We Are Not Ourselves(110)

“It’s just debate, Mom.”

“They’re the best. You should be the best with them. Otherwise you’re wasting your time.”

“I like baseball,” he said.

“You’re not going to be a professional player.”

“Probably not.”

“Definitely not.”

“Fine. Definitely not.”

“Look,” she said, “there’s your father. Don’t tell him we talked about this. He just wants you to play baseball and not think about anything complicated right now. Or maybe not ever. He wants you to be like a horse in the fields or something. Unfettered.” She said it with a sharp little laugh. “I don’t think that’s real life, though. Maybe I want to tame you. Make you useful. I guess that’s just who I am. But I know one thing. You listen to me, you’re never going to want for anything in this life—not with your ability. I could guide you to the good life. If I’d been born a man, I’d be there myself.”





44


They went to several more appointments. Dr. Khalifa repeated some tests and added new ones. Six weeks after the first appointment—it happened to be St. Patrick’s Day—they went in for the results.

She was more nervous than she’d been since her wedding day. Ed seemed past nerves. He radiated an odd calm, like a man about to receive a lethal injection.

They waited in the room for the doctor to come in. She held Ed’s hand, but he patted hers as if she were the one getting the news.

Dr. Khalifa entered with a folder, giving off a vaguely metallic smell, and Ed bristled. The doctor walked quickly, without sufficient gravity. She thought, A turnip conveys more emotion than this guy.

“Well, I have good news and bad news,” Dr. Khalifa said. “The good news is, physically you’re healthy as a horse. A great specimen.”

She felt a jolt of excitement, then one of fear. “What about the bad news?”

He turned to her. “The bad news is your husband likely has Alzheimer’s.”

She gasped; Ed’s hand in hers seized into a fist.

“I take no pleasure in saying this, but from now on, it might be best to think of every day as the best day of the rest of your life. If I were you, I’d try to make the most of every day while you can.”

Ed squeezed her hand so hard she winced.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“If he didn’t have Alzheimer’s, he’d probably live to ninety-five. Heart, lungs, kidneys, circulation—all tip-top. But he’s got it.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“There’s little doubt,” the doctor said, with all the detached finality of one of those enormous computers in old movies that spat out answers on punch cards.

“I knew it,” Ed said grimly. She realized in an instant that he probably had known it, that he might have known it for years.

“How can this be? He’s barely fifty-one.”

“It’s early, but it happens,” Dr. Khalifa said. “I’m sorry.” He did look sorry, but not for her particularly, rather for himself for having to be the bearer of bad news. “I wish there were something more I could say.” She looked to Ed to explain it to her better than the doctor had. “I’ll leave you two alone.” The doctor slapped Ed’s folder on his thigh as he rose. “I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. I’ll come back in ten minutes to answer any questions and talk about our game plan.”

When he was gone, they sat mulling over the news. It was a paradox of sorts: nothing made sense unless it were true, and yet it made no sense whatever for it to be true. It was so obvious now that he had Alzheimer’s. The news felt old already, somehow.

“What are we going to do?”

“We are going to get a second opinion,” she said.

“We don’t need a second opinion. He’s the second opinion.”

“He could be wrong,” she said.

“He’s not,” Ed said, with an authority that made her heart pound in her chest. She felt such love for him that she had to look away.

They sat in silence. Ed’s grip on her hand hadn’t loosened since they’d heard the news, but now she could feel his fingers beginning to uncurl.

“What the hell,” he said. “What the hell.” It struck her that it sounded like both a lament and a promise—a promise to make the best of things. “What are we going to do?” he asked again.

“We are going to carry this with dignity and grace,” she said. “That’s what.” One point of his collar was upturned, and she flipped it down and pushed the button through the buttonhole for him.

? ? ?

They drove to Nathan’s on Central Avenue. Ed had grown up taking the train out to Coney Island, and she wanted to give him a little comfort. This landlocked outpost on an undistinguished stretch of local road was a pale copy of the faded original on Surf Avenue, but its young patrons seemed to project an aura of possibility onto it. A troupe of heavily cologned, spiky-haired Albanians in collared shirts and high-top sneakers preceded her in line, flirting with the counter girls. They hooted and clapped and spoke with great anticipation of the big night ahead. Through the window she saw a tricked-out Camaro dart into a spot in the lot, tailed by a Trans-Am.