Just Beyond Her Reach

It was early onset Alzheimer’s, the doctor had said. 

The woman had said that wasn’t possible. The doctor had chuckled, which she thought was inappropriate, and told her it most certainly was.

She had thought it was all inappropriate.

I’m only fifty, the woman had said. It’s not possible.

The doctor had sighed, sat next to her. 

Do you have any children or family who can help you?

And that’s as much as the woman remembers, truthfully. The rest is just beyond her grasp, frustratingly unobtainable, tantalizing, glittering.

She doesn’t remember anything anymore, doesn’t know anything anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

She knows that the short, skinny boy who assists her is a good guy. She can’t remember his name, but she knows he’s good. Solid. Helpful.

You’re a good man, she tells him.

He smiles, pityingly, like this isn’t the first time she’s said it. Thank you, he murmurs, and goes back to making her bed.

She knows that sometimes she looks in the mirror. Sometimes she looks in the mirror and a person she doesn’t recognize stares back at her. Someone with grey hair. Silver shards of eyes, chapped lips. Her hands more wrinkled than they’ve ever been, they drift next to her detachedly, they’re someone else’s hands.

She knows that she used to have big, beautiful, curly hair. 

Distantly, someone chatters in the back of her mind, someone with a hair dryer, someone with a bag of dye in their hand, someone with a large smile and soft hands.

Someone who pressed kisses to the crown of her head and crowed with delight when she walked in.

Darling! Rings through her head, rattles around her skull. Darling!

The memory’s gone. Slipped away.

She doesn’t have that hair anymore.

She turns her attention back to the man. He’s preparing some food for her now.

No, I just ate, she reminds him.

He’s slicing bread.

She repeats herself.

He continues slicing bread, like he can’t hear her, like she’s just some fly on the wall, screaming into empty space, no one’s here! Can he really be so nice if he just ignores her like that? How could one human being do that to another?

She reaches for the knife in his hand, desperate to get him to listen.

You-!

He lurches away, shoving the knife somewhere she can’t see.

I’m making dinner, he says a moment later, face flushing.

She blinks. No.

What?

I just ate breakfast. Remember, I-- I, er, I had scrambled eggs! I made them myself, remember?

And tears fill his eyes.

She hates it. She knows that.

Of course, he murmurs.

She hates that sorrowful, defeated tone even more. She knows that too.

He puts the bread away.

Cheese and lettuce and meat back in the fridge.

We shouldn’t be eating that much beef, she informs him. It’s bad for the environment.

He nods.

Just a second later, she remembers that she specifically requested to have Meatless Mondays and Fridays a while ago.

But she doesn’t know what day it is. Doesn’t know whether or not he’s doing as she asked. 

She should ask. What day is it? Nice and casual.

Do you want to play some dominoes? She says instead.

And maybe she’s a coward who’s scared of her own failing mind and the pitying look Jon-- Jon! That’s it! That’s his name. Jon. She loves that name. Jon.

Let’s play dominoes, Jon, she says, purposefully leaning on his name a little harder than necessary.

He smiles.

Of course.

You always say that, she mutters, turning away. And in that exact tone.

A moment later, the certainty she had in her statement disappears. Slippery little thing, she wants to admonish. 

But Jon’s giving her an odd look, so she just focuses on the dominoes.

You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, he tells her a while later. Just letting you know.

Her eyebrows furrow. Are you sure?

Yeah.

Which one?

Pujowski.

Yellow hair, wrinkled jacket that reeks of boiled corn. Pings in the very back of her mind.

She frowns as she places another domino onto the table. Jon nudges it fully into place, meeting her gaze with a curious eye. 

You don’t like Pujowski?

Isn’t he the one who always smells like corn?

Jon smiles. Corn? Does corn have a particular smell?

Of course it does. 

We’re meeting him in the morning, though. Right after breakfast, so maybe he won't smell like corn.

Doesn’t matter.

Jon laughs, adding a moment later, On Friday you have a dentist appointment too.

She nods, trailing her finger over the pockmarked side of the domino. Six. One, two, three, one, two, three. She counts. Over and over.

It’s just a checkup though. Nothing to stress over.

The woman straightens, nodding. Who’s the dentist again?

