CHAPTER FIVE
THE SOUND OF THE door opening snapped me out of the spell Jane Austen’s words had put me under. Looking up, I noticed Jeffrey in the doorway.
“Visiting hours are up, Ms. Brinks,” he said. “Sundowners.”
Hearing the term, which referred to Alzheimer’s and dementia patients’ increased irritability as the sun went down, I checked my watch, surprised to see it was already five. I closed the book and placed it on the side table, standing from the chair.
“Love you, Daddy,” I whispered, leaning down, placing a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I gazed upon my father’s shrunken stature as he slept slumped over in his wheelchair. My heart ached at his appearance. He was just a few years past his seventieth birthday, yet he seemed years older than that. I wished there were a magic pill he could take that would turn him back into the man he used to be. The man who had makeup parties with me when I was a little girl. The man who spent too many nights assembling a dollhouse I just had to have for my seventh birthday. The man who attended Mommy and Me lunches during elementary school so I wouldn’t feel left out. Those memories were so clear, so vivid. Why couldn’t they be that way for him, too?
A buzzing snapped me out of my depressing thoughts as I headed into the hallway, reaching into my purse. Finally finding my phone in the bottomless abyss that was my bag, I saw a text from Drew.
You’d better not be bailing on tonight. If I have to suffer through speed dating, you do, too.
I hastily typed a response as I dashed down the hallway.
Just finishing up with Dad. Be at my place at 7. I’ll have Brooklyn meet us there. Make sure you wear a button-down shirt. And please shave. As much as women say they like a bit of scruff, that shit hurts when you go down on us.
I grinned to myself, imagining my brother’s face turning red as he read my response. I could hear his voice in my head, exclaiming, “Jesus, Molly. Enough.” Instantly, Drew’s reply appeared on the screen, making me laugh.
Jesus, Molly. Enough.
I tossed my phone into my bag, about to turn down another long corridor in this maze of a building.
“Ms. Brinks!” a voice called out.
Stopping, I spun around. A man wearing a crisp blue shirt, black tie, perfectly fitted black pants, and white lab coat hurried toward me.
“Dr. McAllister,” I exhaled, furrowing my brow when I noticed the concerned look on his face.
I’d always been amazed that someone who appeared so young could be one of the top neurologists in the state, if not the country. It had taken me over a year to brush off my urge to call him Doogie Howser. Granted, he had to be in his thirties, not sixteen, but I’d expected my father’s doctor to be old with white hair and a beer belly, not an attractive dark-haired young man who had a perpetually windswept look about him, as if he’d just stepped off his sailboat. I imagined he looked just as good in a pair of board shorts and boat shoes as he did in a tie and jacket.
“I told you. Call me Noah,” he said with a smile that highlighted his nearly perfect teeth. One of the bottom ones was a bit crooked, but I liked it. It made him seem more earthly and less god-like.
“Okay. Noah.”
We had this conversation every time I saw him. Still, each time he asked me to call him Noah, all I could think of was learning about the story of Noah’s Ark in first grade before one of the nun’s graciously asked my father not to bring me back to the Catholic school I had only been attending for a whopping three weeks. I couldn’t help but picture Dr. McAllister, wearing a dark robe and having a ridiculously long beard, surrounded by a gaggle of animals. I’d confided that in my brother, who was convinced there was something wrong with me. It was simply my coping mechanism. Dr. McAllister, or Noah, always seemed to be the bearer of bad news. Our father’s condition would only worsen over time. Imagining his doctor in a humorous setting prevented me from having a complete breakdown about how unfair this situation was.
“Do you have a minute? There are a few things I’d hoped to discuss with you.”
I studied him. Whatever he wanted to talk to me about couldn’t be good, not after five on a Friday.
“It’s regarding your father,” he added.
Nodding, I followed him down several hallways, past the front desk, and through a set of doors leading to the administrative wing. We finally came to a stop outside a metal door. He pulled a set of keys out of his pants pocket, inserting one into the lock. He opened the door, holding it so I could enter ahead of him.
Lights sprang to life, illuminating the small office. To the right were a leather loveseat and sofa that sat catty-corner, separated by a simple lamp and side table. His desk stood beyond that. Medical journals and legal pads obscured most of its usable surface. A small bookshelf was positioned adjacent to the sole window. On the opposite side of the bookshelf were two framed diplomas. A Bachelor of Science from Harvard hung just below an even more impressive frame boasting a certificate from Johns Hopkins University, claiming one Noah Joseph McAllister to be a Doctor of Medicine. I’d seen the same framed diplomas in his office at his own private practice, too. Apparently, doctors had to hang their diplomas in each of their offices. I figured it was an ego thing.
“Have a seat, Ms. Brinks.” He gestured to the sofa. I lowered myself onto it, trying to remain still so the leather didn’t make that embarrassing sound it so often did.
