I visited a geriatric doctor who had completed his internship at Albert Einstein in New York. Other doctors thought I might have Lyme disease.
“Hello, Mrs. Albright. How are you feeling this morning?”
I grunted. “Fine.” I was tired of people asking me how I was feeling.
Doctor Rockwell closed his folder and looked at me eye level. “I’ll be direct with you, Janeen. It’s Alzheimer’s.”
My ears nearly retracted into my skull. My mother had died from Alzheimer’s. Each day, I’d watched another part of her disappear.
“The good news is,” he said, “you’re in the early stages and there are treatments.” His teeth were very white.
Rockwell said sometimes the disease can progress very fast, sometimes more slowly. “There’s no way of knowing.” His hands were folded on his desk, his nails manicured. “I’d like to suggest a specialized therapy,” and smiled as though he were holding an enormous ice cream cone. “It’s not for everyone, but in your case, it’s worth a try.”
My mind imagined some form of chemo, vomiting, hair falling out, wigs. A drug that would cause me to drool, pee in bed, turn my teeth to mush.
Rockwell wrote out a prescription and tore it from his pad. The rip made me shiver. “This will help to reduce amyloid plaques, brain lesions. Bring it to the pharmacy.”
I waved the paper over his desk and stuffed into my purse. Was my time up? Was he kicking me out? “How’s this prescription going to be different from the ten others in my medicine cabinet?”
He glanced at his cellphone and back at me. It hadn’t been easy to book an appointment with Rockwell. I waited three months before his receptionist called with an opening. “Research shows an active brain can slow down the disease,” he said. “Do you play computer games?”
“I’m not some nine-year-old kid, doctor. I’m 73.” I couldn’t believe he wanted me to play games. I laughed thinking about the story I’d tell my friends when we got together to complain about the inadequacies of the medical system. Trouble was, most of my friends were either sick or dying.
The doctor reached into his pocket and swallowed a tic-tac. “Janeen,” his voice softened, “The games will help to keep you grounded so you don’t drift. Technology forms a large part of your personal brain banks. With everything I know about your history” and he pointed to the folder on his desk—”how you designed data tables with advanced look-up capabilities that also served as the basis for some of the first computer games ever played in the United States. Not a lot of people have done what you have. We want to keep feeding your brain, keep it alive and functioning. You’re an amazing woman, Janeen. I’ll stay in touch throughout your treatment. Promise.” He gave one of his ice cream smiles. But the bright side of my new regimen was that I only had one pill to take, not a shoebox full, and apart from answering telemarketing calls, what else did I have to do?
I took R’s advice, and focused on building an avatar for my new video game called Top Dog Ramono. I moved from one level to the next, each with increased difficulty. On some days I did well, but on most, not so much. My doctor kept telling me to slow down and to conserve my energy. But he was the one who said Alzheimer’s could proceed fast. In all likelihood, I’d become a babbling idiot. I’d watched that happen. I continued building my avatar to give me a way out.
I named my avatar after my mother and father. Morgan and Rena became Morena, but she gets all her good looks from me. My avatar girl was clever enough to go through a bunch of colliding mountains. If she escaped getting squished, the next step was to collect gems from slime-toads that were actually people who’ve been turned into creature features by this Lord Grunion who thinks the world is his oyster. The problem is Grunion’s got an army behind him and every time my spunky avatar drops glowing rubies into the crater of the volcanic colliding mountains, the army comes after her and locks her away. If she doesn’t have the exact key in her pocket from an arcade before reaching the mountains, she could die of hunger—shrivel into a stick of beef jerky.
After six months, I tell Rocky I’m afraid. He wants to know why. “She’s getting the best of me. Or what’s left of me. She wants the keys to my castle. I can’t let her fall off the mountain.” I’m tired of answering his questions. When did he become a shrink? I want to talk about something else.
I changed my mind. What about Morena who speaks to me, and for months, I listen.
