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My son Jeremy's steps are heavy in the corridor but it is only when he flings open the apartment door, face pale, that I remember to hide the index cards under a cushion. He walks across the living room to the kitchen; ice cubes tinkle in a glass, liquid splashes, and then silence fills the air.
There was something important Jeremy had to do today but I cannot remember what it was; the trip to Dr. Garth's clinic has numbed me, and the gaps in my mind are larger than normal.
When he sits down facing me, Jeremy's fingers are white against the dark in the glass. "She has other plans," he says without preamble. "Like stardom in Hollywood."
Right. He and his girlfriend--what is her name--were to decide on their apartment. Does this mean Jeremy will continue to live with me? I do not ask.
Then he says, "What about your checkup?"
Early-onset dementia is not something a woman in her forties expects. Dr. Garth had not looked at me as he shuffled papers, wrote references, and mumbled that while I'd probably remain productive for some years, I needed to plan. And not all memory loss is dementia, he had added.
But I do not want to frighten Jeremy into moving out. "Everything's fine."
Jeremy nods, but he is still frowning.
"Talk to her and work something out," I say.
"Let her go her way. I'll go mine."
I feel a twinge of envy. He is just twenty-three, young enough to discard. Not like me, desperately clinging to people and memories. All afternoon, I have been groping the corners of my mind for pleasant memories before they are swallowed by the ever-growing black holes. On the index cards I have been making a rolodex of my past.
One card says--'Once Harry and I had ice cream at the beach.'
Bland words. Yet, though I can feel smooth, cold ice-cream slip down my throat and my dress rustle in the breeze, I don't find the words to pin down that happiness. When was it? Was it after Harry and I married, or before? Or perhaps it never happened; the memory grew in my tangled brain, a jumble of others.
Looking at Jeremy, I wonder whether clinging doesn't work--not for memories, not for people.
Then Jeremy says, "Maybe we can work something out."
As the fingers of my mind relax, a name pops up. Lily. His girlfriend.
"I'll talk to her," he adds. He leans back on the sofa, his eyes half-closed, smiling.
Memories flutter around me, some gray and faded, others rainbow-bright. I no longer want to crush them and slap them on cards; instead, I watch their dizzy dance. That beach-day dress was the blue of a summer sky, its flowers the color of a happy sun. I still can't remember when it happened, but it doesn't matter any more. Warmth fills me.
Specks of light reflect off a crystal vase on the mantelpiece. I hear a favorite melody playing far away, yet very near. There is a softening inside me, the dissolving of a knot that had grown all afternoon. I turn to Jeremy, finally ready to tell him what Dr. Garth said.
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