“You can just call me Molly.” I smiled at him, glancing around his office as he sat on the loveseat next to the sofa.
“Okay, Molly. How’s everything with you?”
“Good,” I answered, returning my eyes to his. “I’m on a bit of a tight deadline with work, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Ah, yes. You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
I cocked my head.
He smirked. “I’ve seen your name on a few columns in Metropolitan.”
“Oh, of course.” I laughed politely. “Your wife or girlfriend must read it, huh?”
He narrowed his gaze, shaking his head. “No.”
“So you read it?”
“No. What I meant to say was I don’t have a girlfriend.”
I raised my eyebrows, giving him a coy grin.
“Or boyfriend,” he added quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t have a boyfriend. I mean…not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just…” He closed his eyes, drawing in a flustered breath. “Let’s start over. No girlfriend. I’m straight. Some of the nurses here read the magazine and bust a gut laughing at your column. You make them smile.”
“Then my job is done.” An awkward silence passed between us. I cringed at the idea he had read “Ten Tips to Giving Better Head”. My columns were very tongue-in-cheek, a way for me to air my grievances with whatever was bothering me that particular day. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss with me? I doubt it was how to let a guy down nicely,” I joked, recalling one of my recent columns. Of course, there was nothing nice about the advice contained in it. The article would have been more appropriately titled “Ten Reasons Dating is for Schmucks”.
“Right.” He paused, his expression turning serious. “I apologize for the fact I haven’t had time to update you on your father’s condition myself.”
“I understand you’re busy.”
“Nevertheless, there are a few things you should be made aware of and I didn’t want to wait until the next time you and your brother were scheduled to meet with me.”
I remained motionless, my face heating, at complete odds with the chill running down my spine. I felt out of my element here. Drew was the one who made all the decisions regarding my father’s care. He was the one who knew all the appropriate questions to ask. All I knew was my dad had a terminal illness that had progressed over the past several years, now requiring constant care.
Meeting my eyes, he licked his lips, as if bracing to deliver a fatal blow. “Your father’s condition has begun to deteriorate at a much faster pace.”
“I’m sorry. What?” I furrowed my brow, shaking my head.
“As you know, there are seven stages of Alzheimer’s ranging from extremely mild to minutes away from death.”
I nodded quickly. When my father first got his diagnosis, I picked up every book I could on Alzheimer’s. It was what I did. Drew was the practical one, methodically hunting for the best neurologists and long-term care facility money could buy, hoping he’d be able to extend the death sentence my father had been given. I did the only thing I knew. I researched the disease and was forced to come to the realization that my father would soon not only forget who we were, but would no longer be able to bathe or go to the bathroom on his own.
I thought we had time. Now, looking at the forlorn expression on Dr. McAllister’s face, which he probably reserved for all the families he was about to deliver bad news to, I knew that time was coming to an end. I didn’t know how people in the healthcare profession got up every morning, knowing they’d likely have to face upset and grieving family members, all wanting an answer to one question… Why?
“I know all about the stages of Alzheimer’s,” I barked before softening my voice. “I thought he was doing okay.”
“We can’t ignore the signs, as much as we want to say he was just having a bad day. He’s had months of bad days, Molly. He’s become increasingly violent and irritable. So much so, he’s had to be restrained several times. The staff has checked for infections constantly, hoping that would explain his irritability, but he’s healthy, all things considered.” He shook his head, his eyes remaining glued to mine. “He’s easily confused.”
“He’s always been easily confused,” I argued, not wanting to believe my father was close to the end. “When he was diagnosed, you said he could live with the disease far into his eighties or nineties. It’s only been three years.”
“It’s true the life expectancy can be as long as twenty years, but every case is different. There’s no cookie-cutter formula here, Molly. Your father has a much better chance of living a little longer because you’ve made him a priority. Many patients with advanced Alzheimer’s, like your father, have such a short life expectancy because there’s no one around to take care of them. The staff here is the best there is, and I promise you, we will do everything we can to ensure your father’s final days are as comfortable and pain-free as possible.”
“Final days?” I swallowed hard, my jaw going slack.
“Since the very beginning, I’ve told you there’s no cure. There’s no magic pill out there that can stop and reverse the progression.” He reached out and grabbed my hand. I shot my eyes to the contact of his skin on mine. It was oddly comforting. “We’re not giving up on him. I don’t want you to think we are. We will continue to do everything we can to keep his brain working.” He gave me a small smile, then leaned back on the couch, releasing my hand. “Environmental stimuli seems to help him have more lucid moments.”
“Like photos?” I raised my brow.
He nodded. “Yes. And reading.” The corners of his lips turned up. “According to the staff, he seems to be happiest in the afternoons. Somewhere inside the confusion in his brain, he knows you’ll be by to read to him.”
