Roll with the Punches

by Gettinger, Amy

  "I work at it." My hair was the height of zoo fashion. I pulled the gold afghan over my naked legs. "In some African countries, they have fattening rooms where women go just to eat gobs of cream and become sexier. Pretend that's where I've been.”

  He pushed the afghan back and looked down the length of my legs, long and tan, but unshaven. "You're dangerous."

  I covered up. "Hey, I said I was sorry. I really didn't mean to—"

  He put a finger on my lips. "Look, I finally got my math anxiety under control last year, and now here I am plunging back into treacherous, unknown territory again, trying to figure out what to do with my old math teacher's daughter." His hand went under the cover and slowly traced my leg from hip to ankle and back. Twice.

  I got chills. "Am I as bad as a quadratic equation? Or just exponents?"

  "Oh, logarithms at least. Square roots of negative numbers. Imaginary numbers. In fact," his eyes blazed into mine. "You're as bad as seven times six equals fifty-two.”

  "Gold, red, blue, orange.”

  Then he really did kiss me, a long, hot one with his hand still caressing my legs up and down. We moved to the double bed in his room. With our drugs.

  "Just one thing you should know," he said in my ear as we settled down to zone out on drugs together, both high as kites. "My parents have hired a guy with a gun to get whoever did this to me."

  CHAPTER 30

  At the doctor's office Tuesday morning, I expected to see an old Groucho-type medic with horn-rimmed glasses. But Dr. Sydney Madden was more Doris Day, with a blonde bob and a big smile. While I searched my purse for a list of Music Man's medications, she led him into a long chat about our family, local politics, upcoming events, and his hobbies.

  He flirted outrageously with her. "This doctor asked Nurse Jane if he could see the notes on a handsome patient's progress. Nurse Jane shook her head and said she didn't have the chart but he'd get a better picture from her diary anyway."

  The woman seemed to eat that up, like she was just the opening act for the doctor. Then she said, "Mr. Hamilton, I'm Dr. Madden.”

  "You know," he said, grinning, "One guy I know told the doctor he was having trouble breathing, and the doctor said he'd try to find a way to stop that.”

  I cringed. Dr. Madden laughed. Then Dad offered her a fresh donut from his pocket. We'd bribed him again. There were more in the car. At one point, she dropped her pen and asked Music Man to give her his cane, pick the pen up, and put it on the table for her. He gave the pen to her instead.

  They discussed the price of Lakers tickets, and she asked how much it would cost for the three of us to go to a home game. Dad was in heaven, but the answer was wrong. She had him draw a couple of pictures, one of a clock and one of two interlocking pentagons. Which of course brought out some old Army jokes.

  "Did you hear the one about Private Jones out on his first date with a girl named Stella?" Grinning big, Music Man grabbed Dr. Madden's hand. "He kissed her hand and put it on his heart. She said his heart was beating like a drum. And you know what he said?"

  Dr. Madden and I exchanged a look.

  "He said it was a call to arms. Get it? A call to arms?"

  Dr. Madden handed him a pad and asked him to write the joke down for her.

  He wrote something quickly and continued. "And then there was this sergeant with size fourteen shoes, sort of like mine, but not as big. He went to the, uh, what d'you call it?"

  "Shoeshine boy," I said.

  "And after an hour, the kid ran out of shoeshine stuff, you know. What's that stuff?"

  "Polish."

  "Right, Rhonda. And you know what he did? He called his friend over and said, 'Hey, spit on these shoes, would you? I've—uh—run out of that stuff, uh, cream to shine them with.'"

  Finally, Dr. Madden sent Music Man out to the waiting room and I felt so comfortable with her that I told her everything about Dad's past two weeks: the mood swings, irrational behavior, incontinence, falls, escapes, and misunderstandings about time of day.

  "Why would a guy eat three breakfasts in one day?" I said.

  "Good question. Is this his norm?"

  "No." Okay. Guilt time. "Well, I'm not a very great judge. Since I moved out, I've been working, and until my mother's accident, my sister was dealing with them. They both think he's mostly stressed out since they're not around."

  "And you?"

  "Walking at night in the middle of the street. Hiding and throwing away people's stuff." I bit my lip.

  "Does anyone have power of attorney for him?" Dr. Madden asked.

