Today, they discussed a scene from Angels in America. They passed eager questions and answers back and forth, their conversation two-way, equal, fun. And because Alice didn’t have to compete with John to complete her thoughts, she could take her time and not get left behind.
“What was it like doing this scene with Malcolm?” Alice asked.
Lydia stared at her as if the question blew her mind.
“What?”
“Didn’t you and Malcolm perform this scene together in your class?”
“You read my journal?”
Alice’s stomach hollowed out. She thought Lydia had told her about Malcolm.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry—”
“I can’t believe you did that! You have no right!”
Lydia shoved her chair back and stormed off, leaving Alice alone at the table, stunned and queasy. A few minutes later, Alice heard the front door slam.
“Don’t worry, she’ll calm down,” said John.
All morning she tried to do something else. She tried to clean, to garden, to read, but all she could manage to do effectively was worry. She worried she’d done something unforgivable. She worried she’d just lost the respect, trust, and love of the daughter she’d only begun to know.
After lunch, Alice and John walked to Hardings Beach. Alice swam until her body felt too exhausted to feel anything else. The hollowed-out flip-flopping in her stomach gone, she returned to her beach chair, lay in the fully reclined position with her eyes closed and meditated.
She’d read that regular meditation could increase cortical thickness and slow age-related cortical thinning. Lydia was already meditating every day, and when Alice had expressed an interest, Lydia had taught her. Whether it helped to preserve her cortical thickness or not, Alice liked the time of quiet focus, how it so effectively hushed the cluttered noise and worry in her head. It literally gave her peace of mind.
After about twenty minutes, she returned to a more wakeful state, relaxed, energized, and hot. She waded back into the ocean, just for a quick dip this time, exchanging sweat and heat for salt and cool. Back in her chair, she overheard a woman on the blanket next to them talking about the wonderful play she’d just seen at the Monomoy Theatre. The hollowed-out flip-flopping surged back in.
That evening, John grilled cheeseburgers, and Alice made a salad. Lydia didn’t come home for dinner.
“I’m sure rehearsal’s just running a bit late,” said John.
“She hates me now.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
After dinner, Alice drank two more glasses of red wine, and John drank three more glasses of scotch with ice. Still no Lydia. After Alice added her evening dose of pills to her unsettled stomach, they sat on the couch together with a bowl of popcorn and a box of Milk Duds and watched King Lear.
John woke her on the couch. The television was off, and the house was dark. She must’ve fallen asleep before the movie ended. She didn’t remember the ending anyway. He guided her up the stairs to their bedroom.
She stood at her side of the bed, her hand over her disbelieving mouth, tears in her eyes, the worry expelled from her stomach and mind. Lydia’s journal lay on her pillow.
“SORRY I’M LATE,” SAID TOM, walking in.
“Okay, everyone, now that Tom’s here, Charlie and I have some news to share,” said Anna. “I’m five weeks pregnant with twins!”
Hugs and kisses and congratulations were followed by excited questions and answers and interruptions and more questions and answers. As her ability to track what was said in complex conversations with many participants declined, Alice’s sensitivity to what wasn’t said, to body language and unspoken feelings, had heightened. She’d explained this phenomenon a couple of weeks ago to Lydia, who’d told her it was an enviable skill to have as an actor. She’d said that she and other actors had to focus extremely hard to divorce themselves from verbal language in an effort to be honestly affected by what the other actors were doing and feeling. Alice didn’t quite understand the distinction, but she loved Lydia for seeing her handicap as an enviable skill.
John looked happy and excited, but Alice saw that he exposed only some of the happiness and excitement he actually felt, probably trying to respect Anna’s caveat of “it’s still early.” Even without Anna’s cautioning, he was superstitious, as most biologists were, and wouldn’t be inclined to openly count these two little chickens before they hatched. But he already couldn’t wait. He wanted grandchildren.
Just beneath Charlie’s happiness and excitement, Alice saw a thick layer of nervousness covering a thicker layer of terror. Alice thought they were both obviously visible, but Anna seemed oblivious, and no one else commented. Was she simply seeing the typical worry of an expectant first-time father? Was he nervous about the responsibility of feeding two mouths at once and paying for two college tuitions simultaneously? That would explain only the first layer. Was he also terrified about the prospect of having two kids in college and, at the same time, a wife with dementia?
Lydia and Tom stood next to each other, talking to Anna. Her children were beautiful, her children who weren’t children anymore. Lydia looked radiant; she was enjoying the good news on top of the fact that her entire family was here to see her act.
Tom’s smile was genuine, but Alice saw a subtle uneasiness about him, his eyes and cheeks slightly sunken, his body bonier. Was it school? A girlfriend? He saw her studying him.
“Mom, how are you feeling?” he asked.
“Mostly good.”
“Really?”
“Yes, honestly. I’m feeling great.”
“You seem too quiet.”
“There’s too many of us talking at once and too quickly,” said Lydia.
Tom’s smile disappeared, and he looked like he might cry. Alice’s BlackBerry in her baby blue bag vibrated against her hip, signaling the time for her evening dose of pills. She’d wait a few minutes. She didn’t want to take them just now, in front of Tom.
“Lyd, what time is your performance tomorrow?” asked Alice, her BlackBerry in hand.
“Eight o’clock.”
“Mom, you don’t have to schedule it. We’re all here. It’s not like we’re going to forget to bring you with us,” said Tom.
“What’s the name of the play we’re going to see?” asked Anna.
“Proof,” said Lydia.
“Are you nervous?” asked Tom.
“A little, because it’s opening night, and you’re all going to be there. But I’ll forget you exist once I’m onstage.”
“Lydia, what time is your play?” asked Alice.
“Mom, you just asked that. Don’t worry about it,” said Tom.
“It’s at eight o’clock, Mom,” said Lydia. “Tom, you’re not helping.”
“No, you’re not helping. Why should she have to worry about remembering something that she doesn’t have to remember?”
“She won’t worry about it if she puts it in her BlackBerry. Just let her do it,” said Lydia.
“Well, she shouldn’t be relying on that BlackBerry anyway. She should be exercising her memory whenever she can,” said Anna.
“So which is it? Should she be memorizing my showtime or totally relying on us?” asked Lydia.
“You should be encouraging her to focus and really pay attention. She should try to recall the information on her own and not get lazy,” said Anna.