A Song for Rory

by Cerella Sechrist

  She closed her eyes. “Then he began to misplace things in the strangest ways. I found his reading glasses in a flowerpot. His travel mug in the DVD cabinet. And then there were the notes.”

  “Notes?”

  She nodded. “He started writing things down. Reminders of where things were kept, such as ‘car keys on hook by front door.’ Or ‘socks in third drawer of dresser.’” Her eyes filled with tears once more. “And then I found a notepad with names. At the top were ours. ‘Wife—Olivia. Oldest son—Sawyer. Youngest son—Chase.’” She sighed raggedly. “That’s when I confronted him and insisted he see a doctor.”

  “And they ran tests?”

  She gave a brief nod. “It took some time to reach the appropriate diagnosis because the doctors had to rule out so many other conditions. We visited several specialists before they finally realized what it was.”

  A new thought occurred to Sawyer, a glimmer of light in the darkness. “We need to get a second opinion. They might be wrong—”

  “We did get a second opinion.”

  “Then a third—”

  “That, too. We saw a specialist at Johns Hopkins, and his colleagues concurred on the diagnosis. It began with blood work and a lot of cognitive testing to check his memory and mental skills. They also ran a cerebrospinal fluid analysis along with a urinalysis. Then an MRI to check for a brain tumor or evidence of a stroke. After a PET scan and more neuropsychological testing, it was finally confirmed that your father’s issues stemmed from early onset Alzheimer’s.”

  “But surely there are treatments, ways to manage or delay the deterioration. Drugs, alternative therapies. He can change his diet, take some supplements or vitamins. If he exercises more and does some activities to assist with memory... Wasn’t Chase trying to teach him sudoku? He can do more puzzles like that, to keep his mind sharp.”

  Her hand touched his, stilling the tide of his words.

  “Of course. He can do all those things... In fact, he already is. He’s on the most current course of treatment, I’m making sure he’s eating appropriately, and we have routines in place to keep him active. But Sawyer, you have to realize... Alzheimer’s has no cure. And the treatments, at best, will only minimally delay the progression of the disease.”

  A lump of emotion caught in his throat, and it kept him from speaking.

  How long? The question drummed in his head. How much longer will I have my father? And then, How much longer will he even know who I am?

  He leaned back, overwhelmed with the questions ricocheting around his head.

  “Sawyer.”

  The heaviness in his mom’s tone forced him to focus on her.

  “There’s something else.”

  He tensed. What else could there be? He immediately jumped to the worst conclusion.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re sick, too.”

  “No, no.” She waved a hand as though to brush away the idea. “It’s...well, there’s a possibility...” She drew in a breath as though to gather courage. “The thing about early Alzheimer’s is that it’s hereditary.”

  He blinked, the words not sinking in immediately.

  “Hereditary? You mean like, Dad got it from Grandpa?”

  “Most likely. Your grandfather died much younger than your grandmother, and she never exhibited any symptoms in her life.”

  “Oh.” He sensed his mom waiting for something, as though there was still one puzzle piece yet to snap into place. It didn’t matter where his father had gotten the disease from, did it? Except...

  That’s when he realized what she was trying to tell him.

  “You mean, Chase and I could have it?”

  Her eyes filled with tears as she softly replied, “There’s a possibility that is the case. It all depends on whether you have a gene mutation inherited from your dad.”

  He could no longer sit still. He stood and began pacing the kitchen. “That’s impossible. I’m fine. Chase is fine. We’ve never had any memory problems or confusion or anything that would indicate we have Alzheimer’s.” He spat the word out for the foul thing it was, a sharp and bitter taste on his tongue.

  “Not yet,” his mother whispered.

  And for some reason, that caused his emotions to explode. “You’re being ridiculous! Why do you always have to assume the worst?”

  “Sawyer, I’m not—”

  He lifted a hand, cutting her off with the gesture. “It was bad enough you waited to tell me about Dad, and now you drop a bomb like this on me?”

  “Keep your voice down—”

  “I can’t keep my voice down!” he shouted. “My father is dying, he’s literally losing his mind, and now you’re telling me that I’m next?”

  “I should have waited to tell you until you’d had more time to process everything,” she muttered, more to herself than him.

  “Because that’s worked out so well up to this point?” His voice was laden with sarcasm. He knew that none of this was his mother’s fault. But this double blow made him want to lash out at someone, anyone.

  “Sawyer, please,” she begged. “It’s not as if this is easy for me, either. Do you know what it’s like to read through brochures about nursing-care facilities, knowing that it’s something you’re not considering for the distant future but for sometime in the next couple of years?” The tears that had filled her eyes began to overflow, one by one, until there was a steady stream.

  “I’m losing him,” she said, her voice a strangled sob. “I’m losing him one neuron at a time. It’s like watching sand slip through an hourglass, knowing that each grain is precious. Each one is another day or month or even year that we won’t have together. And then, on top of that, is the knowledge that I might experience it all over again with you and Chase.” She met his eyes squarely, her own watery but fierce. “You are not the only one losing something. I am losing my family, one by one.”

