A Song for Rory

by Cerella Sechrist

  “All right, first, I’d like to thank everyone for coming.” Joan stood in the center of the circle and drew everyone’s attention with her welcoming words. The few people who’d been congregating by the refreshment table found their way to their seats. “I’d like to welcome a few new faces today.” Joan gestured in their direction. “This is Chase, Rory and Sawyer.” She turned toward another couple that appeared to be a mother and daughter. “And this is Bella and Anne. I trust you’ll make them feel welcome.”

  Sawyer drummed his fingers on his leg as Joan cleared her throat. “Let’s start by sharing some of our struggles in the last month.”

  They began with an older gentleman two seats to Chase’s left. His wife had recently reached the point in the disease where she had to be moved to a nursing care facility.

  “Nights are the worst,” the man, who introduced himself as Bill, explained. “The two of us used to stay up late together, watching the news and then reading. Even when things got bad, she was still there with me. Now, the house feels empty. Quiet. She hasn’t died, but I’ve already lost her. I don’t know how to mourn for her.”

  Several others expressed their understanding and sympathy. One lady talked about the grief process and how it applied even when the spouse hadn’t yet passed on. The next person was closer to Chase’s age. His grandfather had been diagnosed a year ago, and the older man’s mental state was rapidly deteriorating. Because he was currently without a job, he had taken on a lot of the caregiving for his grandpa. He talked about how much it hurt when his grandfather lashed out at him.

  “I try to remind myself it’s not him saying all these hurtful things. It’s the Alzheimer’s. But some days, it feels so personal.”

  There were murmurs of commiseration.

  “We used to be so close. My parents worked a lot when I was growing up, and I ended up at my grandparents’ most of the time. Gramps would do everything with me. We built model trains and went fishing. We’d work on his truck together. And now, half the time, he doesn’t know who I am.”

  A couple of people spoke up, offering encouragement and talking about their own experiences with loved ones who were approaching this point. One man talked about how frightened he was to reach this stage, worrying his family wouldn’t know how much he loved them.

  Joan encouraged him to begin writing letters to his children and grandchildren, so they could have moments with him, even when his memory began to decline.

  They circled the room, story after story. Sawyer felt frustration building within himself. Why had Rory thought this would be a good idea? He was overcome with despair for these people’s suffering, yet inside he was also screaming at them all. He knew it was mean and self-pitying, but he couldn’t help feeling most of them were lucky. While they were either a victim of the disease or loved someone who was, none of them were both patient and caregiver. What about him and Chase? They were going to watch their father wither away, only to, perhaps, become victims themselves one day.

  They had nearly finished the circle. The last in the group was a woman who looked a little younger than him and Rory. She introduced herself as Madeline. She was petite and pale, but her expression was fierce. When she spoke, her voice had a smoky quality to it, with a sharp rasp that made her sound as if she’d been crying.

  “In this past month, my struggle has been...” she trailed off, her jaw flexing with emotion. “Everything.” She paused, clearly weighed down by her emotions. Her shoulders were stiff, and she leaned forward in her seat. “I am so angry with everyone. Everything. God. People who don’t know what it’s like to see a loved one succumb to such a horrible disease.”

  She ran a hand through her pixie-style red hair. “My husband is dying. He is thirty-eight years old, and he doesn’t even remember how to work the microwave. He keeps forgetting the name of our son. How do I explain to my little boy why his daddy can’t remember who he is?”

  She scoffed, and the sound itself was laced with bitterness. “I’m watching my twelve-year-old become the man of the house while his dad regresses to a child. I caught my little boy the other day, showing his dad how to check his email. That night, I made macaroni and cheese for dinner. It was always my husband’s favorite, but he spit it out and told me he hated macaroni and cheese. I tried to tell him that wasn’t true, that he’s always loved it, but he threw his plate on the floor like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. What kind of example does that set for our son?”

  She bit her lip, as if trying to contain herself. But the words wouldn’t stop. “There are days when I hate him,” she whispered, her tone bereft. “And then I feel so guilty because it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask for this. He watched his mom die from this disease when he was a teenager, and when he learned he had it, too, he was inconsolable with grief. This is not what he wanted for himself, or for us. I know that. But I need someone to blame. And I don’t know who else to be mad at.”

  She dropped her face into her hands. “Some days, I think it would be a relief if he would die.”

  The words were muffled, but they echoed in the stillness of the room. A shiver snaked its way up Sawyer’s spine.

  This. This was the cold truth. It wasn’t platitudes or mantras or a balance of the good within the struggle. This was the everyday reality of living with Alzheimer’s, especially the early onset kind. And he shuddered when he realized that Madeline’s husband was less than ten years older than him. Coldness crept into his extremities. What if this was his fate?

  And then, an even worse thought—what if this was what he was condemning Rory to? He shifted uncomfortably, the metal chair squeaking with the movement. The sound broke the tension, and Joan began speaking. Several others joined in, and he could tell by the tone of their voices that they were encouraging, commiserating, advising.

