sleeping without a roof over my head gave me the willies, but apparently, Anne already knew me too well.
“Does the thought scare you?” she asked.
“I’d feel so unprotected,” I said.
“What kind of protection is that portable shelter of poles and polyester?” Anne asked, jabbing her finger at my fortress.
I knew she was teasing, considering she must occupy a tent as well, but I couldn’t keep still. “It protects me from bugs and snakes.”
“They can still get in.”
“Bears.”
“Ditto,” she said. “And don’t say it protects you from people, because just yesterday, I heard the shouting of an irate woman coming from the direction of your camp.”
The memory made me smile. Telling off Ms. Circus Camper had felt good. In fact, it released emotions that had been simmering below the surface for too long. Come to think of it, the Circus Camp had been noticeably quiet since then. “Okay. The tent makes me feel more secure, like I’m in a cozy little cocoon.”
“All in your head, my dear.”
I scanned our surroundings, taking in the lingering fog, the moisture dripping from the trees onto the spongy earth below, and the nearly imperceptible breeze, then eyed my tent with its apartment-size rooms, windows, and vestibule. “Sorry, Anne, but for now, it offers my only security.”
She shrugged. “I have a surprise for you.”
“I like surprises, I think.”
“You’ll love this one. Although, fair warning, you may be a bit shocked.”
~~~
Anne led me to a pool of water surrounded by a lush accumulation of ferns, sorrel moss, lichen, and majestic redwoods. Sheets of sunlight streamed through the flat needles of the trees and dappled the greenery below, while water spilled from a mossy, rock ledge protruding from the midst of brambles and vines.
As we stepped onto the springy floor of the cathedral-like grove, something previously hidden from view caught my eye. Mud sculptures. Twenty or more. All of the same woman and child. I dropped to my knees, trying, but failing, to absorb what my mind refused to accept as real. Like the sophisticated sand art creations in beach competitions, the details on these sculptures—from the fine strands of the figures’ hair to the smooth texture of their clothing and skin—appeared to have been carved by a master. Water gushed into water, birds cawed, and sunrays pierced my skin, all adding to the magical quality of the scene. I tore my gaze away from the artwork in front of me and directed it at Anne. “How? I mean—”
“Pull yourself together, hon, and I’ll explain.”
“How could you keep this from me? I thought we were—” I was about to say friends, but really. I had just met this woman. What did she owe me, besides nothing?
“The artist’s name is Adam,” Anne said, “and I had to get his permission before sharing his secret with you.”
“Is he some kind of recluse?”
“He’s staying here until—”
A rush of heat spread over my face. “Is he a criminal?”
“No.”
I blew out the breath I’d been holding while waiting for her answer. “So, what’s the problem?”
“He has Alzheimer’s, Marjorie, and his doctors believe he belongs in a medical facility. However, he’d rather die than be stuck in some hospital bed, surrounded by other confined and dying people.”
Even without knowing the man or his circumstances, I blurted, “But what if he gets lost or hurts himself?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You?”
“I’m his care manager.”
I took in the pond and the wet, slippery rocks surrounding it. “What if he slips and falls? It could happen in a split second, when you’re not around.”
“It’s an experiment of sorts,” Anne said, apparently not swayed by my dire predictions. “We hope to prove that access to nature is far better medicine for people with Alzheimer’s than confinement. Plus, since contracting the disease, Adam has formed a dislike of water. It’s nearly invisible to him and therefore disconcerts him. He doesn’t like to drink it and prefers not to shower or bathe in it either.”
“So where is he now?”
“With Brock, his personal care aide, who’s probably having a heck of a time getting him squeaky clean.”
The whimsical expressions on the sculptures’ faces and the fluid positions of their bodies brought a lump to my throat. “They appear so happy, as if they’re playing. May I take a closer look?”
“Sure, but be careful. The sculptures are made of mud dried in the sun instead of reinforced and kiln-baked clay, so they’re fragile.”
I walked the springy carpet of needles surrounding the artwork and marveled anew at Adam’s talent.
Anne ran a light finger over a sculpture of the child. “I provided him with the tools, taught him a few basics, and he took it from there.”