  She reached for a napkin from the tabletop holder, tugged it free and dabbed at her eyes.

  Her speech had drained the last of Sawyer’s fight as he realized how selfish his reaction had been. His mother was right. This disease had slipped in, uninvited and unexpected, to steal the man she’d loved for more than half of her life.

  And now, it might well steal her sons, too. Not suddenly but slowly, each day an agonizing death of watching and being able to do nothing.

  Perhaps she carried the heaviest burden of all.

  He went to her then, kneeled beside her at the kitchen chair and wrapped his arms around her. She fell against him, buried her face in his shoulder and cried, so loudly that now he was the one who feared she might wake the rest of the household.

  His own eyes filled, but he blinked away the tears. He could not save her from the rest of it, but he could give her this—the chance to unburden herself without his father seeing. He rubbed her back, as he remembered her doing for him as a child. His shirt grew damp as her tears saturated it, but he didn’t fidget, didn’t so much as shift positions. He simply let her cry out all her anger and frustration, her grief and disappointment, until she sagged limply, and he knew she’d been drained of emotion. Only then did he pull back, tipping her face toward him and kissing her forehead.

  “You can do this, Mom,” he reassured her. “You can get through this.”

  He had nothing else to offer her but those words.

  She didn’t appear convinced, but she nodded anyway and used the crumpled napkin to pat beneath her eyes.

  “It was hard not telling you,” she said, “but I wanted to spare you as long as possible.”

  He understood what she meant because now he realized the full weight of this disease, that it wasn’t just after his father.

  It was after him, too.

  * * *

  SAWYER WAS STILL in a dead sleep the following mo
rning when his phone began vibrating. It took him a few minutes to wake up, and sometime while he was struggling toward alertness, the phone went silent. But its vibration had broken the heavy blanket of his slumber, and though he tried to return to its embrace, tendrils of worry kept him from falling back into his dreams.

  Following his conversation with his mother the evening before, he’d insisted she go to bed and leave him to tidy up the kitchen. She’d protested, but he walked her to the stairs and watched her go up. Though she said she didn’t mind cleaning up, he could tell she was exhausted—emotionally as well as physically. He couldn’t imagine how she’d been coping the last several months with such a burden on her shoulders. Once more, it stirred feelings of guilt that he hadn’t been there for his family when they needed him.

  So after he put her to bed, he stayed up and tidied the kitchen. Then, still not tired, he sat in front of the television for a couple of hours, though he couldn’t remember now what programs had aired. He’d simply been trying to distract himself, looking for some way to shake off the apprehension and fear that dogged him.

  It had been bad enough, learning his father had Alzheimer’s. But now, according to his mom, there was a risk he and Chase had it, too? He couldn’t begin to comprehend what that meant for his future.

  He was an up-and-coming country music artist, with a lifetime of potential ahead of him. And now, there was a possibility it would be cut short because of some mutant gene that would eat away at his cognitive function? It was more than a bad dream, it was a total nightmare and not just because of what it meant for his professional life.

  No, all of that paled in comparison when he thought about Rory. What kind of future could he offer her now? After all his promises that he would be there for her, he now had to accept that those were vows he might not be able to keep. How was he going to tell her about this? How could he look her in the eye, after all they’d been through, and tell her there was a chance he would leave her again, not of his own will but because of some defective DNA that would eat him alive from the inside out?

  And what about his promise to Connor that he’d cherish Rory every day of his life, that he’d never leave her again? If he ended up with Alzheimer’s, just how much time did he even have left? He could only imagine how quickly Connor would withdraw his blessing once he learned about Sawyer’s possible condition.

  These thoughts had chased him into a restless sleep until sometime before dawn, when his body had been too exhausted to wrestle with his mind anymore. He’d finally succumbed to a deep and dreamless slumber...until his phone’s vibrations pulled him from it.

  Rolling over, he reached for his phone to check what he’d missed. There was a voice message from his manager. Although it was still the weekend, Perle didn’t believe in taking Sundays off. He put the phone on speaker and tapped to listen.

  “Hey, sugar, how are things up north? Getting in touch with your Yankee roots again?”

  He made a face as he sat up in bed. Perle had northern roots of her own, though most wouldn’t know it from the impeccable Southern accent she put on.

  “Listen, darlin’, there are a lot of interview opportunities that have come up since your Artist of the Year win. Give me a ring to let me know when you’ll be back in town so I can set some up.”

  He frowned at this. He hadn’t given Perle a time frame for his trip back home, but he’d only been in town several days, and he wasn’t ready to return to Nashville just yet. Not when he was finally beginning to win Rory back. And especially not with what he’d just discovered about his father, Chase...and himself.

  He needed time to sort things out, especially in his own head. He had to come to grips with his father’s diagnosis, to find out what could be done to help his family, and if anything could be done to help himself. And he still had to tell Rory his news, though he had no idea how to. Nashville, and his career, seemed very far away at the moment.