  I shrugged. "Maybe my mother."

  "So there's no one trying to get him committed anywhere," she said casually. "Declared incompetent."

  "Look, Doctor. Nobody wants his money. We just want to get him the right treatment. The guy nearly burned the place down making breakfast last week. He ended up walking down the freeway because he ran out of gas. I don't think he's safe at home alone anymore. Could this be caused by a drug interaction? Depression? A vitamin deficiency or thyroid problem? He used to drink a lot, maybe twenty years ago, but not …" I twisted my hands and looked at the posters on her walls. One was a chart of the reproductive system. One was an ear canal. And one was a brain with neurotic plaques throughout. "It's not Alzheimer's is it?"

  She held up his clock drawing. Very Salvador Dali. "This is a classic test, and it didn't go so well. He scored well on the rest of the test, which means it's not too advanced. I'll do some blood work and check everything out, but ... "

  "What test?" I said.

  "Our discussion. As I say, he did pretty well, but from what I've heard from you, I'm going to put him on Aricept and Nemenda right now. They're for dementia. At the UCLA Memory and Aging Research Center, he can get the complete work-up and an MRI, but honestly, if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and walks like a duck …" She shrugged. “We roast it with orange sauce.” She snorted. Man, she was just like Dad.

  She looked impishly at me. “You have to have a sense of humor to deal with this. Right? It’s a huge deal, long-term.”

  I thought hard a minute. "But he still beats me at hearts and tells a joke well."

  "Not all of the brain is affected the same way," she said. "Sometimes my patients remember surprising things and function quite well, but their judgment is awful. And their memory can be clear one day and hazy the next.”

  She handed me two Rx slips: one for the drugs and one for a book called The 36-Hour Day. "Read this. Join a support group. There's one here on Saturday mornings. Bring your mother. You both need to learn how to deal with your dad now. Get a power of attorney for him, both kinds, legal and medical, as soon as possible, while he can still write his name. Also take the car keys away pronto. Don't confront him, argue with him, rationalize things, or explain things in great detail. You have to keep a dementia patient's life very simple, which may be a challenge for someone with his intellect. Dealing with any change is exhausting for him, as he feels he has to memorize the new situation to look normal, so he'll insist on routine."

  "But his routine changes routinely," I said, confused. While he can still write his name? Aaaccck!

  She smiled. "Exactly. He'll want to be the one to make the rules to keep things static, but every day his brain does different things. If his rules aren't safe, you'll have to redirect him. Figure out what he likes and use it.”

  I nodded. "Pastry." Dal the genius had figured that out. "Why is it just showing up now? I don't think anyone in his family ever had Alzheimer's. Isn't it genetic?"

  She shook her head. "Hard to tell. This generation is living longer. The disease comes on gradually. Your mother may have been compensating for him. Then recent stress probably triggered an acceleration."

  My other ancestors had tended to have strokes and accidents and die younger. "Will the medicine fix him so he can stay home alone?"

  She said, "It won't fix him. It can slow down the progression of the dis
ease. I'll call you with the blood test results." She paused a minute. "I know this subject is unpleasant, but with someone his size, with all that power, it may be necessary to place him in a home with qualified professionals sooner than you'd like. Especially if your mother can't handle him. You said she's not steady on her feet."

  "Place him?" My mouth went dry as I pictured Myrtle and Bernice at Shady Acres.

  She nodded. "In a lock-down facility for wanderers. I recommend this one, if there's room." She handed me a card that read: Nadja Kay's Corner. We provide loving care when you can't.

  But why couldn't I provide his loving care?

  I thanked her and left with tears in my eyes. In the hall, I ducked into the restroom to regain my composure. I didn't want to take Dad away from home. He loved it there, making bacon and eggs and singing and walking his own neighborhood. But in-home caregivers had been a big bust, and they cost way too much. And what if Mom couldn't handle him? James had pushed care homes as the only solution, but Dal would never understand it if Music Man went to a care place, not after his family had kept his grandmother at home for so long. Oh, I hated being the man in the middle.

  In the hall, Music Man, a bandage around his elbow, was regaling the phlebotomist with more Army jokes. "And the sergeant said to the knock-kneed recruit, 'You're hopeless. You'll never make a good soldier with the top half of your legs at attention and the bottom half standing at ease.'"