“You taught him well,” I said.
She waved away my complement. “No one can teach what he’s able to do.”
“You sculpt, too?”
“I have a studio in Monterey, part of the tour I have planned for you. That is, if you’d like to see it.”
“Are you kidding? You bet I would.”
“Tomorrow, I’m picking up groceries for Adam. Part of another experiment, to make sure he gets plenty of fruits, veggies, vitamins, and herbs.”
Only part of my attention remained focused on Anne. The other part was trying to decide which sculpture touched me more, the one of the woman watching her son at play, or the one of the child trying to catch a butterfly.
“So, how about Wednesday?” Anne asked.
I started to nod, but hesitated at the sound of rustling branches and leaves. An old man stepped from the bushes into the clearing. His long, wispy beard lifted in the breeze, reminding me of the angel hair we used to spread over our Christmas tree when I was a child. “Is that Adam? He looks like a...a...”
“Classy tramp,” Anne said.
Disheveled, yes. Classy, no. Then again, first impressions are often deceiving.
Another rustle and out of the underbrush darted what looked like a dog, slender, thick-furred, with a long, pointed snout. The creature didn’t wag its tail in greeting, but held it out, horizontal and stiff. I re-experienced the pounding heart and urge to run I’d experienced the day before. Actually, it wasn’t a dog, but a—
“Coyote,” Anne said.
I remembered how the coyotes had howled and yapped at night during my stay in Carmel Valley. “Since when do coyotes approach humans? And what if it has rabies?”
“There’s nothing normal about this situation,” Anne said. “But don’t worry. Buster won’t hurt you.”
The coyote’s yellow gaze met mine, and the half grin on his face gave the impression that he was amused, if not downright laughing at me. I glanced at Adam. He was staring at something hidden in shadow. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing.
A breeze kicked in, causing the towering redwoods to shift and sway. Shafts of sunlight broke through needles and branches and revealed what had caught his attention.
A sculpture.
“Sunwalker,” I heard Adam say just before my world went black.
~~~
Something cool pressed against my forehead, and I opened my eyes. Anne hovered over me, her usually sunny face set in a frown. She dabbed at my face with a wet cloth, her bracelets jingling with a high clear pitch. “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”
I attempted to sit up. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
She pressed me back down. “Easy does it.”
“The sculpture,” I said. “Anne, there’s one of me.”
“Try to sit up now. That a girl.”
I searched for the old man, but he was nowhere in sight. “Where’d Adam go?”
Anne patted my head and smoothed my hair. “You scared the bejesus out of him, passing out like you did. Maybe bringing you here wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Did you see it? There’s a sculpture of me.” I twisted around, afraid it would be gone, but there it was, just as I remembered.
“Odd that it has no eyes.” Anne said.
It did look kind of spooky with those hollows where the eyes should’ve been. Otherwise, it looked just like me. “How’d he do it? I mean, how’d he know? He never saw me until yesterday.” Another glance at the sculpture and there stood Adam again, appearing a bit curious, maybe, but not upset.
“Can you sit up?” Anne asked. At my nod, she supported my back as I rose.
I stared at Adam. He shook his head as if to clear it.
“He called me ‘Sunwalker,’” I said.
Anne glanced at Adam and gave him a thumbs-up. “He probably won’t remember.”
Though my head ached and I felt nauseous, I had an irrepressible urge to confront this man. He hadn’t just happened to sculpt a replica of me, days, maybe weeks, before my arrival. And he hadn’t just happened to know my Indian name.
“There’s a spiritual dimension to AD that we don’t yet understand,” Anne said, “which seems to grow in magnitude as the physical mind and body wither. Adam sees things, Marjorie. He claims that he encounters the spirits of the deceased.”
His clothes weren’t torn or dirty, just bulky—army surplus stuff—quite practical for camping, and his long white hair was pulled back from his face and secured into a ponytail with an elastic band. What stood out, though, was his posture—a bit slumped, but relaxed and graceful.
“At first, he may look pale and insignificant,” Anne said. “Like a nonentity. But on closer inspection, you’ll notice his quiet dignity, gentleness, and strength. Then, of course, there’s his art. It’s what keeps him going.”