When you’re somebody’s avatar, you get to know her more than you’d like. It’s something like the Vulcan mind meld. If I could give Doctor Rock Hudson a piece of my mind, I would. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard about her husband plus the parts about his alcoholism. Even when she’s in the bathroom, I can hear her farting and believe me, that’s not pleasant. She’s getting up there in years and can barely make it from the bedroom to the kitchen, just lies there, while I’m 29, 5 feet 9 and in great physical condition, have long blonde hair that I put up in a ponytail, and learned how to speak Spanish fluently but I already knew Sanskrit from a different memory chip. I’m also fluent in Russian. I have to hand it to Janeen, but she was in her right mind then. She was able to keep up until we got to Level 8. Now it takes days for her to make any move. Says her daughter’s pregnant and she doesn’t want her to worry. Get this. Her daughter still thinks the English guy pays rent. He was the one who put Top Dog on Janeen’s computer, wanted to show her the kind of thing he was doing at work. “The metaverse,” he told her, “and its many legions.”
“What kind,” she asked. “Killer bees?”
Janeen asked the Englishman, “Why do you want to leave the United States and work for Barclays when you can stay with me?” The answer was obvious. Why would a young guy want to take care of her? He gave her the usual clap-trap about needing money.
I told Janeen to worry more about falling rocks. I could get smashed smashed into toothpicks. Money’s immaterial. I wish she would download the most current build of Top Dog Ramono. Then I’d be able to act more quickly. Right now, I can’t move. But to be totally honest, keeping her alive is my real mission because if her battery runs down, I’m dead in the water, never mind those colliding mountains. Her casa is my casa. She always says, I believe in you, Morena. Get Grunion. Your’re a guerilla. Stay on the mountain. It’s where you belong. Like I didn’t know. C’mon. How am I supposed to go head-to-head with Lord Grunion unless Janeen does something?
I know Rocky said I’m supposed to start my day with a good breakfast. Last visit, my daughter deposited a ten-pound bag of French roast on the counter. “Who are you anyway?” She didn’t answer.
“Ma? It’s me.”
“I laughed. Ha, ha, ha. Don’t you think I know who you are? My daughter.”
“You’re scaring me,” she said.
I scared myself. How could I not recognize her? Brewed myself a cup, sliced myself a piece of challah and settled down before I caught the bus, inhaled the steam, the swirl of cream and coffee, my spoon clinked against the side of the mug; the sound put me in a meditative state the way coffee does in the early morning, stared out the window and took small sips, my finger perched on my lip, placed the mug back down on the oak table and counted the number of blue flowers stenciled along the outside of the mug, one leaf pointing to the next. I point my finger in the same direction.
I fed my cat, Knickers, named by a one-time roommate from Great Britain whose feet were half brown, half white. that is, the cat’s. He’d earned an MBA at UC Berkeley, then moved back to take a job with Barclays leaving me with two dozen Darjeeling teabags lying on the kitchen counter.
My English friend blamed Starbucks for creating drinks that taste like pumpkin, especially around Halloween or Christmas. “It’s revolting. Who ever heard of pumpkin-flavored drinks? They should be lined up against the wall and shot.”
In the end, we shared a kettle—he poured hot water for tea, and me, coffee. He paid his rent, rinsed out his teacup and placed it on the drainboard. I watched all six feet two of him walk out the door with a canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Too bad. I loved him. He placed his house keys on the kitchen table and pushed them toward a vase of fabric flowers. I watched him get in his car and leave: I walked around the house and fed my cat. Oh well.
There’s frosting on the mountain. It must be the incoming fog.
For months, no rain. Not a drop. Northern California was in the middle of a drought. Outside, trees slumped over the pavement, and ash from wildfires up north cast a glow. The sunsets were gorgeous, but I wanted clouds to open up the same way my three-year-old daughter used to rip apart wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Outside the house, my neighbor’s dog does its business on a hydrant. One leg raised high in the air; the mutt seemed excited to take a long piss on a weird piece of metal.
I tell Dr. Rock I don’t know what’s going on. We talk and I listen.
