“I’ve never seen Virgo, and I don’t see her now.”
“I think that’s sad. You are a Virgo,” he said, laughing again. “Actually, you can only see part of Virgo right now. She’s mostly below the horizon this time of night.”
“Spica. Virgo. This is how you navigate across the ocean?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you believe in maps?” she asked.
“No way. Ocean maps are incredibly inaccurate.”
“What about GPS?”
“I do believe in GPS,” he laughed. “I just believe in the stars more.”
“More than GPS?”
“GPS is electronic. It can malfunction. If you put your faith in the stars, you can always find your way home.”
“Unless it’s a cloudy night,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “On a cloudy night, I believe very strongly in GPS.” He stopped talking then. “Listen,” he said.
“To the stars?”
“No.” A soft hissing sound was barely audible. “I think this air mattress has a leak,” he said.
She laughed. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
THE AIR COOLED DOWN QUICKLY. Zee got some more blankets from the drawer. “We really need a campfire,” she said.
He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “You promised me a scary story,” he said.
“I have a better idea,” she said, kissing his neck.
“I thought we were supposed to be at camp,” he said.
“We are.”
She pulled off his T-shirt and ran her hands over his chest.
“Obviously, my mother sent me to the wrong camp,” he said.
ZEE ROLLED OVER, TRYING TO get comfortable. The air mattress had completely deflated during the night, and she woke to find herself sleeping on the cold floor. The sky was beginning to lighten. Hawk was across the room by the open window, setting up the brass sextant.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Come here and I’ll show you,” he said. “If I were taking sights today, this would be the time. In fifteen minutes, when the horizon line is more clearly defined, you’ll no longer be able to see those stars.”
He showed her the star he was plotting. “That’s Procyon,” he said.
She leaned over and looked through the sextant.
“It’s there, just above the horizon,” he said.
“I see it.” She smiled. “It’s beautiful.” She looked at the star for a long time. “You take sights at both dawn and dusk?”
“Morning and evening twilight,” he said.
“And from this you can find your way home from anywhere in the world?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “As long as I have a good quartz watch and an almanac.”
“Amazing,” she said.
“Not really,” he said. “You could learn to do it, if you wanted.”
“I can’t even find Spica,” she said.
Hawk laughed. “True enough.” He kissed her good morning. “I need coffee.”
She pulled the blanket tighter around her. “God, it’s cold,” she said.
He pulled her to him and hugged her. Looking over her shoulder, he spotted the closed door. “Is that another room?”
“It’s the bedroom,” she said.
“We slept on a cold, hard floor when we had a bedroom?” He was across the room and had the door open before she had a chance to stop him.
She followed him inside, watched as he discovered the bed with its fading green chenille.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“It was my parents’ marriage bed,” she said.
“And?”
“And, as a result, we always just sleep in the living room.”
“I still don’t get it, but I get the idea that I’m supposed to drop the subject,” he said.
“You do get it,” she said with a laugh.
36
WHEN ZEE GOT BACK to the house, Jessina was whipping egg whites into a white mountain of frosting for the chocolate cake she was making. Worried, she related to Zee the story of Mickey’s visit.
“Finch didn’t recognize Mr. Doherty,” Jessina said.
Zee was surprised, though she tried to rationalize it away, telling herself that the two men hadn’t seen each other for a long time. Still, it was difficult not to recognize Mickey Doherty. It could have been something with Finch’s medication. Lately he had started to spit out his pills. She checked in between his chair cushions and on the surrounding floor. He seemed all right today, if somewhat drowsy.
At dinner Finch mistook her for Maureen again.
Zee called the doctor and left a message.
She called again in the morning and asked that the doctor fit them in.
IT WAS CLEAR FROM THE office visit that things were deteriorating fast. The last time they’d been there, Finch had been able to walk the straight line, albeit shakily, that the doctor had taped to the floor. This time he couldn’t do it without his walker, and even then he was so tired he could only make it a few feet before he reached out for Zee’s arm, and she rushed to help him.
The doctor suggested some physical therapy. He offered to set it up so that they could come to the house two times a week to walk with Finch.
“I walk with him,” she said, somewhat defensively.
“You have enough to do,” he said, and had his nurse make the call.
Finch’s speech seemed somewhat garbled, his voice shaky and very hoarse.
“Is there any chance that he’s just sick?” Zee asked hopefully. She hadn’t thought of it until this very minute.
The doctor took his temperature. “He doesn’t have a fever,” he said. “What time did he take his last pill?”
“He’s almost due,” Zee said.
The doctor asked him basic questions from the AMTS. What is your age? What is the year? Who is president? Finch answered the third question correctly but hesitated on the first and second. When he was asked what year World War II began, he answered without hesitation. He also scored well on the facial-recognition tests, knowing the doctor and others who worked in the office, though he was unable to say what their positions were. When asked to count backward from twenty, Finch looked at her helplessly. And when asked to remember an address he was given at the beginning of the questioning, he didn’t even remember hearing it.
There was a second test, this one meant for Zee to answer, which measured the rate and changes in Finch’s mental decline. They were all questions about memory, and Zee was asked to comment on each, stating whether things had stayed the same or changed. She found she could answer very few of them, having been there for only a short time and having come to realize just how much Melville and Finch had been hiding from her. “I’ll have to fax this back to you,” Zee said to the doctor. She had to talk to Melville.
The doctor spoke with Finch for a while, a very conversational chatter that didn’t fool Finch for a minute. He might not know the answers to some of the questions, but Zee could tell from Finch’s eyes that he knew very well what they were here to determine. He looked both frightened and angry.
When the doctor was finished with his final line of questioning, he spoke to both of them.
“I’d say we’re pretty deep into the Alzheimer’s crossover,” he said. “It’s almost inevitable in Parkinson’s patients. At some point in the progression of this disease, it begins to act more like Alzheimer’s. The same is true for advanced Alzheimer’s-those patients begin to develop the movements common to Parkinson’s.”
She’d heard it before, but it had always seemed to be some vague possibility that might occur a long time from now. She took Finch’s hand. She had wanted to talk with the doctor privately about this. She understood the ethics involved. The patient had a right to know. But she could see from the look on Finch’s face that he understood too well, and it scared him.
“How long has it been since he was diagnosed?”