RORY AND CHASE chose the support group together. They managed to find one forty-five minutes away in Towson that advertised several members with EOA as well as the more common form of Alzheimer’s. The group met on the third Saturday of every month, so they were lucky enough to be able to attend a meeting that weekend.
Sawyer considered insisting that Rory stay behind, but he knew he’d never make it through the entire meeting if she wasn’t with him. So he didn’t put up much of a fuss when she got someone to cover her shift at the restaurant in order to go with them.
They arrived in Towson in plenty of time and found the meeting place without trouble. The group met in a large room at a local community center. The minute Sawyer walked in the door, his nose wrinkled at the antiseptic smell of bleach and cleaning products. The floor was covered with rough, industrial carpeting in an indistinguishable shade of gray-green. Construction paper artwork covered the walls, a riot of color against the bland beige paint. There was a table off to the side, loaded with a platter of cookies, a basket of croissants and a coffee urn. There was no other table in the room, just a large circle of a dozen or more chairs. Sawyer felt uncomfortable at the sight of it. It put him in mind of group therapy, where everyone shared their “feelings.” Of course, maybe that’s exactly what this was.
He stopped short of the circle as Rory and Chase took another step forward. There were a handful of people already gathered, along with a petite, silver-haired lady at the center. She took note of their arrival and moved to greet them.
“You must be Rory,” she said, extending a hand, which Rory took in her own. “I’m Joan, we spoke on the phone. We’re so happy you’ve decided to join us today.” She directed her attention at Chase, who moved toward her, arm extended to accept her handshake and introduce himself. Then it was Joan’s turn to focus on Sawyer. He shifted uncomfortably, still standing a step behind Chase and Rory. As she looked at him, he waited for recognition to dawn. It was what he’d been dreading the most—having people realize who he was. But Joan either possessed a consummate poker face or she had no idea of Sawyer’s celebrity status. She simply stood, smiling at him with an open and welcoming expression, and waited for him to speak.
“I’m Sawyer,” he finally said, and nodded in her direction. He didn’t offer her his hand as the others had.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sawyer,” she said. “Rory tells me you and your brother have a relative who was recently diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.”
“Yes,” Chase said. “Our dad.”
Joan’s face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. First learning about the diagnosis can be one of the most difficult parts of the disease. What made you decide to seek out our support group?”
Sawyer tuned out Chase and Rory as they elaborated on their reasons for being here. It didn’t really matter to Sawyer what they said. He’d come here as a favor to Rory, nothing more. He didn’t expect to get much out of it.
Joan shared a few details about the group, how they’d formed and how long they’d been meeting. She gave a quick overview of some of the members and their situations with the disease. A lot of them were caretakers for older parents, although she mentioned a few who were Alzheimer’s patients themselves. She also confirmed that they had two other members who had loved ones diagnosed with EOA.
As Joan spoke, he scanned the rest of the group briefly. Most of the people in the circle were in conversations amongst themselves. There was one guy, however, who was staring at Sawyer pretty hard. He knew he’d been recognized. The thought made him wince. The last thing he wanted was an autograph session in the middle of this thing.
“Sawyer?” He turned to Rory, realizing the conversation had gone on without him.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
Rory didn’t seem put out that his attention had wandered. “Joan was explaining how the meetings work.”
“We’re a pretty informal group,” Joan said. “We open by introducing any new members, and then we go around the room, taking turns and sharing our hardest struggle in the last month as well as our greatest joy.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Chase said.
Joan nodded. “It’s a beneficial format for us. It gives us the opportunity to share what we’ve learned, be honest about the challenges of Alzheimer’s, and find the good in the day-to-day.”
“You can find good in it?” Sawyer asked, knowing his tone oozed skepticism.
“Oh, yes,” Joan said. “Those in our group who have been diagnosed with the disease have a saying—‘I’ve got Alzheimer’s, but Alzheimer’s doesn’t have me.’ We use that as a reminder that the disease is a part of us, but it doesn’t define who we are. We are still fighting.”
Sawyer thought it was a stirring sentiment. He just wasn’t sure how realistic it was.
“You are more than welcome to speak up, ask questions, or share with the group, but it’s not required. First-time visitors are often overwhelmed, having only recently learned that they or a loved one has been diagnosed with the disease. So it’s perfectly fine to just observe.”
This put Sawyer at ease. It was enough that he’d come; he didn’t feel like sharing his feelings with a bunch of strangers.
Joan’s attention shifted, and when they followed the direction of her gaze, he noticed a couple more people entering the room.
“Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat? There are refreshments over there.” She pointed to the table with the cookies and other items. “And feel free to mingle. We’re a pretty friendly bunch.”
They all murmured their thanks, and then awkwardly found seats in the circle. Sawyer noticed the guy who’d been eyeing him tapping on his cell phone. He didn’t seem interested in Sawyer’s presence anymore, which allowed Sawyer to breathe a little easier.
Several of the group members came over to introduce themselves, and they spent the next few minutes exchanging polite conversation. A younger woman studied him carefully, then said, “You look so familiar. I feel like I know you.”