  "Alzheimer's?" Dal whispered, seeing my stunned face.

  I nodded, taking tight hold of Dad's arm. I reached in my pocket for a Kleenex and came up with the prescription. A-R-I-C-E-P-T. Violet, red, white, orange, green, persimmon, black. The colors of relief.

  * * *

  After a good cry and two games of hearts with Music Man, I called Monica.

  "Do you want me to come home?" she asked.

  I thought hard for a couple of minutes, then blew out a sigh. "I guess not. We're in this for the long haul. It's not something you can make all better in a week. I guess I have to learn to deal with it." But inside, I was screaming, Why my father? Why now?

  I decided to call Mom, not because she needed to know right away, but because I wanted to share some of the weight of this thing on my neck.

  "Did you ask all the questions on the website?" she asked.

  “You mean the Alzheimer’s Association website?” I asked.

  “Whatever.”

  So she had done some research after all. "I don't know, Mom. She did the tests you can do in an office and said if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck …"

  "Exactly. The doctor's a quack, Rhonda. But your father is not a duck, and I refuse to label his behavior with this crackpot diagnosis. Mary Baker Eddy said deep enough prayer can overcome anything. He's going to get better. Your father is not sick. He's a healthy man, always has been."

  "Do you at least have a power of attorney for him if we need it?" I asked.

  "I do, but it was only in case he didn't make it through surgery. He did, so we won't be discussing this anymore."

  "But Mom, Alz—"

  "Rhonda! Don't use that word to me again. We're going to pray him out of this." The grand hostess had spoken.

  I hung up and got teary again. Dal curled up behind me in his bed, encompassing me in a hug that felt like God. Bing on my other side completed a Rhonda sandwich between Indian flatbread and a giant dog biscuit. How had I ever gotten through a day without these two?

  Our sandwich woke up at 7:00 p.m. for a scrambled egg dinner. Except Music Man insisted that we shouldn't have breakfast so late. I smiled sadly at the old guy as he put away the eggs and bacon and guarded the fridge door. I tried for the handle again, but he was adamant. I started to get mad, then Dal caught my eye and I thought of Dr. Madden's little lecture. Geez. It would take a lot of training to get along smoothly with the shifting sands of Music Man's new universe. My mother, in this light, was now Saint Vanna Mom, having put up with him for so long. I'd have to try to get her to see reality tomorrow. I blew my nose for the hundredth time that day.

  That night, I couldn't face my writers' group, but I called Marian and promised to see them in Ladrona Beach on the weekend at our yearly writers' conference, a joint meeting of our local chapter of the national organization, Romance In Novels Gathering, or RING, and the darker, sexier Southern California Romance E-books Writers. You guessed it: SCREW.

  Dal held my hand all through dinner and then snuggled with me on the sofa through a couple of sitcoms. Then he took my hand and led me back down the hall to his room. He stowed his crutches, sat down, and patted the bed by him. I sat, and he took my face in his. He looked deep into my eyes. The tiniest quirk of his mouth widened, blooming into a broad grin under the big bandaged nose. His black eye had spread and gone green, but this was still the handsomest man I had ever seen.

  His kisses strolled and cruised and lingered over my body, and he pulled me back on the bed with him, wincing.

  "Your back?"

  "Yeah. Ooh." His face was in agony, his broad chest resigned.

  .

  "Where’s your big yellow S, Super Sioux? You didn’t have to rescue me. I was on my way out of that brawl on my own, you know."

  He stroked my arm. "I didn't know you were so skilled in self-defense. There you were, a damsel in distress, with those guys groping your naked body. I'd brought your dad to see something Harley assured me would be entertaining, not a public rape of my best girl."

  Best girl! "Yeah, Dad loved it." My eyes rolled. "And hey, I survived topless beaches in France. Losing my bra wasn't the problem. It was all those hands." I shivered. "About to tear me apart and wreck my private fun zone."

  "Oh? Don't you like hands?" He wiggled his long, well-shaped hands at me.

  I took them in mine, palms up, and kissed each one. "I think I like these. They're good. They do good things." I traced the tan palms and long fingers with my index finger. "They make weird art and they carry stuff and … what else do they do, exactly?"

