Left

by Mary Hogan

  The most normal thing he’d said all day.

  STAIRS. AREA RUGS. Throw rugs. A bathmat. Uneven backyard brick. Lola underfoot. Our apartment was full of tripping hazards.

  “‘The brain is disremembering the motor skills of walking,’” I read online. “‘Instead, the feet shuffle.’”

  “Disremembering.” I liked that word. It sounded less permanent than cognitive impairment or dementia or the awful A word. If you disremembered something, you could disforget it, too. Right?

  While Paul napped, I got busy. I tightly rolled rugs and tied them with twine. I dragged them downstairs to our basement storage space. I draped our bathmat on a towel rack. Off the floor, within reach. I called my brother in California.

  “I need you,” I said.

  “On my way,” he replied, as I knew he would.

  NATHAN THAYER WAS saddled with a lispy birth name, too. Only it didn’t bother him. Some people called him “Nate,” but most didn’t. Like Paul, my brother was a there kind of guy. A professional cabinetmaker, he could build anything. He still lived in our childhood home. Only he’d made it his own. Custom cabinetry in every room. White walls, dark wood floors. Simple and uncluttered. Like his single, childless life. Sort of. Even though his divorce was years ago, my brother still wore his ring.

  “Can’t get it off,” he claimed. Nathan’s broken heart, I knew, had once been filled to capacity.

  When I called my brother, I told him what I’d already ordered online: knob covers for our gas stove, safety drawer latches and cabinet catches, motion-activated night-lights, an anti-scalding attachment for the tub faucet.

  “Babyproofing for a giant baby?” he asked.

  “Exactly.” We both found that hilarious. Which felt as luscious as hot chocolate on an icy afternoon. My brother and I understood that laughter is a strong branch to grab when life falls off a cliff and you’re clawing at twigs on the way down.

  John found nothing funny at all.

  “Dad!” From the start, he shouted in his father’s face whenever he flew in from Boston. “Another CFO was indicted. Finally, they’re cracking down on false financial statements.” Sitting beside Paul, John flipped through the Times’s business section, page by page. As many people did in the first few months, he mistook his father’s blank expressions for an inability to hear. He believed he could restore Paul’s cognition by yelling current events at him. “Let’s see what’s up in IPO news.”

  “Dirty bastards,” Paul would blurt out, making me and Nathan laugh.

  John didn’t laugh at anything. “You remember the election, don’t you, Dad? Let’s see what’s happening in Washington.”

  When Kate joined her husband, she bustled into the apartment with groceries from Whole Foods. Blueberries, walnuts, avocados, wild salmon. “Can’t have too much brain food!” she trilled, as if I fed Paul a diet of Doritos. Brenda showed up with bundles of gotu kola from her garden.

  “It’s Ayurvedic,” she proudly stated, as if I knew what that meant.

  At the beginning, friends and colleagues from the courthouse dropped by with dumplings from Paul’s favorite lunch spot in Chinatown, and gift baskets from Zabar’s. “Paul isn’t off gluten, is he?”

  It didn’t take long to hear excuses for not visiting more often. I understood. It was painful to watch a brilliant mind fade before your eyes. Still, our best friends, like Anita and Isaac, settled in for the long haul.

  “What’s on the calendar this month?” Paul’s face lit up whenever Isaac came over.

  “Court is in recess, Judge,” Isaac lied.

  “Ah. How’s the baby?”

  “Trey? He’ll be four soon.”

  “Ah. What’s on the calendar this month?”

  “Court is in recess, Judge.”

  Eventually, Isaac helped me file Paul’s pension paperwork. Surprising us all—even the neurologist, a new doctor added to the list—Judge Agarra showed no desire to get back on the bench. Aside from his circular conversations with Isaac, the profession Paul once adored was both out of his sight and out of his mind.

  By far, Paul’s favorite visitor—and mine—was Edie. Whenever she followed her parents or her grandmother through the door, Paul beamed. When he no longer had words, he slapped his hand over his heart. He thumped his cane on the floor. He never yelped in pain around her, as he did when the physical therapist made him work his shoulder or use his thigh muscles to lift his feet.

