Cry Your Way Home

by Damien Angelica Walters

  Their house sits on the southern edge of the woods surrounding Loch Raven Reservoir, the largest body of water entirely within Baltimore County. The woods contain nearly seventy miles of hiking trails. Over the course of their forty-eight years in the house, most of the trails have worn their footprints, their daughter’s, and more recently, those of their grandsons.

  Autumn was always Jack’s favorite time of the year for hiking. “For a little while, Lena,” he’d say, “everything is different, like the world is opening up to show us its secret side.”

  “Then winter comes to hide it away again,” Helena whispers. Tears prick her eyes, and she blinks them away. Too many of those these days, far too many.

  From behind her Jack says, “I can’t find my keys.”

  He’s wearing a wool scarf, a windbreaker, pajamas, and slippers. His hair resembles the quills of a porcupine; it’s too long but when she tried to trim it three weeks back, he pushed her hand away as soon as he saw the scissors. She hasn’t had the heart to try again, and, frankly, the length of his hair is the least of her worries.

  “You moved my keys again,” he says, his voice heavy with accusation. “I need to pick up my wife, and I can’t find my damn keys. Where did you put them?”

  She recoils from the force of his words. Her Jack rarely cursed. “I got a ride home from Naomi today because your car is in the shop. Remember?”

  A necessary lie—his car was sold months ago—but guilt clings bitter to her tongue nonetheless.

  “Oh,” he says, his face softening. “Oh. I guess I forgot again.”

  She twists the wedding band on her finger. It doesn’t move nearly as easily as it did a year ago. Jack has lost both the weight she’s gained and his wedding band. The former is easily explained, the latter still a mystery as to how and where.

  “Did you finish reading the newspaper?” she asks, her voice holding a tone similar to the one she used when Cathy was small.

  “It came already?”

  She nods. “It did.”

  “Today’s paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  His gaze flicks from her face to the window. The sun is only beginning to set, but the room holds the suggestion of shadows. Helena bites back a curse at her own forgetfulness, not his, twists the kitchen window blinds closed, and pulls the French door’s drapes tight.

  “Did the newspaper come today?” he asks.

  “Yes, it did. It should be on the coffee table.”

  His brow creases. “Okay.”

  She moves toward him. “Do you need any help—”

  He yanks his arm away before she makes contact. “Help? To read the newspaper?”

  “No, how silly of me. Of course you don’t need help, but would you like to help me shut the rest of the curtains?”

  He glances at the window again, shakes his head.

  “Okay, well why don’t you go ahead and read the paper while I take care of the curtains, and then we can have some dessert.” She thinks of mentioning his scarf and jacket, but decides against it. It takes so little to upset him these days. He’ll take them off if and when he wants.

  “Before dinner?”

  She catches her lower lip briefly between her teeth. “Well, we had dinner already, but if you’re still hungry, there’s some chicken left.”

  His brow creases again, deeper this time, but instead of responding, he retreats back to the living room. Once she hears the crinkle of the newspaper, she takes a deep breath. Then she starts the nightly routine of shutting the rest of the curtains and turning on all the lights, hating the way it makes the house feel closed-in, hating the way it will affect him if she doesn’t.

  * * *

  When Jack gets up in the middle of the night, Helena snaps awake. The wandering is a recent development and odd, too, given his newfound fear of the dark, but after the first time, when he stubbed his toe hard enough to tear half the nail away from the bed and left a small crime scene in the dining room, she’s started to leave a handful of lights on. He uses the toilet—luckily, he’s only had a few minor accidents thus far—and then his feet take to the stairs. She debates whether or not to stop him, to try and guide him back to bed, but her forearm still wears the ghosts of finger-shaped bruises from her last attempt, so she follows him instead.

  He skirts the living room furniture with ease, pausing in front of their wedding portrait hanging on the wall. They were both so achingly young, so vibrantly smiling, and she can’t bear the thought of the hole in his memory where that day should live. In the kitchen, he opens the curtains to the French doors and stands with his hands behind his back. His posture reminds her so much of the days before the disease, before he started forgetting, a lump takes hold in her throat.

  “This is the wrong door,” he says, and she startles. “This isn’t my house.”

  “Jack, honey, it’s late. Come back to bed. It’s still dark outside, that’s why it looks different, but it’s the same house we’ve lived in for a long time.”

  He shakes his head. “No. This is the wrong door. The right one is out there.” He reaches for the doorknob. Before she can move toward him, he takes his hand away. “Okay,” he says softly. “Not yet.”

  She steps close. “Let’s go back to bed, okay? Everything will look right in the morning.”

  His eyes narrow and his lips tighten, then he moves past her and heads back upstairs. She stares out the window, elbows cupped in her palms. The sky is just beginning to lighten at the edges, a lessening of dark as opposed to real light, and wind rustles through the trees, turning the leaves to a rippling fan of orange, red, and yellow. Autumn, like Alzheimer’s, turns everything strange and unfamiliar, and when you look for the shape of the real hidden within, you find only a promise of the winter to come.

  There’s another stir of movement in the woods, back where the path curves into the trees, and Helena catches a quick glimpse of ears, legs, and tail. She waits, but whatever was there, if not a trick of the shadows, has moved on.