  The hands in question traced my neck and shoulders and wandered down my V-neck shirt. "Oh, they work some, drive some, make pancakes, clean stuff up, rescue pretty girls, and sometimes, when the moon is full—" The fingers were hypnotic as they lazily circled my breasts through my shirt.

  "What?" I was mesmerized.

  "And the stars are in just the right places—" An eyebrow went up as one hand skimmed over my stomach and landed at my waist while the other pulled my head toward the brilliant grin amid the mass of black hair on the quilt.

  Our lips met, sending a warm shower of sensation to my most eager parts. The wandering hands started their slow progress up under my sweatshirt again and peeled it off. I touched his face at the edge of the bruise and gasped. "Right places?"

  "Uh-huh." He nibbled my neck.

  "Do you forgive me?" I said, suddenly shy.

  "No, never." His thumb played with my nipple through the bra and the nose praised my neck. "But I figure if I'm nice to you, you'll teach me self-defense. Have you seen James?"

  "Who?" I pulled off his shirt, which brought fresh pain noises.

  "Slow and steady, honey. Remember me, the hero, wounded in the line of duty, still recovering from mono?"

  Somehow in the next few minutes, I lost all my underwear and my pants to the injured hero. "Oh! A naked woman! Right in this bed!" he said, delighted, stroking my bare butt.

  "You’re a little behind here," I said, yanking at his belt.

  He laughed. "Oh, don't worry. I feel plenty of behind here."

  I got his belt undone, but then he stopped my hands. "One thing at a time," he whispered.

  I ran my hands up and down the yummy torso in front of me. "What was that about the stars?" I whispered, teasing his cheek with my breast.

  He groaned.

  I whispered, "And the moon and your fingers?"

  He nuzzled my breast and licked it. "Well, they've been known to …" One of his hands slid
toward my fun zone, where it investigated the fun house appreciatively, then sent me on a wild, twisting, roller coaster ride.

  My mind turned to mush and my back arched under the relentless fingers. "Aahhh. Oohhh. Oh, yeah. Up and up and left and right and up and around and …" I raised my arms like I was at that last big roller coaster drop. " …WAAAAHAAAAAA!"

  He kicked his jeans off. "Sometimes, when the stars are right, I can make girls on horseback howl at the moon.”

  "Horseback?" I gasped, my body still vibrating, my head on his smooth, naked chest. I nipped his ear and planted kisses along his neck, burrowing my nose into the long black hair. He tasted like the prairie—with one glorious tree sticking up off it, now wrapped in rubber. "Where's my horse, Injun Man?"

  The grin glittered again. "You can ride me."

  * * *

  He woke me in the middle of the night with a miraculously recovered back. Our progress was slow but steady, and the man's miracle hands had soon built my body's expectations to a noisy, happy thrum once more. And I, in return, had a stiff handful of Indian promise to play with until it brought on our own personal fireworks. Awesome fun. Recommended for all horse lovers.

  "Think we can ever learn to actually sleep together?" I said dreamily afterwards.

  "Nah," he mumbled, a warm hand still on my breast.

  While we were working up another sweat trying to memorize each other's bodies and bring each other to yet another rollicking, rolling boil, I heard Music Man trundle through the dark house, locking all the doors.

  CHAPTER 31

  Wednesday was a mix of heaven and hell: Dal and Dad. Dal watched me do twenty-five pull-ups in the morning. He did two. I laughed. We showered together (ahem) and snapped towels at each other. Bliss. Dal and I decided to trade off watching Music Man, playing cards and telling bad jokes and making high-fat food with him.

  But now that I knew Dad was sick, I had no way of telling what path his disease would take. The hunt for my stolen manuscript took a backseat to frenzied Alzheimer's research. I found out that patients often lived for decades after diagnosis, and confirmed that the money my parents had was a drop in the bucket when it came to paying for Alzheimer's care. And yet, Dad was big enough and already violent enough that most care facilities wouldn't take him, fearing for the safety of their other patients. In-home care was outrageously expensive, not to mention the little problem of finding the right person to do it. He didn't seem to be improving yet on his new drugs, but I prayed that he would. Otherwise, my life could end up a nightmare.