Opening it up, Armand saw again the report. The one with his parents’ names. Honoré and Amelia Gamache. Killed. By a drunk driver.
Armand reached into his pocket and brought out the handkerchief. He traced the embroidered letters with his scarred finger, then he placed it in the box.
Putting the top back, he lowered it carefully into the hole.
The police report had one other name. Of the boy.
Robert Choquet.
The young man, all of sixteen, had been given a suspended sentence. And gone on to live his life. To get married and have a family.
One daughter.
Whom he named Amelia.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I think the main thing I need to acknowledge is that this book has only been written because of the extreme kindness and patience and help of our friends and neighbors.
Michael has dementia. It has progressed, marching through our lives, stomping out his ability to speak, to walk, to remember events and names.
Dementia is a marauder, a thief. But every hole it drills has been filled by our friends. By practical help and emotional support.
It’s not all bad. Far, far from it. There’s clarity, the simplicity of living in the moment and knowing what really matters. Kindness. Company. Gentle care. We laugh a lot, and God knows there’s plenty to laugh about. And there are moments of deep peace and contentment.
I have never met a braver man. When diagnosed he told me he wanted to be open about it. To tell people. Not to hide away, ashamed. Afraid of being judged or shunned or embarrassed.
Michael has met his dementia with humor and acceptance. With gratitude for all that he has. While he can barely speak anymore, he smiles all the time, even in his sleep. He loves massages and food and friends. And Bishop, our golden. And he loves me. I can see it every day.
Michael and I have found more kindness since his diagnosis than we ever knew existed. From friends. From strangers. But also from colleagues. From publishers and editors and publicists. From booksellers and librarians. And readers.
Like you.
You can imagine that writing a book in the midst of all this could not be done without help. Physical and emotional.
First among the people who have made A Great Reckoning possible by lifting so many other weights is my assistant and great friend, Lise Desrosiers.
I honestly, Lise, don’t know what I would do without you. I love you.
Thank you to her husband, Del, for coming over when things fall apart. To Kirk and Walter, our first friends out here and foundations in our lives. How many times have you lifted my spirits and actually lifted Michael when he’s fallen? Strong backs, strong hearts.
To Pat and Tony, for caring so deeply and being there over so many years. And for taking care of Bishop when needed! Thanks to Linda Lyall, who manages the website and sends out the newsletter and does so much more.
Thank you to Andrew Martin, my U.S. publisher at Minotaur Books, for removing the deadline from the books and not forcing me to write. Or to tour. For understanding and always sending love to his buddy, Michael. Thank you, Andy. Thank you to Hope Dellon, my astonishing editor, for being a great friend and writing just to see how we’re doing. And for making A Great Reckoning so much better with her notes and insight.
Thank you to Sarah Melnyk, my publicist, for holding the world at bay and not insisting I do anything unless it works for Michael and me. To Paul Hochman, who built the virtual bistro at the Minotaur site, and who knows from experience what we are living.
Thank you to Jamie Broadhurst in Canada, for being a friend first and colleague second.
Thank you to my UK publishers, Little, Brown—and David Shelley and Lucy Malagoni.
To Louise Loiselle, of Flammarion Québec, for stepping back while stepping up.
Thank you to my agent, Teresa Chris, for starting and ending each conversation by talking about Michael.
Thank you to Michael’s incredible caregivers, Kim and Rose and Daniel. Without you, our lives would fall apart. How do Michael and I even begin to thank you for your care, your kindness? Treating Michael as a beloved brother/father/friend. Bless you.
To Dr. Dominique Giannangelo, for always making time for us, in person and over the phone. For being steady and calm and compassionate.
To Tony Duarte and Ken Prehogan and Hilary Book. Hilary, by the way, also provided advice on some legal issues in A Great Reckoning. Thank you, Hilary!
It would be impossible to list all the friends and neighbors who have stood beside us, but let me mention just a few. Lucy and Danny, David and Linda, Joan, Cotton, Wilder, Cheryl, Deanna. Michael’s sister Carol in London. Richard Oliver. Rosemary and Rocky and Honora. And our beautiful, magical new village of Knowlton, Québec. Merci, mes amis.
To Michael’s sons, Michael and Victor, who phone and visit whenever they can. And while their father can no longer tell them he loves them, they see it in his eyes and know they are loved.
And to my family who visit and write, Rob and Audi, Sarah, Adam, Kim, Mary, Charlie and Roslyn.
Every day when I tuck Michael into bed, I bend down and whisper in his ear that he is a wonderful man. Handsome and kind and generous. Brilliant and brave. I tell him how proud I am to be his wife. And that he is safe. And he is loved.
Then, over the past year, thanks to all the people I mentioned here and so many others not mentioned, I’d go into the living room and sit down at the laptop. And be in the company of my other friends. Armand, Reine-Marie, Clara, Myrna, Gabri, Ruth, et al.
I wrote A Great Reckoning with the peace of mind that comes with knowing I too am safe and loved. And not alone.
Noli timere, dear friend.