  While he’d been considering all these things, Perle had been rambling on in the voice mail, naming several opportunities, including a performance on one of late night television’s most watched talk shows. He ignored the list of interviews, climbing out of bed as he waited for Perle to wrap up the message.

  “And those are just the highlights. Didn’t I tell you this was only the beginning? Finish up your visit and give me a call—we need to get you back in the studio once we do some of these interviews. ’Bye, darlin’!”

  After Perle’s grating Southern drawl filled his ear, the silence following her voice mail was palpable. He should call her back, to at least let her know he planned to stay in town another week or two, or maybe more, but he knew she’d press for a firm commitment on his return. And that wasn’t something he could give her. Not yet.

  He pocketed his phone in the back of his pajama bottoms and went downstairs. The sun shining through the kitchen window told him the day was well underway. There was a note from his mom, pinned beneath the bottom of his dad’s favorite coffee mug.

  Your dad and I are running a few errands. Chase is meeting some friends. There are leftover pancakes in the fridge, just warm them up in the microwave. Hope to see you later today.

  She signed the note with a string of hearts and the word Mom. Sawyer pondered how much had been left unsaid. Maybe it was his imagination, but he sensed her grief in between every line of text. He knew his mother well enough to recognize that last night’s conversation likely weighed on her as much as it did him.

  Out of habit he opened the fridge door and scanned the shelves until he found the pancakes. But his stomach was too twisted into knots to consider eating. He opted for a cup of orange juice instead, carrying the glass to the corner of the living room that held his parents’ computer. He logged on to a browser and performed a search.

  Hereditary early onset Alzheimer’s.

  A flood of links loaded in seconds, displaying everything from support group forums to DNA graphics, fact sheets and frequently asked questions, magazine articles and family interviews, hospital pages and testing facilities. He felt the juice begin to sour in his stomach and pushed aside his glass after only a preliminary sip. Squaring his shoulders, he dove in, opening several links in separate tabs, reading as fast as the pages could load.

  An hour later, his head was pounding, and his back was stiff from leaning forward in the chair for so long. His eyes felt strained from scanning lines of text, and his stomach was torn between delayed hunger and ongoing nausea. He clicked out of the remaining websites and carefully cleared the browser history to erase the evidence of his research.

  Leaning back in the chair, he ran his hands over his face. Everything he’d read confirmed what his mother had told him, as well as offering up more bad news.

  Terminology he’d not previously known about was now branded into his consciousness: amyloid plaques, which were clusters of sticky protein fragments that built up between nerve cells; neurofibrillary tangles of fibrous proteins called tau that strangled the brain; presenilin-1 and -2 along with APP, the gene mutations responsible for the disease. And Aricept, Exelon, Razadyne: the most common drug treatments for those with early onset dementia...

  Of all the things he’d read, however, one fact stood out more sharply than the rest. Some people developed the disease as early as their thirties and forties. Sawyer had celebrated his thirtieth birthday last year while on tour in Australia. He was still in the prime of his life, and he had to consider that he might already be facing the end of it. If he had the mutated genes, even if he didn’t develop symptoms until his dad’s age, that still only gave him...what? Maybe twenty more years of good health?

  Twenty years.

  His plan was to commit to Rory for a lifetime, to grow old with her, to sing songs about her. His career was just beginning. He had everything before him. And now, in less than twenty-four hours, he’d learned that the best of his life might be behind hi
m.

  No. He shook his head sharply, his headache thumping at the movement.

  That was the worst-case scenario, though, right? He might never develop the disease. He and Chase might both escape it.

  But then, what if one of them did and the other didn’t? Sawyer would give anything to spare his brother what might come. But if Chase didn’t have the gene and Sawyer did, how would he feel about that? Of course, he’d be relieved for his brother...but he knew that jealousy would eventually set in. If one of them got to live out their life in relative normalcy while the other one wasted away, one neuron at a time, then he knew that would be a burden on both of them and their mother as well.

  He put the computer to sleep and pushed back in his chair.

  Enough. He had to do something to get his mind off things. Rory was working at the restaurant right now, and he didn’t feel up to contacting any of his other old friends in town. He didn’t know how soon Chase or his mom would be back, but he feared when they returned, the conversation would become uncomfortable.

  He decided he’d put his free time to good use. His dad had begun remodeling the garage as a workshop. Maybe Sawyer could help advance the project by picking up where his dad had left off.

  He stood up and headed for the stairs to rifle through his dad’s clothes and find some paint clothes to wear.

  * * *

  SAWYER DIDN’T KNOW how long he’d been working in the garage when Chase’s voice cut through his reverie.

  “If you keep going like that, you’re going to sand that drywall straight through to the studs.”

  Sawyer started as his brother stepped into the garage. He fixed his attention on the patch of drywall he’d been sanding in preparation for painting. Chase was right, he’d nearly sanded a groove into the wall—he’d been so distracted by his thoughts that he hadn’t paid much attention to what he was doing. So much for trying to stay out of his own head.