Dr. Meena. You like her.

The woman squints, trying her hardest to picture her dentist.

She can’t do it.

Just like most things nowadays, it swims just out of reach, glistening, loving, calling out to her.

I can’t remember, Jake.

Jake shakes his head, exhaling slowly. You like her. I promise.

Okay.

She trusts him.

+

Dr. Pujowski smells like corn.

She wants to mouth, I told you so!, to the boy who assists her, but isn’t quite sure whether she dreamt the conversation about Dr. Pujowski’s smell or not, so she stays still, eyes darting around the bleached white room.

She hates this room. She remembers that. 

It’s unnatural. Skin-crawlingly unnatural.

I haven’t seen you in a while, Pujowski says, a big smile on his face.

She just nods.

This is a big day! Did Jon tell you?

Jon. That’s his name. It’s a good name.

She turns towards Jon (Jon, Jon, Jon), who shakes his head. 

I, er, tried, he mutters, flushing red.

You tried, Pujowski repeats. 

He reeks of corn.

That’s okay. I’ll tell her now. 

They talk about her as if she isn’t in the same room with them, watching their conversation bounce back and forth.

Tennis, she mutters. Tennis.

The men turn towards her. Jon raises an eyebrow, while Pujowski frowns.

Pardon?

She doesn’t respond, unsure of the prompt.

Pujowski stares at her, eyes wide, and then says slowly, ridiculously slowly, like he’s speaking a different language, he says, We’re evaluating you. Seeing if you’re fit to be a part of a clinical trial we here at the hospital are developing.

A clinical trial for Alzheimers, Jon adds in a hurried tone. Isn’t that such a great opportunity?

A clinical trial, she murmurs. The words feel odd in her mouth, sitting on her tongue, living in between her teeth. For Alzheimers.

Today we’re going to do some tests, a check-up, nothing invasive, I promise. We’ll know by the end of the week whether or not you’re eligible to take part, Pujowski says, cheeks red, offsetting his graying hair in an upsetting way. 

She blinks.

Yellow hair. Smells bad.

He continues rattling on, but the woman stops listening.

She wishes she could remember how she ended up here. Did Jon sign her up? Or did she apply all by herself?

It’s behind the veil. Reaching for her.

She wishes she could reach back.

Pujowski places a pamphlet in front of her, pulling her back to the white room, corn smell, wooden chair.

She runs her fingertip over the pamphlet, flicks it open.

Silver glints up at her.

I don’t want to do this, she murmurs, standing. No. Take me home. I withdraw from wh-- whatever you’re doing. I don’t want to do it. 

Jake-- no, Jon. She thinks. Jon leaps up from his chair, bracing his hands on her shoulders.

What’s wrong? He asks, and she wants to kill him, because she thinks it’s pretty obvious what’s wrong, if she’s being honest.

Because she knows one more thing, too. One thought, one feeling that has never left her.

I refuse to have some sort of technological device attached to my brain stem, she snaps. 

Jon very abruptly sinks back into his chair. Oh.

I want to go home.

Pujowski clears his throat, This device is very promising--

I don’t care--

Jon stands again. Listen to him, please--

I want to go home!

Jon’s face crumples. 

Fine, he mutters. But can you at least let him run the tests?

The woman’s hand starts trembling. I’m not doing it.

Just do the tests. That’s all.

She sits back down. Slowly. Hesitantly.

+

She’s always hated technology. Never trusted it.

The way her Wi-Fi goes out suddenly, and her phone just dies-- she read a story in the newspaper this morning (or was it yesterday?) about a car that ran on Wi-Fi (a horrible idea, in her opinion) that stopped very suddenly when the connection became interrupted. The owners got in a crash, landed in the hospital. 

How could she trust something like that? Especially something like that attached to her brain. 

Beeping, glinting devices. She hates them.

Jon’s angry at her. She knows this. 

His shoulders are hunched, he stomps around the apartment, slamming doors, face ruddy, mottled with anger.

She’s angry at him too. Strong-arming her into something like this, when he knows she wouldn’t like it…

Their game of Scrabble lays on the dining table, forgotten.  

I don’t see why you won’t do it, Jon calls from the kitchen.

