The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(50)

“I suppose you are about to tell me,” Amelia says without looking up from her paper book.

“Everyone thinks they have good taste, but most people do not have good taste. In fact, I’d argue that most people have terrible taste. When left to their own devices— literally their own devices—they read crap and they don’t know the difference.”

“Do you know what the good thing about e-readers is?” Amelia asks.

“No, Madame Bright Side,” A.J. says. “And I don’t want to.”

“Well, for those of us with husbands who are growing farsighted, and I’m not going to mention any names here. For those of us with husbands who are rapidly becoming middle-aged and losing their vision. For those of us burdened by pathetic half men for spouses—”

“Get to it, Amy!”

“An e-reader allows these cursed creatures to enlarge the text as much as they’d like.”

A.J. says nothing.

Amelia sets down her book to smile smugly at her husband, but when she looks over the man is frozen. A.J. is having one of his episodes. The episodes trouble Amelia, though she reminds herself not to be worried.

A minute and a half later, A.J. comes to. “I’ve always been a bit farsighted,” he says. “It’s not about being middle-aged.”

She wipes the spittle from the corners of his mouth with a Kleenex.

“Christ, did I just black out?” A.J. asks.

“You did.”

He grabs the tissue from Amelia. He is not the type of man who likes being tended to in this way. “How long?”

“About ninety seconds, I’d guess.” Amelia pauses. “Is that long or average?”

“Maybe a bit long but basically average.”

“Do you think you should go in for a checkup?”

“No,” A.J. says. “You know I’ve had these since I was a chive.”

“A chive?” she asks.

“A child. What did I say?” A.J. gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom, and Amelia follows him. “Please, Amy. A little space.”

“I don’t want to give you space,” she says.

“Fine.”

“I want you to go to the doctor. That’s three of these since Thanksgiving.”

A.J. shakes his head. “My health insurance is crap, Amy darling. And Dr. Rosen will say it’s the same thing I’ve had for years anyway. I’ll go see the doctor in March for my annual like I always do.”

Amelia goes into the bathroom. “Maybe Dr. Rosen can give you a new medication?” She squeezes between him and the bathroom mirror, resting her generous bum on the new double-sink counter that they installed last month. “You are very important, A.J.”

“I’m not exactly the president,” he retorts.

“You are the father of Maya. And the love of my life. And a purveyor of culture to this community.”

A.J. rolls his eyes, then he kisses Amelia the bright-sider on the mouth.

CHRISTMAS AND NEW Year’s are over; his mother is happily returned to Arizona; Maya is back to school and Amelia to work. The real gift of the holiday season, A.J. thinks, is that it ends. He likes the routine. He likes making breakfast in the morning. He likes running to work.

He puts on his running clothes, does a few halfhearted stretches, throws a headband over his ears, straps on his backpack, and prepares to run to the store. Now that he no longer lives above the store, his route takes him in the opposite direction of the one he used to take when Nic was alive, when Maya was a baby, in the first years of his marriage to Amelia.

He runs past Ismay’s house, which she once shared with Daniel and now shares improbably with Lambiase. He runs past the spot where Daniel died, too. He runs past the old dance studio. What was the dance teacher’s name? He knows she moved to California not too long ago, and the dance studio is empty. He wonders who will teach the little girls of Alice Island to dance? He runs past Maya’s elementary school and past her junior high and past her high school. High school. She has a boyfriend. The Furness boy is a writer. He hears them arguing all the time. He takes a shortcut through a field, and is almost through it to Captain Wiggins Street when he blacks out.

It is twenty-two degrees out, and when he wakes his hand is blue where it had rested on the ice.

He stands and warms his hands on his jacket. He has never passed out in the middle of a run before.

“Madame Olenska,” he says.

DR. ROSEN GIVES him a full examination. A.J. is in good health for his age, but there’s something strange about his eyes that gives the doctor pause.

“Have you had any other problems?” she asks.

“Well . . . Perhaps it’s just growing older, but lately I seem to have a verbal glitch every now and again.”

“Glitch?” she says.

“I catch myself. It’s not that bad. But I occasionally switch a word with another word. Child for chive, for example. Or last week I called The Grapes of Wrath “The Grapefruit Rag.” Obviously, this poses a problem in my line of work. I felt quite convinced that I was saying the right thing. My wife thought there might be an antiseizure medication that could help?”

“Aphasia,” she says. “I don’t like the sound of that.” Given A.J.’s history of seizures, the doctor decides to send him to a brain specialist in Boston.