Flashback

Christine nodded and sighed. “I think his real name was Samuel. He was in a POW camp with Dad in North Korea. He died over there and I guess it was pretty bad what happened to him because Dad never talks about it. Funny thing is that he’s beginning to talk more about his Korea days—the good stuff. Maybe it’s the Memorine.”

“Maybe. His cognitive test scores are beginning to improve.”

They were sitting in the conference room on the locked unit having coffee and waiting for Louis to finish his shower. Christine, who was about Rene’s age, lived in Connecticut and visited her father maybe once a week.

“He’s otherwise so healthy. He could live another fifteen years.”

“Absolutely.”

Christine was silent for a few moments. “From what I’ve read, nobody ever dies of Alzheimer’s. They die of heart attack or cancer, but not the disease itself, right?”

“Yeah, it’s usually some prior condition. But if they’re in advanced stages and are confined to wheelchairs or a bed, they’re susceptible to internal infections and pneumonia.”

“Because they forget how to walk and eat. So they starve to death.”

Rene nodded at the primal reality. “By then they’ve lapsed into a coma, and the family usually decides to discontinue feeding and not to take any extraordinary measures to resuscitate.”

“I don’t want him to go like that.”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t think I could take it.”

DNR. One of the countless antiseptic shorthands.

It’s what Rene had finally yielded to. Do not resuscitate. To spare her own father from pain and more humiliation. Because she did not want him to linger on until the basic circuitry of his brain had become so gummed up that he had lost memory of how to breathe. It was that raw eventuality that caught up to her—when she had come to accept the fact that he would never recover, that no matter what she did or what the doctors came up with he would never come back but continue to descend into the disease. So she signed the DNR order. And the day he died was a release for the both of them. Her only compulsion was to be with him at the moment of his death. And when that came, she held him in her arms and told him over and over again that she loved him, that he and Mom had given her a beautiful life, and that he was going to be with her soon. Of course, he heard none of Rene’s words. And even if he did, they meant nothing to him. They were for her.

His breathing came irregularly, in short gasps and long intervals. Then in a long thin sigh that seemed to rise out of a fundamentally held resignation of all living creatures, he died. In a blink his life and all that had gone into making him who he was ended. She held her face to his and sobbed until she thought her heart would break. When the nurses came, they sat with her. Then they left to give her one final moment with him.

For the last time she kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Tell them I remember you.”

Against that memory flash Rene forced a bright face and matching voice. “Well, if he continues to improve the way he has, that may not happen.”

“You really think it’s working, that he may actually recover?”

“It’s really too early to say for certain, but from what I’ve seen around here the signs are very promising.”

“God, I pray it’s true.”

Rene felt the tug in her chest again. “Me, too.”

An aide stuck her head into the room. “He’s all ready.”

Rene followed the aide and Christine down the hall and into the dayroom, where Mrs. Martinetti was sitting with Louis at a table. Louis was looking at black-and-white photographs. Old photos of the Martinettis in younger days.

“Good morning, Dad,” Christine said with a big smile, and she gave Louis a kiss on the forehead. “You look so handsome in that shirt.”

His white hair was still damp from the shower and his face had a bright sheen. And although the bright red polo shirt gave a youthful glow to his face, it could not mask the confusion in his expression as he looked at Christine, then back at Rene.

Christine pulled up a chair beside him. “So, what’s new? What’s been going on?”

Louis continued to glare at her in bewilderment. Finally he said, “Where’s … my other daughter?”

“What other daughter? You only have one daughter—me. Christine.”

Louis looked at Rene for help. “I have another daughter. Not her.”

Christine’s body slumped. “No, Dad, you only have me. You just forgot.”

“She’s not my daughter,” he insisted, looking at Rene. Then he lowered his voice. “She’s somebody else.”

“Dad, how can you forget? It’s me, Christine. You remember.”

The photos were of Louis and Marie posing with Christine when she was a girl. Louis’s face turned angry and red. “You’re somebody else. You’re an … imposter.” He again turned his face away, clapping his eyes on Rene for safety.

“I’m not an imposter. You’re just a little confused.”

Rene could hear the fracturing in her voice. It had only been a few days since Christine was last here. Remarkably, his scores had increased twenty percent since he had first entered the home eleven months ago.

Rene knelt down and took his hand. “Louis, you remember me, right?”

He looked at her at first with a disconcerting scowl. But then his face smoothed over. “Yeah, you’re the pharmacist woman.”

“That’s right. We’re friends—you can believe me. And this is Christine. Look at her, Louis. She’s your daughter, Christine.”

Louis did not look at Christine. But he shook his head. She asked him again to look at Christine, but he refused.

Rene got up and nodded to Christine to follow her. “We’ll be right back,” she said, and led Christine out of the dayroom and into the hall where Louis couldn’t see them.

“How can he not recognize me? I was here three days ago, and he was fine. He’s supposed to be getting better.” Tears puddled in her eyes.

“It might be that he’s remembering you from years ago—the old photos. That happens often. In fact, it’s called Capgras syndrome—when they think that loved ones are doubles or fakes.”

“Can’t you give him something? I means with all those meds you got?”

“He’s been treated with antipsychotics.”

“Maybe you can recommend they up the dosage or something.”

The nursing staff would give him Ativan or Haldol when he got seriously agitated or threatened to disrupt the ward. But they could not medicate back the recall every time he forgot his daughter. Ironically, Memorine was supposed to do that.

Christine looked distraught. Rene took her hand. “Let’s try this,” she said, and led her back into the dayroom. “Hey, Louis. Look who’s here. It’s Christine.”

Louis looked at her for a prolonged moment. Then his face brightened into a smile. “Where you been?”

“The traffic was bad.” Christine walked over and gave her father a big hug. “So what’s going on? How you been?”

They talked for a while. Then Louis glanced at Rene as she was about to leave them. “I couldn’t stop them,” he whispered. “I tried, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t stop who, Louis?”

“Sorry.” His eyes filled with tears.

“Dad, what are you talking about?”

But he disregarded Christine. “Louis, you’re getting confused,” Rene said. “What’s upsetting you? Tell us, please.”

He looked at Christine, then back to Rene. “Sorry about your brother.”

“Louis, I don’t have a brother.”

He nodded. Then his face tightened. “But I’m going to get them back some day, the fuckers.”