  But he didn’t hear their words. Not a one. He was buried too deep in his own fear and dismay. Sinking beneath the vision of a future he dreaded.

  How could he ask Rory to marry him if this was what life would become? What kind of marriage was that? And what about children? They’d always planned to have kids one day. How could he condemn a child to a life without a father? Or worse, only a few years with one before memories were lost and forgotten, before the roles were reversed and Sawyer became the helpless child?

  He felt sick. And because he couldn’t focus on the others’ words, he watched Madeline very closely. She was still hunched over, her eyes glazed. Whatever they were saying to her wasn’t penetrating. She’d given up. He found no hope in her expression, no lift in her spirits. She was a defeated woman.

  And all he could see then was Rory. Rory in this position. Rory, having lost her spark and fire to a man who had become a burden. Him. He did not want to become her baggage, her charity work, the thing that drained the life from her.

  He stood to his feet abruptly, only vaguely aware that he’d pulled everyone’s attention from Madeline to himself. But he couldn’t breathe. He had to get out of this room with its antiseptic smell and cloud of false hope.

  “Excuse me.”

  They were the only words he managed before pushing past his metal chair and heading for the door.

  * * *

  SAWYER REACHED THE HALLWAY, his breathing sharp and shallow. He still couldn’t find his breath, and he felt nearly panicked with effort to reach fresh air. He turned a corner and realized he’d gone the wrong way.

  Chase had led them to the meeting room, and Sawyer only vaguely remembered the way they’d come in. He tried to focus and stumbled back in the direction of the room, moving past it without a glance inside. He rounded a corner that he hoped would take him to the exit and thought he heard the door to the meeting room swing open.

  He made it outside less than a minute later and immediately took in huge gulps of air as he struggled to compose himself.

  And suddenly he was the cent
er of a storm.

  There were reporters—at least three of them, each with a cameraman. They descended with microphones and volleyed questions at him.

  “Sawyer Landry, can you tell us what you’re doing here today?”

  “We received a tip that you’re attending an Alzheimer’s support group. Do you have a family member who is struggling with the disease?”

  “Is this part of a charitable contribution on your part?”

  “Why else are you in Towson?”

  He’d never had a problem with the media before. He accepted they were a part of his life now, that anywhere he went there was the chance he’d be photographed or intruded upon.

  But he hadn’t expected this. Why hadn’t he expected this? They were in his face with cameras and microphones, pressing for answers. He’d been caught off guard, and he cursed himself for not anticipating such a scenario. His face was well known these days. Did he really think he could come and go without being recognized?

  He thought about the guy in the group, the one watching him covertly who was later absorbed in his phone. Had he tipped off the local news stations?

  “Mr. Landry, are you making any other appearances today?”

  “What brings you to the area?”

  “Hey!”

  He’d been frozen up until this point, paralyzed by the unexpected assault of questions. But when he heard Rory’s voice cut through the commotion, her tone sharp and angry, he snapped to attention.

  “Mr. Landry has nothing to say,” she announced, placing herself between him and the reporters.

  “Can we get your name, miss?”

  “How do you know Mr. Landry?”

  “Can you tell us what you’re doing here today?”

  She ignored them and faced him instead. “Chase is going to get the car.” She grabbed him by the hand and began to lead him away, but the reporters followed.

  “Just one statement, Mr. Landry, to let our local readers know why you’re here.”

  “That’s none of their business,” Rory snapped.

  If he hadn’t been so dazed, he might have laughed at her irritation. But he didn’t have an ounce of humor in him at the moment.

  “I’m here on a personal matter,” he said as he continued walking. “It’s nothing that would interest your readers.”

  “I highly doubt that,” one of the reporters returned.

  She was probably right. If word got out that he might be an Alzheimer’s patient, he imagined it would be big news. At least on a slow celebrity-news day.

  “Come on, Sawyer, give us a clue! We’re big fans!”

  He chafed at this. Fans or not, wasn’t he entitled to some privacy?

  No, he realized. He wasn’t. He’d given that up when he became a headlining act.

  He abruptly stopped walking. It was so abrupt that Rory’s hand jerked free of his as she continued her forward momentum. He turned to face the reporters, suddenly feeling as if none of it mattered. The world would find out soon enough.

  “My dad has Alzheimer’s,” he announced. The words silenced the reporters for the span of about five seconds.

  “When was he diagnosed?”

  “What impact do you think this will have on your career?”

  “Is your father here with you today?”

  He ignored all the questions.

  “He has a rare form of Alzheimer’s called early onset. My family and I are making the necessary determinations for the future. I’d appreciate some privacy during this difficult time.”

  With that, he started walking again, pausing when Rory hesitated. Then, together, they started moving toward the curb. Chase pulled up seconds later. The reporters followed, still asking questions, begging for statements.

  But he was done. He’d given them enough fodder for their news stories.

  He opened the door for Rory, and she climbed inside. He followed.

  “Drive,” he said to Chase.