  “Let’s see the Hudson, Granddad.”

  At every level of Paul’s decline, Edie did what she always did with her grandfather: walk to Riverside Park to watch the Hudson River flow. When Paul got worse, they moved more slowly. With infinite patience, she helped him insert his socked feet into the Velcro sneakers I’d bought him online. She ran a comb through his wispy hair and leashed Lola so she could walk with them, too. If Paul got tired in the park, they sat on a bench with Lola nestled at their feet. After he lost the ability to walk at all, Edie strapped Lola to Paul’s wheelchair and strolled the three of them along the promenade and past the crab apple grove, delighting in the way the tiny whitecaps danced across the gray ribbon of the river.

  “Dad isn’t getting better.” At home in Boston, John Agarra moaned to his wife. Edie didn’t want to hear it.

  “Why not appreciate everything Granddad can do, instead of stressing over what he can’t?”

  Our teenage sage educated us all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  AS DAYS DO, THEY BECAME WEEKS AND MONTHS. LONG ago, I finished painting the lampshades I had on order. Initially, I temporarily suspended my Etsy site. Then I canceled it altogether. Paul was my job now. I made him fish tacos and rigatoni with garlic and oil. I helped my creative genius of a brother retrofit our apartment.

  Nathan bought a length of bronze pipe—matching our bathroom fixtures—and installed it in the wall-to-wall enclosure around our bathtub. He made a grab bar that looked like a ballet barre. Using the same sturdy pipe, he fashioned railings on either side of the toilet that somehow looked like a cool art installation instead of the means to help Paul’s wobbly legs lift him up. Remembering how much I’d hated living in our “sick house”—Mom’s amber pill vials the centerpiece on our kitchen table—Nathan used his cabinetry skills to build a lockable bedside table with a pullout shelf for pills, dispensers for baby wipes and tissues, and a caddy for a water pitcher and cup. To enclose the staircase, both upstairs and down, he built gates that resembled entrances to a country garden. He painted the white pickets matte because he’d read that glare upset people in later stages of cognitive decline.

  My amazing brother made our new life feel alive.

  “Why are you doing this?” Paul asked him.

  Nathan replied, “Getting ready for whatever may come.”

  Dressed in his work jeans, ready to help, Paul initially said, “If you need a hand, I’m here. Strong shoulder? Not so much.”

  In those early days, my husband’s humor popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Delighting us each time. As suddenly, his former self disappeared.

  “Why are you doing this?” Paul asked Nathan, over and over.

  “Getting ready for whatever may come.”

  My brother showed me what love looks like.

  LITTLE BY LITTLE, Paul left me. After his surgery, my husband was never the same. The trajectory of his decline resembled the stock market chart from the seventies. Brief pops of hope. Ultimately, though, I learned to join Paul in his reality, instead of wishing, praying, begging God, pestering the neurologist, feeding him blueberries and oily fish and herbs from Brenda’s garden in the hopes that he would return to mine.

  Some days were calm. Almost normal. Other days, I felt like I was living in the middle of an icy lake. Cracks everywhere. Frozen in panic. At any moment, I could be plunged into its frigid depths.

  When the frustration of losing words made Paul shout at me, I retreated to the bathroom and whispered “let” on the inhale and “go” on the exhale. If that didn’t work
, I popped a Xanax. When my frustration made me shout at him, I called Anita and wept. She knew better than to tell me everything was going to be okay.

  On the worst days, when I missed the man I married so acutely it felt like my heart was already broken beyond repair, I left him with his health aide and took Lola on a special walk. Away from the sad faces of our neighbors: “How is he doing? How are you holding up?” Together, Lola and I disappeared into the green wonderland of Hudson Crescent. So I could hide. So I could cry behind my sunglasses.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  AUGUST IN NEW YORK IS A PUNISHMENT. THE HUMIDITY IS so oppressive I often wake up with a headache and go to sleep with a migraine. Tylenol is useless. Sumatriptan only softens the throbbing in my head. Temporary relief comes solely after a cool shower or a large bowl of ice cream. In summer, I live for brain freeze.