  When she returns to their bed, Jack is already asleep. She clasps her hands beneath her breasts and stares at the ceiling, knowing she won’t fall back to sleep.

  * * *

  “How is everything, Mom?” Cathy asks.

  Helena looks up from the dinner plate she’s scraping into the sink. In the back yard, her grandsons are playing catch while Tim, her son-in-law, watches from the deck. Jack stands nearby, and Helena wants to think he’s watching the boys, too, but his gaze is trained on the woods.

  “Much the same. He has good days and bad, and luckily, today is a good one.”

  Cathy takes the plate from Helena’s hand and slides it into the dishwasher. “Not with Dad. I mean how is everything with you?”

  “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.” Helena smiles, and even though it feels too tight, she does her best to make it convincing.

  “Is that the real answer or just the one you want me to hear?”

  Helena waves one hand, grabs another plate.

  Cathy makes a sound low in her throat. “I see dark circles under your eyes, and you only get that way when you’re really tired. Are you sure you don’t want me to arrange for someone to come in and sit with Dad so you can get some rest?”

  “I’m fine. Your father woke up in the middle of the night a couple times, that’s all, but he slept through last night. It’ll take me a little while to catch up on my beauty sleep.” Another small lie, another false smile, both more palatable than the truth.

  “Seriously, you don’t have to do it all.”

  “I know, but I’m afraid a stranger coming here will only make things worse for him, especially on the not-so-good days.”

  “I can talk to my boss, take some time—”

  “Hush. You have your hands full with your job and Tim and the boys as it is. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of your father right now, and if things get too bad, I’ll call someone in.”

  “Do you promise?”

&
nbsp; Cathy’s youngest son barrels into the kitchen. “Mom? Nana? We’re gonna go for a walk, okay? Pop-Pop wants to go, and Dad said to ask you guys.”

  “Are you okay with that?” Cathy asks.

  A nervous twinge stirs in Helena’s belly. Jack is still steady enough on his feet and she trusts Tim, but Jack’s good day can change in an instant without provocation.

  “How about if I go, too?” Cathy says, catching Helena’s eye.

  “Please, Nana?”

  Helena nods, although the twinge bites again.

  Cathy smiles. “Good. Leave the rest of this until we get back, okay? Go sit down and read the paper or watch TV or even take a nap.”

  Helena watches them take the path, Cathy gently holding her father’s arm. When they disappear into the woods, she leaves the dishes on the counter, knowing Cathy will be upset with her if she doesn’t, and sinks into her corner of the sofa. She’ll rest her eyes for a moment, then she’ll finish cleaning up. It’s been ages since she had the opportunity to take a catnap. She probably won’t even be able to fall asleep.

  When the back door bangs open, Helena, still on the sofa, blinks awake.

  “Nana, Nana! We’re back.”

  Once jackets have been shrugged off and set aside, Helena touches Cathy’s shoulder. “Was everything okay?”

  “Yes, pretty much. Dad got a little upset at one point because he said he couldn’t find the right place, but then we started to come back and he seemed better. He did say that you don’t let him walk in the woods anymore.” She says this last with a small smile, but there’s a kiss of sadness on her face, too.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Jack starts pacing from room to room, now and again pausing to cock his head. Helena lets him make three full circuits on the first floor, including the half-bath, but when he shows no signs of stopping, she says, “Jack, what’s wrong?”

  He brushes past her, keeps silent. In the foyer, he pauses again, his mouth moving in silent conversation.

  “Jack?”

  According to his doctor, he isn’t truly hearing voices or seeing things. His brain is misinterpreting reflections in windows, house noises, or sounds from outside. Still, it’s unnerving. He comes to a stop in the living room and whirls around to face her.

  “This isn’t my house,” he says, his voice razor-sharp. “I know it isn’t.”

  “Would you like to watch a movie?” She keeps her voice bright, cheerful.

  “Stop talking to me. I know what you’re doing, but it won’t work. This isn’t the right house.”

  She takes a deep breath. Redirection doesn’t always work, but it’s the best technique to use to keep his irritation from becoming true anger.

  He cocks his head again. “But I’m tired of waiting.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to them. Leave me alone.”

  Another deep breath. “What if we take a walk into the woods, like you did with Cathy and the boys?”

  He smiles then, and all she sees is her Jack, and she fights against the sting of tears. He allows her to help him with his boots and coat, waits while she dons hers, but when she tries to take his arm, he shrugs her off. She lets it go but keeps close to his side as they cross the yard to the path, not speaking. Focusing on the pleasant chill in the air, the smell of pine and earth, the vibrant oranges and reds and yellows of the leaves around them, some of her tension abates. No holding hands, true, but it could be a normal day, a normal walk with her husband. Even Jack’s posture changes: his strides grow longer and easier, his arms swing, his eyes gleam with purpose instead of confusion or ire. Fallen leaves crunch and whisper beneath their soles.