He smiled but didn’t give her any encouragement. “I have one of those faces.”
She shrugged, seemingly content to let it go. He was grateful for such a small group. The more attendees, the greater chance he’d be recognized. While it had become a standard part of his life, he didn’t much feel like being Sawyer Landry the Country Music Star today.
“All right, first, I’d like to thank everyone for coming.” Joan stood in the center of the circle and drew everyone’s attention with her welcoming words. The few people who’d been congregating by the refreshment table found their way to their seats. “I’d like to welcome a few new faces today.” Joan gestured in their direction. “This is Chase, Rory and Sawyer.” She turned toward another couple that appeared to be a mother and daughter. “And this is Bella and Anne. I trust you’ll make them feel welcome.”
Sawyer drummed his fingers on his leg as Joan cleared her throat. “Let’s start by sharing some of our struggles in the last month.”
They began with an older gentleman two seats to Chase’s left. His wife had recently reached the point in the disease where she had to be moved to a nursing care facility.
“Nights are the worst,” the man, who introduced himself as Bill, explained. “The two of us used to stay up late together, watching the news and then reading. Even when things got bad, she was still there with me. Now, the house feels empty. Quiet. She hasn’t died, but I’ve already lost her. I don’t know how to mourn for her.”
Several others expressed their understanding and sympathy. One lady talked about the grief process and how it applied even when the spouse hadn’t yet passed on. The next person was closer to Chase’s age. His grandfather had been diagnosed a year ago, and the older man’s mental state was rapidly deteriorating. Because he was currently without a job, he had taken on a lot of the caregiving for his grandpa. He talked about how much it hurt when his grandfather lashed out at him.
“I try to remind myself it’s not him saying all these hurtful things. It’s the Alzheimer’s. But some days, it feels so personal.”
There were murmurs of commiseration.
“We used to be so close. My parents worked a lot when I was growing up, and I ended up at my grandparents’ most of the time. Gramps would do everything with me. We built model trains and went fishing. We’d work on his truck together. And now, half the time, he doesn’t know who I am.”
A couple of people spoke up, offering encouragement and talking about their own experiences with loved ones who were approaching this point. One man talked about how frightened he was to reach this stage, worrying his family wouldn’t know how much he loved them.
Joan encouraged him to begin writing letters to his children and grandchildren, so they could have moments with him, even when his memory began to decline.
They circled the room, story after story. Sawyer felt frustration building within himself. Why had Rory thought this would be a good idea? He was overcome with despair for these people’s suffering, yet inside he was also screaming at them all. He knew it was mean and self-pitying, but he couldn’t help feeling most of them were lucky. While they were either a victim of the disease or loved someone who was, none of them were both patient and caregiver. What about him and Chase? They were going to watch their father wither away, only to, perhaps, become victims themselves one day.
They had nearly finished the circle. The last in the group was a woman who looked a little younger than him and Rory. She introduced herself as Madeline. She was petite and pale, but her expression was fierce. When she spoke, her voice had a smoky quality to it, with a sharp rasp that made her sound as if she’d been crying.
“In this past month, my struggle has been...” she trailed off, her jaw flexing with emotion. “Everything.” She paused, clearly weighed down by her emotions. Her shoulders were stiff, and she leaned forward in her seat. “I am so angry with everyone. Everything. God. People who don’t know what it’s like to see a loved one succumb to such a horrible disease.”
She ran a hand through her pixie-style red hair. “My husband is dying. He is thirty-eight years old, and he doesn’t even remember how to work the microwave. He keeps forgetting the name of our son. How do I explain to my little boy why his daddy can’t remember who he is?”
She scoffed, and the sound itself was laced with bitterness. “I’m watching my twelve-year-old become the man of the house while his dad regresses to a child. I caught my little boy the other day, showing his dad how to check his email. That night, I made macaroni and cheese for dinner. It was always my husband’s favorite, but he spit it out and told me he hated macaroni and cheese. I tried to tell him that wasn’t true, that he’s always loved it, but he threw his plate on the floor like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. What kind of example does that set for our son?”
She bit her lip, as if trying to contain herself. But the words wouldn’t stop. “There are days when I hate him,” she whispered, her tone bereft. “And then I feel so guilty because it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask for this. He watched his mom die from this disease when he was a teenager, and when he learned he had it, too, he was inconsolable with grief. This is not what he wanted for himself, or for us. I know that. But I need someone to blame. And I don’t know who else to be mad at.”
She dropped her face into her hands. “Some days, I think it would be a relief if he would die.”
The words were muffled, but they echoed in the stillness of the room. A shiver snaked its way up Sawyer’s spine.
This. This was the cold truth. It wasn’t platitudes or mantras or a balance of the good within the struggle. This was the everyday reality of living with Alzheimer’s, especially the early onset kind. And he shuddered when he realized that Madeline’s husband was less than ten years older than him. Coldness crept into his extremities. What if this was his fate?
And then, an even worse thought—what if this was what he was condemning Rory to? He shifted uncomfortably, the metal chair squeaking with the movement. The sound broke the tension, and Joan began speaking. Several others joined in, and he could tell by the tone of their voices that they were encouraging, commiserating, advising.