  Lola loved the heat. A reminder of her steamy origins, apparently. Like clockwork, she padded over to me at eight in the morning and eight in the evening. Her two walk times. If I didn’t jump up and grab her leash, or get her ready for the nighttime dog walker—a necessary indulgence—she drilled her stink eyes into me until I did my duty. So she could do hers.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, at five past eight one hot August morning. “Hold your horses.”

  Paul was asleep. Amoy was upstairs. It was her early shift. I heard her footsteps overhead, smelled her fried johnnycakes.

  “Should Paul be eating so much grease?” Last time she visited, Kate Agarra had watched Paul’s health aide cook her Jamaican specialties. Cornering me downstairs, her button nose wrinkled in distaste, she said, “They’re, like, dripping.”

  “He likes it,” I’d said, shrugging my shoulders.

  “Where’s the lean protein? Omega-threes?”

  I didn’t have the heart to say, “What’s the point?” Paul rarely remembered to eat anything anymore.

  Anita—my incredible friend—found Amoy for us. She took Ubers to the home health aide training schools around New York. She arrived at lunchtime with cookies from Make My Cake bakery in Harlem.

  “Anyone peckish?”

  Who could resist a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie? While the students snacked, Anita asked questions.

  “Where are you from?”

  “What is your family like?”

  “Can you lift one hundred and eighty pounds?”

  Agency recruiters were there, too. They had their own snacks on offer. All gave Anita their business cards. But, Anita figured, why not give the salary directly to the aide herself?

  Of course, I thought I could manage alone. And I could. For a while. Paul could be left alone back then. He didn’t have panic attacks or fly into rages for no reason. Back then. We lived in a loving cocoon. Our little family ate meals together and watched movies on TV. We ambled through the park and took the bus to Whole Foods. We ordered in and sat in our backyard sipping wine. We took siestas. When John and Kate flew in from Boston, we went out to dinner in the neighborhood. When Edie was with them, I cooked dinner so we could all feel normal.

  We had settled into our new normal. Until the unsettling day when everything changed.

  It was early. On a Sunday. The front door buzzed and Lola went berserk. Stupidly, we thought age would mellow her out. Mother Nature had other ideas. Still in bed, I rolled over and groaned. Paul wasn’t there. He was already up. “Is that Brenda?” I shouted upstairs. Who else would it be?

  Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bark. Bark.

  “Paul!” He didn’t answer. Lately, he’d been listening to CDs nonstop. The old blues songs he loved. His ears were always covered in giant blue headphones. Normally a good thing. Music kept him calm. That morning, though, I was annoyed. Would Brenda ever leave us alone?

  Angrily flipping the covers back, I stood up and slapped my bare feet to the door. “What?” I said into the intercom, my irritation obvious.

  “NYPD.”

  My heart lurched. Still in my pajamas, I flung open the door and felt the blood drain from my face. Through the window in our exterior door, I saw two police officers. Paul stood, befuddled, between them. I ran down the hall and opened the door.

  “Does this man live here?” one of the officers asked me.

  “Yes! He’s my husband. What happened?”

  “We found him at the church on West End. He was trying to unlock their side door. This address was in his wallet.”

  “Paul?” His face was blank. I’d seen that nonlook before.

  “Do you need us to call social services?” the officer asked.

  “No. Of course not. Thank you for bringing him home.”

  The officer said, “If he’s found wandering without ID, he’ll be taken to the emergency room.”

  There it was. The word that every caretaker dreaded most: “wandering.”

  With a nod, I thanked the officers profusely. Then I gently led my husband inside, down the hall, to our home. He wore slippers and his Patagonia parka. Shuffling, he mumbled, “Closing arguments.” Then he melted into me and began to cry.

  So Anita found Amoy for us.

  “It means ‘beautiful goddess’ in Jamaican,” she told me, beaming. The name suited Paul’s aide perfectly. Closely cropped hair, long limbs, arm definition to rival a long-distance runner’s. Her full lips were pink; her skin was as smooth as satin. “Paul will love her,” Anita said.

