Still Alice Page 0,72
and I don’t know that you’re my daughter, and I don’t know that you love me?”
“Then, I’ll tell you that I do, and you’ll believe me.”
Alice liked that. But will I always love her? Does my love for her reside in my head or my heart? The scientist in her believed that emotion resulted from complex limbic brain circuitry, circuitry that was for her, at this very moment, trapped in the trenches of a battle in which there would be no survivors. The mother in her believed that the love she had for her daughter was safe from the mayhem in her mind, because it lived in her heart.
“How are you, Mom?”
“Not so good. This semester was hard, without my work, without Harvard, and this disease progressing, and your dad hardly ever home. It’s been almost too hard.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could be here more. Next fall, I’ll be closer. I thought about moving back now, but I just got cast in this great play. It’s a small part, but—”
“It’s okay. I wish I could see you more, too, but I’d never let you stop living your life for me.”
She thought about John.
“Your dad wants to move to New York. He got an offer at Sloan-Kettering.”
“I know. I was there.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I couldn’t imagine that you did.”
“I can’t leave here. The twins will be here in April.”
“I can’t wait to see those babies.”
“Me, too.”
Alice imagined holding them in her arms, their warm bodies, their tiny, curled fingers and chunky, unused feet, their puffy, round eyes. She wondered if they’d look like her or John. And the smell. She couldn’t wait to smell her delicious grandchildren.
Most grandparents delighted in imagining their grandchildren’s lives, the promise of attending recitals and birthday parties, graduations and weddings. She knew she wouldn’t be here for recitals and birthday parties, graduations and weddings. But she would be here to hold them and smell them, and she’d be damned if she’d be sitting alone somewhere in New York instead.
“How’s Malcolm?”
“Good. We just did the Memory Walk together in L.A.”
“What’s he like?”
Lydia’s smile jumped ahead of her answer.
“He’s very tall, outdoorsy, a little shy.”
“What’s he like with you?”
“He’s very sweet. He loves how smart I am, he’s so proud of my acting, he brags about me a lot, it’s almost embarrassing. You’d like him.”
“What are you like with him?”
Lydia considered this for several moments, as if she hadn’t before.
“Myself.”
“Good.”
Alice smiled and squeezed Lydia’s hand. She thought to ask Lydia what that meant to her, to describe herself, to remind her, but the thought evaporated too quickly to speak it.
“What were we just talking about?” asked Alice.
“Malcolm, Memory Walk? New York?” asked Lydia, offering prompts.
“I go for walks around here, and I feel safe. Even if I get a little turned around, I eventually see something that looks familiar, and enough people in the stores know me and point me in the right direction. The girl at Jerri’s is always keeping track of my wallet and keys.
“And I have my support group friends here. I need them. I couldn’t learn New York now. I’d lose what little independence I still have. A new job. Your dad would be working all the time. I’d lose him, too.”
“Mom, you need to tell all this to Dad.”
She was right. But it was so much easier telling her.
“Lydia, I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
“In case I forget, know that I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
“I DON’T WANT TO MOVE to New York,” said Alice.
“It’s a long ways off, we don’t have to make a decision on it now,” said John.
“I want to make a decision on it now. I’m deciding now. I want to be clear about this while I still can be. I don’t want to move to New York.”
“What if Lydia’s there?”
“What if she’s not? You should’ve discussed this with me privately, before announcing it to the kids.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did, many times.”
“Oh, so I don’t remember? That’s convenient.”
She breathed, in through her nose, out through her mouth, allowing a calm moment to pull herself out of the elementary school argument they were spiraling into.
“John, I knew you were meeting with people at Sloan-Kettering, but I never understood that they were wooing you for a position for this upcoming year. I would’ve spoken up if I’d known this.”
“I told you why I was going there.”
“Fine. Would they be willing to let you take your sabbatical year and start a year from September?”
“No, they need someone