The Things We Keep(6)

Clara’s right. “Sexy” is the word for this guy.

The room has become conspicuously silent. Under the table, something is brushing against my leg. Something … hairy. I whoosh backwards.

“It’s … just Kayla,” Luke says. “Eric’s d-dog. She’s h-harmless.”

I nod, eyes on the dog.

“You don’t like dogs?” he asks.

“For someone with Alzheimer’s, you’re fairly perceptive.”

“Actually, I have fr-frontotemporal dementia.”

There’s another beat of silence, and I peel my eyes from the dog to look at him.

“You lose memories,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I lose speech.”

I look back at the dog. Its tongue unrolls from its mouth, the most unwelcome welcome mat I’ve ever seen.

Luke’s hand curls around its collar. “You really don’t like d-dogs?” he asks. I can tell by the way his toes curl under the dog’s belly that he is a dog lover. “Not even … puppies?”

Now I’m definitely aware of his speech. It’s not only slow but also slightly slurred. And more than that, he seems to require an above-average amount of effort to project words from his throat. The disjointedness seems out of place, coming from such a young, healthy-looking man.

“Not even puppy embryos,” I say.

He gives the dog a pat, then guides her to the glass sliding door and lets her out. She pads outside, tail wagging.

“Was there an i-i-i-ncident?” he asks when he gets back. “With a dog. To cause your d-dislike.”

I nod, pointing to the faint pink stripe slicing my right eyebrow in half. “When I was three.”

“Family dog?”

“A neighbor’s. You’re clearly a dog fan.”

“Definitely. I used to—” He pauses, and his forehead creases like he’s thinking hard. “—give my time to the animal shelter a few years back. I was in charge of p-puppy adoption.”

“Oh yeah?” An image of him snuggling a puppy against his chest flashes into my mind.

“Last call for the afternoon bus!” A man in a white shirt and trousers with a large name badge that says TREV stands in the doorway. “Anyone need assistance?”

Luke turns to me. “Plans this afternoon?”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “My social calendar is packed.”

“Well, you heard the man. Last c … c-all for the afternoon bus.”

“Oooh!” Clara jumps up. “I’d better grab my purse. The afternoon bus waits for no one.”

Clara hurries off, and Luke leans forward in his chair. “She’s wrong, you know. The afternoon bus waits for everyone.”

I laugh. And I feel a tickle low in my belly.

“You need anything?” Luke asks me. He makes a gesture that looks like he’s hanging something invisible over his shoulder. “Your thingy that you put stuff in?”

“Oh…” I know exactly what he’s talking about, but in that instant, I can’t think of what it is called either. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll make it today.”

In high school, we always had a week of class after our exams were over. There was nothing left in the curriculum, because we’d completed—and been tested on—it all, but the idea was to give us a chance to “finish off the school year right.” Whatever that meant. Most of the teachers played games with us. Some let us talk and hang out. One teacher, Mr. Kaiser, continued with lessons as usual. The whole thing was beyond pointless, yet year after year, that’s what we did. Heading to the mall with Luke now, ready to engage in getting-to-know-you conversation, feels just as pointless.

“So-socks to sort?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

He nods and drops his head again. “Looks like it’s just us, Clara,” he says when she returns.

“Well, that’s a right shame,” she says, looking at me. “Are you sure we can’t convince you to come, honey?”

There’s a beat of silence as they wait, long enough to make me second-guess myself. Maybe I should be doing these things? One last trip to the mall? A last first conversation with a sexy man? But I shake off the doubts. I have enough to worry about without creating a heap of new “lasts.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “You two have fun.”

But as they drift away, I realize that if I was trying to avoid creating a new last, I’d failed. The whole exchange was, in fact, a “last”: It was the last time I’d say no to something I really wanted to do.

*

Dr. Brain once told me that an Alzheimer’s brain was like the snow on a mountain peak—slowly melting. There are days when the sun is bright and chunks drop off all over the place, and there are days when the sun stays tucked behind clouds and everything remains largely intact. Then there are days—spectacular days (his words)—when you stumble across a trail you thought had melted, and for a short while you have something back that you thought was gone forever.

I get the feeling that since the analogy involved the words “mountain peak” and “spectacular,” Dr. Brain thought this news wouldn’t be depressing to hear, when in fact, the opposite was true. I think I’d have felt better about my prognosis if he’d reworded a little. Something like, The brain is like a filthy, stinking pile of crap. When the sun comes out, it stinks worse than you can imagine, and when it’s cold or cloudy, you can barely smell it at all. Then there are the days that, if the wind is coming from a certain way, you might catch the cold scent of a spruce for a few hours and forget the crap is even there. With that analogy, at least we’d have been calling a spade a spade. Because the truth is, if you have dementia, your brain is crap. And even if you can’t smell it right this minute, it still stinks.