  She was right, of course. The first thing Amoy said to Paul was, “I don’t want any trouble from you.” We all laughed. Especially Paul. Amoy got us from the start. The last thing Paul—or I—wanted was for him to be treated like an invalid. Lola loved her, too.

  “Miss Boonoonoonoos,” Amoy cooed at her. It was Jamaican slang for “sweetie.” Lola was a wriggling puppy around her. Our cat had become a dog for good. Or maybe it was the pieces of jerked chicken Amoy snuck her. More than once, I’d smelled allspice on Lola’s breath.

  Shortly after eight, one hot August morning, I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, strapped Lola into her harness, and headed for Hudson Crescent. “See you in a bit,” I quietly called up to Amoy. Standing at the top of the stairs, she called down to Lola, “No raccoons for you.”

  Off we went.

  It was the sort of day that produced visible heat waves. We ran across the hot asphalt street and made our way to the dappled shade surrounding 1118 and your beautiful granite steps. Months had passed since I’d last seen the pediatrician in the patch of green across from your sparkling glass door. So much had happened, I rarely thought about him anymore. He’d almost certainly moved away. Perhaps he’d retired to his upstate organic farm? I didn’t dare imagine the worst: that he’d been killed by sniper fire in Afghanistan. Or he’d contracted dengue fever while caring for homeless children in Sri Lanka. All I knew was that I was proud of him. Rare was the selfless soul who would forgo the comfort of a spacious two-bedroom, two-bath, high-ceilinged apartment with old world detailing, a Thermador oven in an eat-in kitchen, and breathtaking wraparound views. Or so I imagined. It was possible he lived in a large one-bedroom with a compact washer/dryer tucked into the walk-in closet. He probably donated half his salary to charity, anyway.

  “Heel.” Just before your glossy front door, Lola intensely sniffed the rail around your tree and flower bed. A moment longer and she would squirt. I knew the signs. Not that I would let that happen to your summer begonias.

  “Hey there, Spot.”

  A male voice tumbled down from your front steps. Lola, I swear, looked up and rolled her eyes. She hated to be called “Spot.” Or worse: “Freckle Face.”

  I turned my head and lost my breath. There he was. Blake. The pediatrician. Back from the front lines. My cheeks flushed bright pink.

  “Dalmatian?” he asked, walking toward us.

  I giggled like a girl. “A common misconception.”

  Lifting her leg like a boy, Lola peed on the flowers. I stared crazily into the pediatrician’s eyes hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  “She’s a Catahoula mix.”

/>   “Catahuh?”

  Overlaughing, “Oh, hee, hee, ha, ha, ha,” I chirped, “Exactly. I’d never heard of one, either. She’s a rescue from the South.”

  My voice, I noticed, mimicked the squeal of a guinea pig.

  Blake bent down to pat Lola’s head. It was clear he didn’t know dogs. He bounced his hand on her head like it was a basketball.

  “I’m Fay,” I blurted out, holding out my hand before Lola bit his.

  “Jim.” He straightened, smiled, and shook my hand.

  “Jim? Is that some sort of nickname?”

  “I guess so. I was born a James.”

  James? I was confused. Was James a nickname for Blake?

  “I love your building,” I confessed, carefully withholding the depth of my desire and hoping he wouldn’t judge the sad state of my outfit. I didn’t want to seem like an apartment stalker. Jim quickly replied, “I’ve lived here a long time.”

  “Ah.”

  As every New Yorker knows, that’s code for “I bought when it was cheap.” Which showed how savvy my man was. It could also mean his apartment was rent regulated. Which I hoped not. Rent regulation was the city’s dirty little secret. Study after study had found that artificially lowering market rents for some only raised the rents on everyone else. Instead of making the city more affordable to the masses, the lucky few with a rent-regulated deal—nearly all with secret summer homes in the Hamptons or on the Jersey shore—made it impossible for newcomers to live in the city without a roommate (or two) and a bedroom window that opened onto an air shaft. Yet another way the rich got richer. Still, it was the city’s political third rail. Protesters with sweet apartment deals were loud and organized. They couldn’t care less about anyone else.