A Mother Would Know (68)

“And you took me? Or Dad did?”

I hate when she does this. Insists on pointing out the disparity between the time I spent with her and Darren spent with her. Sometimes, I wonder how long she’ll punish me for the sins of her childhood. “We both did,” I finally say.

“Yeah, well, I’m the only one who does it with Mason,” she says, martyrdom thick in her tone.

“Theo did mention that the method mostly worked for you. Said Mason stayed wide-awake on his nights.”

She snorts. “His nights.”

“Everything okay with you two?”

“Fine. Why?”

“You guys just seem to be a little...” I try to think of the most gentle way to say this. “A little on edge around each other.”

“I think we’re just tired,” she says dismissively. “Anyway, enough about all of that. I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about my marriage or lack of sleep. What’s going on with you?”

“A lot, actually. That’s why I called.”

“Really?” She sounds slightly more awake now. I recognize the tone, though. She thinks I’m going to spill the tea on her brother, even though I’ve never done that before. It’s something she’s been hoping for, though. I can tell.

“Yeah. I...um...saw Dr. Steiner earlier this week and had some tests done.”

“You did? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“No, I mean, before you went. I would’ve gone with you.”

I’m a grown woman. I don’t need an escort to the doctor. “I was fine. Anyway, I got the test results this morning, and they all came back normal.”

Silence.

I wait. Clear my throat. Tap my nails on the table. One of them is chipped. I make a mental note to call my nail technician.

Did I lose her? “Kendra?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I just...what kind of tests were they?”

“I can send you the email, but it was some blood work, an MRI and a cognitive test.”

“And you said they all came back normal?”

“Yeah, isn’t it amazing?” Repeating it to Kendra has caused me to become less skeptical and more excited.

It’s almost too good to be true.

“Yeah, it really is,” she says, lacking the same enthusiasm I’m feeling.

“You don’t sound too thrilled.”

“I am, Mom. It’s great news. The best. It’s just...”

“What?”

“It just doesn’t explain the memory lapses you’ve been having.”

“That’s true.”

“But go ahead and email the test results,” she says. “I’ll look them over, and then maybe we can go to Dr. Steiner together, figure this out.”

“Could the test results be wrong?”

“No, I’m sure they’re right. There can be other reasons for cognitive issues. We just have to figure out what they are.”

As I hang up, elation fills me. I don’t have early-onset Alzheimer’s. I’m not going to end up like my mom. It’s the best news I could have gotten. I’m so happy that even Kendra’s lukewarm reaction can’t get me down. I should have expected it, anyway.

She’s always so reserved. So logical. And oftentimes, skeptical. Hudson’s called her Debbie Downer for years, inspired by a Rachel Dratch sketch.

But she said herself that the test results are correct. Whatever’s going on with me, it’s not showing up on these tests.

I call Hudson next, knowing he’ll be happy about the results. He’s the one who wanted me to see Dr. Steiner in the first place. He doesn’t answer, which makes sense, since he’s at work. But I leave a message: “Hey, just wanted to tell you I have some pretty great news. Dr. Steiner called with my results, and it seems I don’t have Alzheimer’s. Call me when you get this. Your sister’s response was a bit lackluster. I need someone to celebrate with.”

After hanging up, I rise from the kitchen table and go to the fridge for some water. I take in the Post-it Notes tacked to the fridge and flapping from the side of the calendar. Kendra’s right about one thing, though. The test results don’t explain the memory lapses. If I’m not losing my mind to dementia, then why have I been forgetting things?

Stepping closer to the calendar, I read my notes. The recent ones—MRI, Dr. Steiner, art class, Hudson working, Kendra coming over for dinner. Then I flip back to last month, scanning the days, the things I’d missed. My heart stops, my finger resting on one of the dates in question.

Mason, 5:30 p.m.

The handwriting.

It’s different from the other days, the ones I’d recently scrawled down. MRI, Dr. Steiner. It’s a subtle change. Barely noticeable, but there in the swirls of the lettering. In the deliberateness, as if someone had taken great pains to forge my handwriting, but that’s ridiculous.

I tear the calendar off the wall, and my hand trembles as I study it, the paper crinkling beneath my fingertips.

Yes, I’m certain of it. I didn’t write the note about watching Mason. On another date it says I have a dentist appointment at noon. I remember going to that, being told I was there a week early. I thought I’d made a mistake, but I see now that the handwriting is slightly off there as well.