  “What are they doing here?” he asked.

  “Just drive.”

  He was grateful when Chase didn’t argue. They pulled away from the reporters, who were still shouting their questions, and headed for home.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NO ONE SPOKE much on the drive back to Findlay Roads, and the silence began to wear on Rory’s nerves. She wasn’t uncomfortable with quiet and especially not with Sawyer. But this silence was different. She felt it, like an invisible, impenetrable wall between them. The support group had gotten to Sawyer, and she feared the media encounter had pushed him over the edge. He’d turned into himself, blocking her out. She knew it would be useless to push him at the moment, especially with Chase in the car. And Chase must have felt it, too, because beyond asking his brother if he was all right, he’d only spoken a few words.

  Rory did try small talk. She asked Chase and Sawyer if they felt the support group had been helpful.

  Chase had only offered a tentative “I’m not sure yet” while Sawyer had sighed.

  She didn’t press him for more. Instead, she leaned back in the seat and looked out the window, watching the highway slip by and wondering what to do next.

  She wanted to be there for Sawyer. She’d been hopeful about their future, even after he’d told her about the possibility of Alzheimer’s. But if she was honest with herself, the support group had scared her. Some of the individual stories were beyond heartbreaking. Was this the life she was signing up for? Loving Sawyer only to have him forget her?

  She nibbled on her thumbnail at that thought.

  She couldn’t lose him again. The first time had nearly broken her, and in that instance, she’d had her anger to carry her through. If he left her, mind before body, she didn’t know how she’d deal with her grief. She might lose her own mind.

  And then, what about children? She’d always dreamed of her and Sawyer as parents one day, but none of the daydreams had featured her as a single mom. And should she and Sawyer even let themselves try for children, knowing they might curse them with a disease that would shorten their life span? Most people didn’t get to know their future, but what if fate was giving her a chance to get out, to protect her heart before she risked it again?

  But then, the thought of breaking up with Sawyer, of sending him away, nearly tore her in two. To be with him meant living with the risk of losing him. But she knew she’d rather take that risk than a sure loss.

  She turned her head, daring to look at him, but he was staring out his own window. She flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror and caught Chase looking at her. He quickly moved his eyes back to the road.

  She felt a stab of dismay. She was so focused on Sawyer that it was easy to forget Chase was facing the same fear. He wasn’t even out of college yet, and he already had to worry about whether he’d develop a fatal disease that would steal his life not long after he’d really begun to live it.

  But Chase seemed to be handling things better than his brother. He had a practical outlook on the situation, recognizing that these worries might all be pointless. They didn’t know for certain that either of the brothers had the mutated genes. Only the DNA test could tell that. She knew, from a private conversation with Chase, that he was in favor of being tested. But she also hoped Sawyer would agree to the testing, so they could go through it together.

  But then, if they both learned they possessed the faulty genes, how could they possibly face the future knowing that three members out of their family would succumb to Alzheimer’s? Or perhaps worse, what if one of them had the disease and the other didn’t? Would it place a rift between them? Would bitterness poison their relationship?

  Rory had a bad feeling about it. They would have to be extraordinarily lucky for both of them to escape a positive diagnosis. Maybe one would be spared, but both?

  She
felt her mood slipping into darkness at these thoughts and tried to shake them off.

  “Can we turn on the radio?” she asked and was surprised when her voice sounded almost hoarse with sadness. It was rough enough that Sawyer jerked from his fixation on the highway and glanced at her. She coughed lightly. “Please,” she added in a slightly clearer voice.

  Chase didn’t reply but granted her request, punching the radio dial. Soft strains of a country ballad filled the car.

  Rory didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad one that the voice streaming from the station was Sawyer’s.

  * * *

  IT ALL CAME crashing down on Sawyer the next day. He was in his parents’ kitchen, pouring a glass of orange juice, when his phone rang. He reached for it with trepidation, worried it might be Rory. They’d parted awkwardly upon their return from Towson. Chase had dropped her off at the apartment, and their goodbye had been stilted as he said he’d call her.

  The hurt in her eyes haunted him the rest of the day and into his dreams that night. He wanted to push her away, yet hold her. He needed her.

  He was afraid to need anyone right now.

  A quick check of caller ID filled him with both relief and disappointment. It wasn’t Rory calling, but rather his manager.

  He clicked to receive the call.

  “Hey, Perle.”

  “Hello, Sawyer.” Her tone was flat, lacking its usual vibrancy. He belatedly realized it was the first time she hadn’t affected her faux Southern accent. “What were you thinking?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t you dare play dumb with me. What’s going on up there?”

  He took a sip of orange juice, trying to quell his uneasiness at her tone.

  “I’m visiting my family. I’ll be back in Nashville soon enough.”

  “Cut the crap, Sawyer. What were you doing at an Alzheimer’s support group in Towson yesterday?”

  The orange juice turned sharp in his mouth. The reporters. Of course. He hadn’t even thought to check today’s headlines.