But he didn’t hear their words. Not a one. He was buried too deep in his own fear and dismay. Sinking beneath the vision of a future he dreaded.
How could he ask Rory to marry him if this was what life would become? What kind of marriage was that? And what about children? They’d always planned to have kids one day. How could he condemn a child to a life without a father? Or worse, only a few years with one before memories were lost and forgotten, before the roles were reversed and Sawyer became the helpless child?
He felt sick. And because he couldn’t focus on the others’ words, he watched Madeline very closely. She was still hunched over, her eyes glazed. Whatever they were saying to her wasn’t penetrating. She’d given up. He found no hope in her expression, no lift in her spirits. She was a defeated woman.
And all he could see then was Rory. Rory in this position. Rory, having lost her spark and fire to a man who had become a burden. Him. He did not want to become her baggage, her charity work, the thing that drained the life from her.
He stood to his feet abruptly, only vaguely aware that he’d pulled everyone’s attention from Madeline to himself. But he couldn’t breathe. He had to get out of this room with its antiseptic smell and cloud of false hope.
“Excuse me.”
They were the only words he managed before pushing past his metal chair and heading for the door.
* * *
SAWYER REACHED THE HALLWAY, his breathing sharp and shallow. He still couldn’t find his breath, and he felt nearly panicked with effort to reach fresh air. He turned a corner and realized he’d gone the wrong way.
Chase had led them to the meeting room, and Sawyer only vaguely remembered the way they’d come in. He tried to focus and stumbled back in the direction of the room, moving past it without a glance inside. He rounded a corner that he hoped would take him to the exit and thought he heard the door to the meeting room swing open.
He made it outside less than a minute later and immediately took in huge gulps of air as he struggled to compose himself.
And suddenly he was the center of a storm.
There were reporters—at least three of them, each with a cameraman. They descended with microphones and volleyed questions at him.
“Sawyer Landry, can you tell us what you’re doing here today?”
“We received a tip that you’re attending an Alzheimer’s support group. Do you have a family member who is struggling with the disease?”
“Is this part of a charitable contribution on your part?”
“Why else are you in Towson?”
He’d never had a problem with the media before. He accepted they were a part of his life now, that anywhere he went there was the chance he’d be photographed or intruded upon.
But he hadn’t expected this. Why hadn’t he expected this? They were in his face with cameras and microphones, pressing for answers. He’d been caught off guard, and he cursed himself for not anticipating such a scenario. His face was well known these days. Did he really think he could come and go without being recognized?
He thought about the guy in the group, the one watching him covertly who was later absorbed in his phone. Had he tipped off the local news stations?
“Mr. Landry, are you making any other appearances today?”
“What brings you to the area?”
“Hey!”
He’d been frozen up until this point, paralyzed by the unexpected assault of questions. But when he heard Rory’s voice cut through the commotion, her tone sharp and angry, he snapped to attention.
“Mr. Landry has nothing to say,” she announced, placing herself between him and the reporters.
“Can we get your name, miss?”
“How do you know Mr. Landry?”
“Can you tell us what you’re doing here today?”
She ignored them and faced him instead. “Chase is going to get the car.” She grabbed him by the hand and began to lead him away, but the reporters followed.
“Just one statement, Mr. Landry, to let our local readers know why you’re here.”
“That’s none of their business,” Rory snapped.
If he hadn’t been so dazed, he might have laughed at her irritation. But he didn’t have an ounce of humor in him at the moment.
“I’m here on a personal matter,” he said as he continued walking. “It’s nothing that would interest your readers.”
“I highly doubt that,” one of the reporters returned.
She was probably right. If word got out that he might be an Alzheimer’s patient, he imagined it would be big news. At least on a slow celebrity-news day.
“Come on, Sawyer, give us a clue! We’re big fans!”
He chafed at this. Fans or not, wasn’t he entitled to some privacy?
No, he realized. He wasn’t. He’d given that up when he became a headlining act.
He abruptly stopped walking. It was so abrupt that Rory’s hand jerked free of his as she continued her forward momentum. He turned to face the reporters, suddenly feeling as if none of it mattered. The world would find out soon enough.
“My dad has Alzheimer’s,” he announced. The words silenced the reporters for the span of about five seconds.
“When was he diagnosed?”
“What impact do you think this will have on your career?”
“Is your father here with you today?”
He ignored all the questions.
“He has a rare form of Alzheimer’s called early onset. My family and I are making the necessary determinations for the future. I’d appreciate some privacy during this difficult time.”
With that, he started walking again, pausing when Rory hesitated. Then, together, they started moving toward the curb. Chase pulled up seconds later. The reporters followed, still asking questions, begging for statements.
But he was done. He’d given them enough fodder for their news stories.
He opened the door for Rory, and she climbed inside. He followed.
“Drive,” he said to Chase.
“What are they doing here?” he asked.
“Just drive.”
He was grateful when Chase didn’t argue. They pulled away from the reporters, who were still shouting their questions, and headed for home.