She motioned for Adam to sit with us and, to my surprise, he did.
Not a word passed between us, and in time his calm presence communicated with something inside of me. And just as I was beginning to feel the boundaries between us dissolve, he stood.
I heard a jingle. He paused at the sound, then put his hand into his coat pocket, pulled out a ring of keys, and fingered them one at a time.
I turned to Anne. “What are the keys for?”
“They’re his totems.”
A gold-plated BMW emblem dangled from the key ring with small studs of what appeared to be sapphires and diamonds. “Keys as totems?”
“Yep,” she said.
Adam shuffled over to a work in progress and knelt in front of it.
“But the keys themselves are of no use to him now, right?”
“Yes and no,” Anne said. “There’s a mini computer attached to the key ring that has Adam’s daily routine programmed and offers advice and directions if he gets lost or confused. It’s sort of like a Palm Pilot, GPS receiver, and wireless modem all in one. It also alerts me if he’s in trouble.”
“Which makes you what? Some kind of cyber nurse?”
She ran her fingers through her hair, causing the curls to stretch and spring back like the swell and contraction of ocean waves. “It’s a new project, still primitive in execution. He’s lucky to be involved, but a lot can go wrong.”
“What if he loses them?”
“He cherishes those keys, so I doubt it. But just in case, we also put wireless sensors in his clothing.” Anne chuckled at the look on my face. “Kind of high tech, don’t you think? It’s like he’s a member of some exclusive club.”
“The society of the senile and helpless,” I said.
Anne considered me in her calm, thoughtful way, taking no offense at my sarcasm. “More like the society of souls with one foot in heaven.” She patted my knee. “Watch and learn.”
“Does that make him the patient or the doctor?” I asked, still unconvinced that she was doing the right thing.
Anne called me what sounded like “smart ass” under her breath. “Actually, Adam’s an extraordinary human being, advanced for his time. When he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he immediately began to study the disease and came up with a remarkable theory. He considers AD as a ‘remembering,’ a going back to a collective mind shared with nature and with God, a mind that connects everything. Not empty space, but spirit.”
“He believes AD breaks down the barrier between our mind and the Almighty’s?” I asked, liking the sound of it.
“That about sums it up.” Anne got up and stretched her legs. “He felt the need to immerse himself in nature and give his body the opportunity to acclimatize itself, so eventually, when further dementia set in, it would know what to do. As do animals, plants, and insects. He believed that the bright, natural light of outdoors and the aroma of God’s clean earth would relieve his agitation, depression, and sleep disorders.”
“You mean, in place of drugs and sedatives, which have side effects,” I said, realizing how close I’d come to relying on prescriptive medications myself instead of seeking out the root cause of my problems. I would’ve done just about anything to stop the voices. Thank goodness, Dr. Mendez had set me straight.
“Exactly. The intellectual stimulation of being outdoors helps exercise his mental muscles. I also provide him with folic acid and Vitamins B6 and B12 in hopes that they’ll slow the progression of the disease.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I said. “Everything being natural and all. Sort of like treating the patient, instead of the disease.”
Anne smiled, apparently pleased with my guarded acceptance of her holistic approach to AD. “Adam and I made a pact. We would progress with his experiment as long as he could prove that his body knew what to do, unless, of course, he became a danger to himself or to others. He signed an advanced directive putting all in writing, and so far, so good.”
With Anne’s help, I rose to a stand. No longer nauseous. Headache gone. “Hope it works. That would mean—”
“That until now, we’ve been going about the treatment of Alzheimer’s all wrong,” Anne finished for me in a voice that shook.
“What a breakthrough that would be,” I said.
“I’m a licensed vocational nurse as well as a geriatric care manager and have been trying for years to prove that nursing programs need to integrate the spiritual into their course work. Adam is experiencing a crisis of spirit, as well as an illness of body. His sense of identity and purpose is shaken, so he needs help spiritually as well as physically.”
Anne searched my face and seemed satisfied with what she saw there. “He had to abandon habits and rituals of a lifetime, and for a while this caused him to become listless, bored, and pessimistic. But then he discovered mud.”