My expression fell. “That’s because he thinks I’m my mother.”
“None of that matters. Don’t focus on what you have no control over. Enjoy the time you spend with him. Appreciate the fact that he’s able to listen to your voice, that he’s still here.”
I took a deep breath, allowing the truth I knew was inevitable to sink in. “Have you spoken with Drew about this?”
He nodded. “Earlier this afternoon. He was unable to come and meet with me because of childcare restraints, but he did inform me you were here. But you always are in the afternoon, aren’t you?”
I shrugged sheepishly. “How long does my father—”
“Molly,” he interrupted, knowing exactly what I was getting at. “Even with the best care, he could live for several more years or he could die tomorrow. There’s no way of knowing. But I do know that you and your brother have done everything you possibly can to ensure your dad is as comfortable as he can be for however long he has left.” He hesitated briefly, forming his lips into a tight line. “On that note, the executive director, Dr. Connors, wanted me to discuss the healthcare directive in his file.”
“I’m aware of it,” I replied quickly.
“I just wanted to remind you that his advance directive is, essentially, what you probably know as a DNR. We prefer to use the term AND, which stands for Allow Natural Death. Pursuant to this directive, your brother signed an AND with the facility under the healthcare power of attorney your father had granted him. In the event anything happens, we cannot perform any lifesaving or sustaining measures. His directive covers a variety of different scenarios and what measures, if any, he approves. I’m more than happy to review those with you, if you’d like.”
“I know what his directive says.”
“I’m sure you do.” He met my eyes. “When we reach this stage, it’s simply protocol to remind the family of any directives in place.”
I lowered my gaze, focusing on a small coffee stain on the gray rug as I absorbed everything Dr. McAllister just shared with me. I’d known my father was sick for a while. It had simply become a part of life.
Now that the truth of the situation hung in the air, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. Most people in my shoes would probably shed a few tears at the notion they could be saying goodbye to their loved one within the coming weeks. Not me. Displaying emotions made you vulnerable. I wasn’t going to put myself in that position.
With a blank expression, I stood from the couch. “I need to get going. Thank you for the update, Dr. McAllister.” I held my hand out. He eyed it, then me.
“Molly, it’s okay if this news upsets you.”
I tugged my jacket closer, flashing him a congenial smile. “I’m fine, Dr. McAllister.”
“Noah,” he corrected.
“Fine. Noah,” I huffed. “Like I said, I’m fine.”
Standing, he narrowed his gaze. “Are you sure?”
I stepped toward the door, holding my head high. “I’m sure you deal with upset families all day long. People asking why this disease had to affect their loved ones. How come their own father can’t remember them.” My voice was even, at complete odds with how a normal person should feel given the situation. I’d become an expert at masking my emotions over the years. This doctor wouldn’t be the one to break me. “I’ve had several years to come to terms with the fact my father is dying. As far as I’m concerned, this disease has already killed him. That man I read to every day is not my father.”
I turned the handle, about to open the door when I slammed into the metal, the door still firmly closed. So much for a dramatic exit.
“Security protocol,” Noah explained, reaching past me for the doorknob. “It automatically locks from the inside and outside.” He pressed a button on the knob, then turned it, pushing the door open.
My face burning, I walked into the hallway, trying to regain at least a modicum of composure.
“Molly,” he called out as I was about to turn the corner that had quickly become a symbol of salvation from utter embarrassment.
“Yes?” I reluctantly spun around, plastering a smile on my face.
“Are you okay?”
I huffed, rubbing a sore spot just above my forehead. “I told you, I—”
“No. Your head.” He took a step toward me, eyeing me. “I can take a look at it for you.”
I quickly stopped fidgeting with my head, showing him there probably wasn’t even so much as a mark. “It’s fine. It’s not the first time this has happened.”
His concerned eyes turned light as he crossed his arms over his chest, widening his stance. “You make a habit out of walking into doors?”
“No. Just wishing I had an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter so I wouldn’t have to be bothered with such trivial things as opening doors.”
A smile formed on his full lips, reaching his dark eyes. The beautiful sound of his laughter echoed against the halls. “Enjoy your evening.”
Taking that as my cue to leave, I hurried down the corridor.
“Oh, and Molly?”
I spun around to face him once more.
“An invisibility cloak didn’t help Harry walk through doors.” He winked and retreated back into his office.
My jaw dropped. Holy shit. He gives good wink.
In a daze, I continued out of the building. When I got behind the wheel of my car, I could have sworn a flutter erupted in my stomach similar to that strange feeling I had written about in my books on more than one occasion. So I did what any normal twenty-nine-plus-one-year-old would. I blamed it on the Mexican food I ate for lunch.