I’m not stupid! She calls back. I may be losing my mind, but I’m not stupid--

But you are losing your mind! You understand that, right?

He’s in front of her now.

Jake--

My name’s Jon. Jon.

Jon?

Have you even read all the papers Pujowski gave you? He says, and there’s something in his voice that makes her want to pull away, slam her hands over her ears. They’ve done this on, like, two hundred patients, and 80% have been successful, they’ve gotten their memories back--

He stops abruptly.

You could get it back.

She doesn’t want to look at him anymore.

His bright, curly hair. The silver eyes that mirror hers. The crooked line of his nose, his jaw, his forehead. All hers. And she can’t look at it anymore.

Do you remember my favorite color? He asks, voice cracking, and it’s heart wrenching and makes tears track down her cheeks, because, quite honestly, she doesn’t.

She wants to say yellow.

She doesn’t.

Go away, she says, voice hoarse. 

He does.

+

Obviously Jon’s been taking great care of you, the dentist murmurs. Your teeth look beautiful.

The woman doesn’t remember the dentist’s name, or any of the hygienist’s names, the receptionist’s name… it’s all gone.

Not even reaching out to her. It’s just gone.

There’s a small cavity on 19, the hygienist informs the dentist, pointing at the screen hovering above the woman’s head.

Yeah, I don’t like that. But it’s so minor--

That’s what I was thinking.

They continue talking, back and forth like she’s not there, tennis. Tennis.

It’s over a few minutes later. The chair rises, she shakes the dentist’s hand, smiles at the hygienist. Thank you, thank you.

The receptionist is talking to Jon, her hair sleek and shining down her back. 

They look nice together.

Jon leads her out of the building, to the car.

You should ask the receptionist out on a date, she tells him.

I have a wife and two children, he responds, voice uncharacteristically bitter.

She pauses, body stilling, looking over at him. White knuckles clutching the steering wheel, red cheeks.

I have grandchildren?

He lets out a long, heavy exhale, checks his mirrors, pulls out of the parking space. Yes. You do.

And she’s hit with such longing she can barely breathe.

Because she wishes she could remember the dentist’s name. Greet her when she came through the door. And she wants to remember that she has grandchildren. Wants to hold them, not forget their existence.

Wishes she could remember her name. Her age. Her mother’s name. Her son’s name.

Wishes she could get it all back.

A small glinting device could give it to her.

A device she doesn’t trust. Maybe won’t ever trust.

She rolls down her window, feels the wind tangle in her hair.

+

That night, she reads the pamphlets after Jake leaves. Flips through them, tries to hold onto the words, the statistics, the information. But it’s slippery, she’s tired, and she forgets more than she’d like.

She wishes she could just remember.

She leaps after the words, but they’re too quick.

Gone by morning.

She falls asleep at the dining table.

+

What do you want for breakfast? Jake asks her.

I already had breakfast.

You did?

Well, I made pancakes for Isla and Jon, but they slept in so late they almost missed their bus to school, so they didn’t have time to eat them. She laughs. I had two, just so they wouldn’t completely go to waste.

Jake’s face falls, he sweeps his eyes over the empty counters, empty sink, full cupboards. Of course, he says. But I’m still hungry. Do you want to share some toast?

She shrugs. Why not?

Okay, he says. Um, I feel like I should let you know that the doctor called.

The doctor from Danny’s gallbladder surgery?

Jake seems frustrated. No, not for Uncle Danny’s surgery-- Dr. Pujowski. He has news.

Something pings in the back of her mind. 

The appointment? She asks in a murmur, slightly unsure of what she’s actually saying.

You’re eligible, Jake says. For the device.

She nods slowly. Once, twice, three times. The device. I’m eligible.

Are you going to do it? He asks.

And although she still isn’t sure what they’re talking about, it’s dancing just out of her grasp, she still feels it. 

Wind skating over her fingertips, tears in her eyes, and longing.

She feels it deeply.

Yes, she answers. Yes.

Jake stills. 

He drops the piece of bread he’s holding. 

Crumbs spill across the countertop.

You will?

I will, Jake.

His face twists.

Okay, Ma. Okay.

+

She hates technology. Always has. Probably always will.

But, this time, when a memory reaches for her, she’s able to reach back.