You see what I’m dealing with? I’m running down the side of this mountain, which is volcanic and get my toe stuck on this overhang. In the distance, I see a ghoul running my way, waving his arms and screaming obscenities. I’m trying to free my foot, but I have to be careful. If I lose my balance, I could fall off the cliff to the pool below which is filled with everyone’s lies. Nasty things, they’ll stick to me with suction cups. Then I’ll have to go to the underworld and plead with Lord Grunion, but he’ll want me to parade around in my bra and panties before all his little minions. But Janeen didn’t create an exhibitionist. I rock back and forth, thanking my aikido stars for helping me not to panic. Grunion’s got one eye in the middle of his chin and an orange vinyl perm that rises in ridges from his head. If he gets close, he’s going to spit this acidic goo on me, which will cost ten of my lives and I’ve only got that many left. I unzip a ruby from the inner-lining of my collar before the ghoul is about to open its stinking mouth, I free my foot and leap to the other side of the mountain. I’m glad I didn’t have to use up one of my rubies to paralyze the thug. The ghoul stands there on his right leg, drooling. I shout obscenities in Russian, basically tell the ghoul to fuck off. The coast is clear. I’m so shook up I forget to collect rubies from the slime-toads so I can stay on this mountain and enjoy a vegetarian dinner. Sure, I like steak, but I’m not the one who makes the rules.
There’s no one to talk to. Dr. Rockhound said explained how I was feeling fear.
“You think I need you to tell me that?”
My mind moves over each room in the house. I comb through all my essentials, pack them into cardboard boxes and load everything into a truck. I don’t forget the photograph albums from the bedroom closet shelf, or my keepsake box. I take potted plants from the back porch and a spray bottle. I’d take the mementos of my daughter’s schoolwork. I’m ready to go.
Before I leave, I water my plants in the garden: tomatoes, zucchini, flowers, a species of white climbing tomb rose, remnants of which had been found buried in the pyramids, and Agapanthus, blue and white snowballs. I’d lavished so much attention on my garden, and so much of it had stayed a weed patch subject to Bermuda grass. But I had cleared several weed free zones, loved to look at the Calla Lilies, the nearly wild orange and scarlet Nasturtium with their spicy pods, beloved by our rabbit, Hopper; Pacific Coast Iris that appear on the hills of Point Reyes every spring and in my garden, varieties of daisy and mint, Borage, huge yellow squash flowers filled with bees, and an apple tree with cinnamon-tasting fruit.
I wish my English guy had never left, but he missed his tea service. They say falling off the mountain and freezing to death can be a pleasant sensation. Everything stops. I go out into the street. Red and green lights hurt my eyes. Christmas? There are people who carry packages. Three girls walk by with identical sweatshirts. There’s a man holding a board with red letters that covers his back and front in large red letters. Grunion’s wearing a hat and has a beard. A disguise. I beat his chest demanding the gems, the rubies, but he blows smoke in my face and laughs.
“Stop, lady! Are you crazy or something?”
I hit him as hard as I can; my hands bounce off his chest. I have to help Morena. This is my moment. I scream at a high frequency aimed to paralyze him. Grunion can’t stand any noise above a certain decibel level. That’s his Achilles heel. I keep screaming. But it’s not working. He stands there and shakes his head. The red and green lights flash in my eyes. A white light moves toward me and stops.
“My name’s not Grunion,” is what he says. “It’s Bill.”
People walk toward me with outstretched hands. One of them grabs me and pulls me away. Doctor Rockface appears.
“Everything will be okay, Mrs. Albright,” a woman says, and draws a cold cloth over my forehead. “The police brought you to the hospital. You’ll get yourself hurt, dearie, if you try that again. Now try and relax.”
I use words to chase her away. I have to get those gems. I’m sad, so sad. Start crying. She comes back and injects me with poison.
There’s a large white button near my bed. I keep pressing it. Nothing happens.
Lenore Weiss is a member of the San Francisco Writers Grotto. Her novel, Pulp into Paper, was published last year, as was a new poetry collection, Video Game Pointers. Prior poetry collections form a trilogy about love, loss, and being mortal: Cutting Down the Last Tree on Easter Island (West End Press, 2012); Two Places (Kelsay Books, 2014), and The Golem (Hakodesh Word Press, 2017). Alexandria Quarterly Press published her prize-winning flash fiction chapbook, Holding on to the Fringes of Love. Lenore lives in Oakland, California.