  His fingers brush hers, and then again; the third time, he entwines them with hers and she bites the inside of her cheek to hold in a sob. The path becomes a wider trail littered with small twigs that crack with each step. Sun glimmers through the trees, speckling the ground with bits of bright like crushed glass. Day stars. He always called them day stars. The words linger on her tongue, but she’s afraid to say them aloud and break the fragile spell, for this, his hand around hers, his easy walk, is a kind of magic. The best possible kind.

  A thick branch lies across the trail, and Helena pauses, wondering if they should go back, but Jack tugs her hand, helps her over. Their gazes lock, and once more her throat tightens. Warmth radiates in his eyes; more than that, recognition, familiarity. This is the Jack that stood beside her and said “I do,” the man who cried with her when she had her first miscarriage and her second and her third, the man who cried even more when she gave birth to Cathy, healthy and whole. This is the husband whose weight she felt atop hers more times than she could count, whose hand she held at funerals, at weddings, at birthday parties. In this moment, she is companion, not caregiver.

  Please let him stay Jack for a little while longer. Just for today, let him remember, let him stay.

  Around them, the shadows grow, but they continue to walk. Her boot begins to rub against the baby toe on her right foot, and although she knows there will be a blister to pay, she says nothing, tries only to shift her foot as she places it down.

  Jack pauses. His fingers tighten around hers; his head turns this way and that. His mouth moves, forming silent words, then his hand relaxes and he starts walking again. She bites her tongue. A small misstep, not worth the mention, not worth the worry. For all she knows, he did hear something she missed.

  They come to a slow incline. Halfway up, he freezes in place, and she does the same. At the top, half-hidden by the brush, stands a doe. No, not a doe, but the doe with white eyes and missing fur. The animal is so thin its ribs resemble a xylophone, its remaining fur is dull, and threads of frothy spittle dangle from its jaws. Her mouth turns to desert, her fingers to ice. Her body jolts, and beneath her heel, a twig breaks, the sound loud and sharp. The doe doesn’t run as expected, but slowly turns and disappears down the other side of the incline. Helena shudders.

  Jack pulls his hand free, shakes it as if removing the memory of her touch. “We have to go back. It isn’t time yet,” he says.

  “Time for what?”

  The Jack mask falls; in its place, an angry old man with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “We have to go back. Now.”

  “Okay, Jack, okay. We’ll go back.” She shoves her hand in her pocket, the warmth of fabric a pale substitute for the warmth of skin.

  Several times on their way home, she feels the weight of unseen eyes, but when she casts a glance over her shoulder, she sees nothing unexpected, nothing save trees and falling leaves.

  * * *

  She wakes to find the bed empty and panic sours her mouth. Upstairs, Jack is nowhere to be found. As she takes the stairs as quickly as possible, the blister on her toe bursts wet and warm against the adhesive bandage. Her breath comes fast and harsh, easing when she finds Jack in the kitchen, once more standing at the French doors with the curtains partially opened.

  He mumbles something and frowns. He speaks again, his words tangled and indistinct. The tone of his voice is strange, thick and yet somehow liquid, as though he’s speaking around a mouthful of half-set gelatin. A cold chill dances the length of Helena’s spine.

  He frowns yet again, followed by another slur of words, and turns toward her.

  “Soon,” he says, his voice perfectly measured, perfectly normal, and leaves her alone in the kitchen.

  She waits until the upstairs floorboards creak before she moves to shut the curtains. There, at the end of the yard, the white-eyed doe. More patches of fur have fallen out; the bare skin beneath holds a strange grey cast. Her arms go all over goosebumps, and the icy waltz makes a second spin on her back.

  She doesn’t know if diseases can pass from deer to human, doesn’t understand why it keeps showing up or how it can even find its way, but most of all, doesn’t want to believe that Jack was holding an imaginary conversation with the animal.

  “Go away,” she whispers.

  As if on c
ommand, the doe turns and slips back into the woods. Her goosebumps remain.

  * * *

  Jack refuses to get dressed in the morning, and after tempting him with several shirts that were once favorites, she gives up. What’s the real harm in letting him keep to his pajamas and slippers? He sits at the kitchen table without argument, though. A small victory.

  While the coffee is brewing, she asks, “Jack, last night, when you woke up and came down here, you said, ‘soon.’ Do you remember? What does that mean? Is something going to happen?”

  He smiles. “I’m waiting for the door, the real one, to my real house, and it’s almost time. They can fix everything, they can fix me. They said so.”

  “Who said so?”

  He looks down at his hands. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Are we having eggs today? I think I want eggs.”

  She puts away the box of pancake mix. “Yes, of course we can have eggs.”

  Midday, while Jack’s napping, Helena dials Cathy’s number but hangs up the phone before it can ring. What’s she going to say? Your father is talking crazy, and there’s a doe that keeps coming to the house, a doe with white eyes and missing fur? Oh, and I think your father is talking to it, too?

  She shakes her head. It’s the disease. She knows it is. The disease and the toll it’s taking on her, his paranoia bleeding into her, and the deer is obviously ill. Sick animals usually remain close to familiar areas until they find a place to die. And Jack isn’t talking to the deer, but at it, as if it were a newspaper or a television show. Soon enough, he’ll be fixated on something else. Soon enough, the animal will be fodder for the flies and beetles.