"Do you see that bird?" She points to it, and I strain my eyes. It is a wonder I can see it, but I can because the sun is bright. I point, too.
"Caspian stern," I say softly, and we devote our attention to it and stare as it glides over Brices Creek. And, like an old habit rediscovered, when I lower my arm, I put my hand on her knee and she doesn't make me move it.
She is right about my evasiveness. On days like these, when only her memory is gone, I am vague in my answers because I've hurt my wife unintentionally with careless slips of my tongue many times these past few years, and I am determined not to let it happen again. So I limit myself and answer only what is asked, sometimes not too well, and I volunteer nothing.
This is a split decision, both good and bad, but necessary, for with knowledge comes pain. To limit the pain I limit my answers. There are days she never learns of her children or that we are married. I am sorry for this, but I will not change.
Does this make me dishonest? Perhaps, but I have seen her crushed by the waterfall of information that is her life. Could I look myself in the mirror without red eyes and quivering jaw and know I have forgotten all that was important to me? I could not and neither can she, for when this odyssey began, this is how I began. Her life, her marriage, her children. Her friends and her work. Questions and answers in the game show format of This Is Your Life.
The days were hard on both of us. I was an encyclopedia, an object without feeling, of the whos, whats and wheres in her life, when in reality it is the whys, the things I did not know and could not answer, that make it all worthwhile. She would stare at pictures of forgotten offspring, hold paintbrushes that inspired nothing, and read love letters that brought back no joy. She would weaken over the hours, growing paler, becoming bitter, and ending the day worse than when it began. Our days were lost, and so was she. And selfishly, so was I.
So I changed. I became Magellan or Columbus, an explorer in the mysteries of the mind, and I learned, bumbling and slow, but learning nonetheless what had to be done. And I learned what is obvious to a child. That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreaming and sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned that life is about sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.
"What are you thinking?" she asks.
It is now dusk. We have left our bench and are shuffling along lighted paths that wind their way around this complex. She is holding my arm, and I am her escort. It is her idea to do this. Perhaps she is charmed by me. Perhaps she wants to keep me from falling. Either way, I am smiling to myself.
"I'm thinking about you."
She makes no response to this except to squeeze my arm, and I can tell she likes what I said. Our life together has enabled me to see the clues, even if she does not know them herself. I go on:
"I know you can't remember who you are, but I can, and I find that when I look at you, it makes me feel good."
She taps my arm and smiles. "You're a kind man with a loving heart. I hope I enjoyed you as much before as I do now."
We walk some more. Finally she says, "I have to tell you something."
"Go ahead."
"I think I have an admirer."
"An admirer?"
"Yes."
"I see."
"You don't believe me?"
"I believe you."
"You should."
"Why?"
"Because I think it is you."
I think about this as we walk in silence, holding each other, past the rooms, past the courtyard. We come to the garden, mainly wildflowers, and I stop her. I pick a bundle--red, pink, yellow, violet. I give them to her, and she brings them to her nose. She smells them with eyes closed and she whispers, "They're beautiful." We resume our walk, me in one hand, the flowers in another. People watch us, for we are a walking miracle, or so I am told. It is true in a way, though most times I do not feel lucky.
"You think it's me?" I finally ask.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I have found what you have hidden." "What?"
"This," she says, handing a small slip of paper to me. "I found it under my pillow."
I read it, and it says:
The body slows with mortal ache, yet my promise remains true at the closing of our days,
A tender touch that ends with a kiss will awaken love in joyous ways.
"Are there more?" I ask.
"I found this in the pocket of my coat."
Our souls were one, if you must know and never shall they be apart;
With splendid dawn, your face aglow
I reach for you and find my heart.
"I see," and that is all I say.
We walk as the sun sinks lower in the sky. In time, silver twilight is the only remainder of the day, and still we talk of the poetry. She is enthralled by the romance.
By the time we reach the doorway, I am tired. She knows this, so she stops me with her hand and makes me face her. I do and I realize how hunched over I have become. She and I are now level. Sometimes I am glad she doesn't know how much I have changed. She turns to me and stares for a long time.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I don't want to forget you or this day, and I'm trying to keep your memory alive."
Will it work this time? I wonder, then know it will not. It can't. I do not tell her my thoughts, though. I smile instead because her words are sweet.
"Thank you," I say.
"I mean it. I don't want to forget you again. You're very special to me. I don't know what I would have done without you today."
My throat closes a little. There is emotion behind her words, the emotions I feel whenever I think of her. I know this is why I live, and I love her dearly at this moment. How I wish I were strong enough to carry her in my arms to paradise.
"Don't try to say anything," she tells me. "Let's just feel the moment."
And I do, and I feel heaven.
Her disease is worse now than it was in the beginning, though Allie is different from most. There are three others with the disease here, and these three are the sum of my practical experience with it. They, unlike Allie, are in the most advanced stages of Alzheimer's and are almost completely lost. They wake up hallucinating and confused. They repeat themselves over and over. Two of the three can't feed themselves and will die soon. The third has a tendency to wander and get lost. She was found once in a stranger's car a quarter mile away. Since then she has been strapped to the bed. All can be very bitter at times, and at other times they can be like lost children, sad and alone. Seldom do they recognize the staff or people who love them. It is a trying disease, and this is why it is hard for their children and mine to visit.
Allie, of course, has her own problems, too, problems that will probably grow worse over time. She is terribly afraid in the mornings and cries inconsolably. She sees tiny people, like gnomes, I think, watching her, and she screams at them to get away. She bathes willingly but will not eat regularly. She is thin now, much too thin, in my opinion, and on good days I do my best to fatten her up.
But this is where the similarity ends. This is why Allie is considered a miracle, because sometimes, just sometimes, after I read to her, her condition isn't so bad. There is no explanation for this. "It's impossible," the doctors say. "She must not have Alzheimer's." But she does. On most days and every morning there can be no doubt. On this there is agreement.
But why, then, is her condition different? Why does she sometimes change after I read? I tell the doctors the reason--I know it in my heart, but I am not believed. Instead they look to science. Four times specialists have traveled from Chapel Hill to find the answer. Four times they have left without understanding. I tell them, "You can't possibly understand it if you use only your training and your books," but they shake their heads and answe
r: "Alzheimer's does not work like this. With her condition, it's just not possible to have a conversation or improve as the day goes on. Ever."
But she does. Not every day, not most of the time, and definitely less than she used to. But sometimes. And all that is gone on these days is her memory, as if she has amnesia. But her emotions are normal, her thoughts are normal. And these are the days that I know I am doing right.
Dinner is waiting in her room when we return. It has been arranged for us to eat here, as it always is on days like these, and once again I could ask for no more. The people here take care of everything. They are good to me, and I am thankful.