school graduation gowns, and in the Snow White nightgown she’d insisted on wearing every day when she was three. She could remember Tom in his cap and gown, in a cast when he broke his leg skiing, in braces, in his Little League uniform, and in her arms when he was an infant.
She could see Lydia’s history as well, but somehow this woman sitting across from her wasn’t inextricably connected to her memories of her youngest child. This made her uneasy and painfully aware that she was declining, her past becoming unhinged from her present. And how strange that she had no problem identifying the man next to Anna as Anna’s husband, Charlie, who had entered their lives only a couple of years ago. She pictured her Alzheimer’s as a demon in her head, tearing a reckless and illogical path of destruction, ripping apart the wiring from “Lydia now” to “Lydia then,” leaving all the “Charlie” connections unscathed.
The restaurant was crowded and noisy. Voices from other tables competed for Alice’s attention, and the music in the background moved in and out of the foreground. Anna’s and Lydia’s voices sounded the same to her. Everyone used too many pronouns. She struggled to locate who was talking at her table and to follow what was being said.
“Honey, you okay?” asked Charlie.
“The smells,” said Anna.
“You want to go outside for a minute?” asked Charlie.
“I’ll go with her,” said Alice.
Alice’s back tensed as soon as they left the cozy warmth of the restaurant. They’d both forgotten to bring their coats. Anna grabbed Alice’s hand and led her away from a circle of young smokers hovering near the door.
“Ahh, fresh air,” said Anna, taking a luxurious breath in and out through her nose.
“And quiet,” said Alice.
“How are you feeling, Mom?”
“I’m okay,” said Alice.
Anna rubbed the back of Alice’s hand, the hand she was still holding.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted.
“Same here,” said Anna. “Were you sick like this when you were pregnant with me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How did you do it?”
“You just keep going. It’ll stop soon.”
“And before you know it, the babies will be here.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Me, too,” Anna said. But her voice didn’t carry the same exuberance Alice’s did. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“Mom, I feel sick all the time, and I’m exhausted, and every time I forget something I think I’m becoming symptomatic.”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re not, you’re just tired.”
“I know, I know. It’s just when I think about you not teaching anymore and everything you’re losing—”
“Don’t. This should be an exciting time for you. Please, just think about what we’re gaining.”
Alice squeezed the hand she held and placed her other one gently on Anna’s stomach. Anna smiled, but the tears still spilled out of her overwhelmed eyes.
“I just don’t know how I’m going to handle it all. My job and two babies and—”
“And Charlie. Don’t forget about you and Charlie. Keep what you have with him. Keep everything in balance—you and Charlie, your career, your kids, everything you love. Don’t take any of the things you love in your life for granted, and you’ll do it all. Charlie will help you.”
“He better,” Anna threatened.
Alice laughed. Anna wiped her eyes several times with the heels of her hands and blew a long, Lamaze-like breath out through her mouth.
“Thanks, Mom. I feel better.”
“Good.”
Back inside the restaurant, they settled into their seats and ate dinner. The young woman across from Alice, her youngest child, Lydia, clanged her empty wineglass with her knife.
“Mom, we’d like to give you your big gift now.”
Lydia presented her with a small, rectangular package wrapped in gold paper. It must have been big in significance. Alice untaped the paper. Inside were three DVDs—The Howland Kids, Alice and John, and Alice Howland.
“It’s a video memoir for you. The Howland Kids is a collection of interviews of Anna, Tom, and me. I shot them this summer. It’s our memories of you and our childhoods and growing up. The one with Dad is of his memories of meeting you and dating and your wedding and vacations and lots of other stuff. There are a couple of really great stories in that one that none of us kids knew about. The third one I haven’t made yet. It’s an interview of you, of your stories, if you want to do it.”
“I absolutely want to do it. I love it. Thank you, I can’t wait to watch them.”
The waitress brought them coffee, tea, and chocolate cake with a candle in it. They all sang “Happy Birthday.” Alice blew out