Page 12 of First Comes Forever

I remember complaining that it was too big and too crowded when we first toured the facility. I pointed out the weird smell and crappy cafeteria food. In reality, the building was spotless and fresh. They had a private chef and nutrition director who only purchased food from organic, local farms. The facility was spaced out over three large buildings of nice dormitories. Piermont owned far more acres than they needed, but they wanted their residents to have multiple walking trails and several gardens to enjoy. They believed that the more time the residents spent outdoors, the healthier they tended to be.

Piermont was perfect. But I would’ve found any excuse not to let Dad go. I wasn’t ready for his diagnosis. Eight years later, I still don’t understand it. Even Alex, who is a plastic surgeon, says it’s above his pay grade. He went to medical school, and he’s still baffled by the neurologist’s explanation. Or more accurately, lack thereof.

The blanket term the doctors used was cognitive impairment, specifically impacting long-term memories. They assured us it wasn’t Alzheimer’s or dementia as there would be telltale signs on an MRI or CT. Dad didn’t have any blood clots or fluid buildup in his brain. He didn’t have any detectable tumors. For a while, they were thoroughly convinced he was faking his condition.

Eventually, a team of highly specialized neurologists told us that they were completely clueless as to why Dad’s long-term memories were in and out and why he seemed to be lost in his mind and unable to form new memories.

It’s also clear that whatever is going on, is getting worse. He used to ask for us once a week. Now, we’ll go at least a month before he has a good day. Sometimes he’ll only remember Alex. Sometimes, just me. Sometimes he’ll ask about how our day at school was or ask about our mom. The memory of our conversations just washes away anyway, so we lie.

On the days Dad asks for Mom, we tell him she’s just out busy grocery shopping and preparing his favorite meal—a Mississippi Mud Roast over a heap of homemade mashed potatoes. I don’t mind that lie. Those were pleasant memories. The times when he asks me about Liv and the baby are the worst. It seems to be the last thing he’s able to recall on occasion—Liv, a swollen round belly. Me, beyond excited about fatherhood. Whenever he asks, I lie and tell him we’re living out our happily ever after.

“It’s been a long time since Dad had a good day. Let’s just keep it light and pleasant,” I say.

Alex grumbles. “I have the cutest fucking kid in the world and can’t even show him off to his grandpa.”

“It makes him sad. We get such little time with him. I don’t want to watch him cry today.”

We made the mistake a time or two of telling Dad in his rare moments of complete lucidity what was really going on. That whatever was misfiring in his brain was making him miss out on his sons’ lives. When he realized he’d lostyears, instead of spending what little time we had together laughing and enjoying each other’s company, Dad would sit there, stoic and heartbroken. He’d cry and apologize for being such a burden. Then we’d cry because it was such a misguided narrative. Dad sacrificed everything to raise us. He didn’t give up when Mom left. He just worked harder.

How he maintained his medical practice as a single dad and found a way to put us in every single sport and after-school activity and make it to most of our games, I’ll never understand. All I know is he didn’t give up on us. And we’ll never give up on him.

Alex has his hand on the passenger handle when I stop him. “Wait.”

He raises his dark brows. Alex and I couldn’t look any different. It’s hard to believe we’re brothers. His hair is jet black and mine in contrast is a sandy brown, coarse, and a little curly when I let it get too long. His eyes are blue whereas mine are brown. He looks just like Dad, whereas I’m the mirror image of the woman who left us behind.

“We’re burning daylight, little brother. Let’s get in there before Dad goes straight Dory on us.”

“Not funny.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Alex asks, lifting his shoulders. “Dad asked for us. He remembers us, even if it’s just for a moment. It’s agoodday, man. Come on.”

“This is your area of expertise. You’re a doctor.”

Alex sighs heavily, knowing exactly where this conversation is going. “I perform cosmetic surgery. Unless Dad needs a breast augmentation or rhinoplasty, this isnotmy area of expertise.” He’s trying to joke, but his expression flattens when he sees mine.

“But do you think they’ve done enough tests? Maybe we should take him to a more specialized hospital. I’ve heard about some research hospitals on the East Coast making waves in neurology. We’ve come a long way in eight years. Money isn’t a problem anymore—”

“Yeah, can we pause for a second and just admit that it’s complete bullshit that I’m nine years your senior, did eight years of medical school, a five-year residency, and not to mention I just did a breast lift for an actress that has a goddamn Emmy and yet, you still out-earn me tenfold.”

I smirk. “More like twentyfold.”

Alex reaches over to smack my shoulder. “There’s my cocky little asshole brother.”

His distraction is short-lived. “Alex, I’m serious. We should—”

“Adam. He’s seen the top minds from the leading institutes on neurological disorders. If they’re stumped, there’s not much more to say. Sometimes in medicine, there are unexplained phenomena. Doctors don’t have all the answers. That’s why it’s calledpracticingmedicine. Whatever is going on with Dad…” Alex squeezes my shoulder, trying to comfort me. “We just have to be grateful that, for now, we have these moments.” He juts his chin to the door, indicating we should go.

I glance at the shiny Lamborghini emblem on my dash. I remember when I told Dad I didn’t want to follow in Grandpa’s footsteps, or his, or Alex’s, and I wouldn’t be attending medical school. I told him my heart wasn’t in it. And he told me no matter what I chose in life, he knew I’d be great at it. He said I had his heart and work ethic, and my mother’s pretty brown eyes. A killer combination that would ensure I’d end up sitting on top of the world. I guess from a financial standpoint, I am on top of the world. But I can’t even tell him he was right. He doesn’t remember the conversation.

“But he’s healthy otherwise,” I say. There has to be a solution to this.Just a puzzle piece out of place that we can fix.

“We’re lucky for that too.”

“Maybe this will resolve itself. Or maybe a new treatment will become available. Be honest… There’s hope, right?”

Alex removes his hand from my shoulder and sinks into the plush leather of the passenger seat. “Adam, how can they treat something when they don’t know what it is?” He pauses, contemplating his next words. “Do you want me to tell you the truth or just something that’ll make you feel better?”

I inhale and exhale. For the briefest moment, I want rationality and logic. I want to face the truth. And then I think of Liv, and the baby, and how much the truth can fuck up your life.

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