Today, I’m feeling pretty anxious. Not just because it’s the day when people visit but also because of Luke. (I know his name is Luke because he introduced himself to Jack a few seconds ago.) Luke has had the gloriously misguided idea that we should introduce each other to our families—you know, like a regular couple. Sometimes he has some pretty messed-up ideas. I told him that. I think.
So we’re in the big front room. Jack is sitting opposite us, staring at our joined hands. I have no idea what I am supposed to say. Eventually I decide, as I do so often these days, to say nothing. I have Alzheimer’s, after all. Surely that gets me out of uncomfortable small talk?
“This m-m … ust be weird for you, Jack,” Luke says finally. He’s trying hard, and though his words are slightly labored, he’s doing a wonderful job. “I’m sure you … thought your days of meeting your … twin sister’s boyfriends were over.”
Jack’s eyes seek mine, a little incredulous. I force a smile.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, wobbling on the word “better.” “I can promise I’ll be the l … last.”
I can’t help myself, I laugh. For someone with dementia, Luke is pretty smooth. He smiles a little shyly and glances at me. I’m impressed. I haven’t heard him speak so many words without pausing in a while. But Jack doesn’t so much as crack a smile.
Luke, I notice, keeps glancing at his hands. He has a few little tics, but this one is new. It’s not until he tips his palms upward that I notice the blue ink scrawled across them. I see the words Jack, twin, and boyfriend. My heart breaks a little.
Jack looks like he wants to respond, but he’s thinking very carefully before he does. I’m happy to wait. But before he can get his thoughts together enough to speak, a woman sweeps into the room, kisses Luke’s cheek, and falls into the sitting-thing beside Jack.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “You must be the brother. I’m Sarah. The sister.”
This woman is as blond as Luke is dark. She wears jeans and a thin-jacket with lots of shiny stuff at her wrists and neck. Her face is upturned, suggesting friendliness. She looks from Luke to me and then finally to Jack. “So? They’ve told you?”
Jack stares at her. “You know about this?”
“Of course. Luke tells me everything.”
“Terrific,” Jack mutters. “Anna tells me nothing.”
“Look, there’s no reason to be upset,” she says. “My brother is a wonderful guy.”
Luke’s sister sounds remarkably calm, even happy. This, I know, will rile Jack no end.
“I’m sure he is,” Jack says. “I just don’t want him taking advantage of my sister so he can live out his last wish to have a girlfriend.”
There’s a short silence. “Luke’s had plenty of girlfriends,” the sister says. “He doesn’t get into anything unless he is serious.”
“Great!” Jack says. “That’s just great.”
“Besides,” she continues, “why shouldn’t they have a little happiness in here?”
“It all depends,” he says, his voice a little louder now, “on what kind of happiness they are having—”
“They’re adults! It’s none of our business what they do!”
“Whose business is it if Anna gets pregnant? Hmm? Theirs? Maybe they could raise the baby together in this place? You’re right, this is a fantastic idea—”
Jack’s face is red and his voice is loud. The sister’s face closes over. I shrink back into my sitting thing, away from them.
“St-st-st … Stop it!”
I blink up at Young Guy, who’s standing now. Jack and the sister are wide-eyed, blinking but silent. It’s lovely, the silence. I’m grateful to Young Guy—I want to say thank you, but the words drift away from me before I can catch them and use them.
“Anna?” A helper-lady jogs into the parlor, frowning. She doesn’t usually jog. Or frown, for that matter. She squats beside me. “You have a visitor.”
I hear, but it doesn’t make sense. Don’t I already have visitors? “I’m sorry.”
Jack’s eyes are focused beyond me, and for this reason, I turn around. There’s a tall man behind my chair, dressed smartly in black pants and a white shirt. A thick brown coat is tucked under one arm. The man is, all at once, familiar and unfamiliar.
Behind me, I hear Jack clearing his throat. “Dad,” he says. “You’re here.”
28
Anna
Dad isn’t an attractive man. He has height, but the skinny kind, rounded at the shoulders so he curves forward like a wilting flower. His eyes are pale blue and his gray-orange fuzz is combed to hide a bald spot. All this information is apparent to anyone in the room, though. The things that I should know about Dad—the day of his birth, his baseball team, whether his stoop is old or new—are not there. Or perhaps they are, but deep down, hazy, as though he were a character from a novel I read a few years ago rather than the man who gave me life. He looks at me closely, perhaps for signs of my dementing. I wonder if he’s finding any.
“Anna,” he says, “I can’t believe it.”
At the sound of his voice, my brain releases a select few, seemingly unimportant memories. The way he used to eat ice cream with a fork. The way he used to drink his … morning caffeine drink … so hot, it should have taken the skin right off his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.