“He sure did,” I said.
Adam was working his clay, and we watched him for a while before I said, “So many sculptures of the same woman and child.”
Anne’s eyes puddled with tears. “They’re all of his wife and son. His wife died thirteen years ago, and his son is now grown. Adam is working feverishly to memorialize them as he knew them, before his memory fails.”
“They look so happy.”
“That’s how he remembers them.”
“So, why isn’t he with his son?” I thought of how I’d left my mother for reasons hard to explain to those accustomed to judging by outside appearances.
“There’s little honor in growing old these days.” Anne said. “Adam is selfish, yet selfless, weak, yet strong. He’s trying to do what’s best for his son, and for himself as well. Sometimes one can’t do both and must choose.”
I knew the feeling, trying to do what was best for Truus, but also what was best for me. Sometimes one can’t do both and must choose. Maybe Adam and I had something in common.
“He’s trying to figure out what it means to be alive,” Anne said. “And what it means to die.”
I swallowed with difficulty. “Thanks for bringing me here.”
Anne shrugged. “Actually, Adam wanted to meet you. He was the one you sensed yesterday when you came across the sculpture he was working on. He says your mother’s here and has a message for you.”
Something cracked inside of me. I felt like crying, but held on. “Anne, he called me ‘Sunwalker,’ which is the name my birth mother gave me before she died. He must know her.”
Anne crossed herself. “Then he may be the key.”
~~~
When we got back to camp, three children occupied my tent. Again. The bravest, young Holly, jumped up, not appearing the least bit upset at being caught trespassing a second time. “Are you a pervert?” she asked, addressing me.
Anne laughed.
I ignored her and asked Holly, “What’s a pervert, dear?”
“I think it’s a—” Holly searched my face for clues.
“It means you’re bad,” Nathan said. “Dad says people like you should be locked up.”
Holly’s eyes widened and she backed up a step, before edging forward again. Brave girl.
Anne chuckled. “This is getting interesting.”
Christopher, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “I don’t think you’re bad just because Dad says so.”
“Now that’s my kind of guy,” Anne said.
“Are you gay?” Nathan asked, addressing Anne.
This time I chuckled, suddenly able to see the humor in the situation.
“Do you know what gay means?” Anne asked.
Nathan shook his head.
“It’s okay,” Holly said. “I like gay.”
“Me, too,” Nathan said.
Christopher looked uneasy. “Dad’ll kill us if he finds us here.”
“Yeah,” Nathan and Holly chimed in.
“Well, goodbye then,” I said.
They took off like rabbits.
“Parents like that really screw up their kids,” I said as I watched them race back to their camp. “They learn by what they see and hear.”
“And by instinct,” Anne added.
“They’re getting no guidance. Unless you consider punishment after the fact as guidance.”
“They’re getting lots of freedom, that’s for sure.” Anne said. “Jealous?”
I surprised myself by saying, “Yes. Children need restrictions for their security and well-being, but they should also have the right to an opinion and to make some of their own decisions. My mother’s lack of trust in me caused her to try to control my life and activities, not only as a child, but even now.”
Anne was wise enough not to comment.
“Look at Holly,” I said. “She stands up for what she believes in. She hasn’t been broken. At least, not yet.”
“Broken by whom?” Anne asked.
“Her parents, teachers, church, society, life.”
“You think she’ll lose the power of her convictions?”
“It depends,” I said. “She’s got spunk, that’s for sure.”
Anne continued to stare at the Circus Camp, though the children had long disappeared into their tent. “They do think for themselves, judging us on what they observe, rather than what they’re being told.”
“I wouldn’t have done so at their age,” I said. I had always been the perfect child, always following the rules, never questioning authority.
“So, you’re just getting to that now?” Anne asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “after twenty-eight years.”
“So, who’s got the better parents?”
“One of life’s contradictions, I guess.”
We stood silent until Anne said, “I have some meditating to do. See you Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?”
Anne shook her head. “I knew you weren’t listening. That’s when I’ll be taking you to my workshop.”
I looked at her blankly.
“Oh dear, Adam really shook you up, didn’t he?”
“You have no idea,” I said.