Chapter 9
Wes booked an appointment with Dr. Hamilton for the end of the week. He didn’t put the appointment on the calendar he shared with Beatrice in the kitchen because he didn’t want her to worry. He wanted her to think of the sleepwalking incident as a one-time thing and not a symptom of a greater issue. But Wes was spooked.
Dr. Hamilton had been Wes’s doctor for the better part of the past year. He specialized in memory care and had been genuinely surprised at Wes’s progress since his diagnosis four years ago. When he’d learned of Wes’s engagement, he’d clapped him on the back and said, “You son of a gun! You’re beating all the odds.”
But now, as Wes sat in Dr. Hamilton’s office and told him about his recent nightmare, sleepwalking episode, and insistence that Beatrice was his grandmother, Dr. Hamilton’s face grew pale. His tone was that of a typical doctor, preparing to give bad news.
“Nightmares are synonymous with worsening symptoms,” Dr. Hamilton explained. “But I guess you already know that, and that’s why you’re here.”
Wes swallowed and clutched his ledger. He’d brought it to ensure he didn’t forget anything as he explained the incident to Dr. Hamilton. Now he wanted to throw it out the window.
“What should I do?” Wes asked.
“You’re taking your meds? Getting enough sleep? Using your ledger?”
Wes nodded. “I’m doing everything.” He was doing everything right!
“It’s the nature of this disease,” Dr. Hamilton said. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just how things go.”
Wes glowered at him. He suddenly empathized with the rage so many dementia patients usually demonstrated. It was horrendous to lose so much! To lose yourself!
“I want to ask you something,” Wes said, forcing himself to look Dr. Hamilton in the eye.
“Anything.”
Wes swallowed. “Do you think I should call off the wedding?”
Dr. Hamilton shook his head. “No, Wes. Absolutely not. The nightmare was a symptom, and maybe we’re a few more notches down the road. But don’t give up on something like that. It’s probably been instrumental in keeping you well this long.”
Wes was quiet. He thought of how beautiful Beatrice looked in the morning as she did the crossword at the kitchen table. All that light swam in off the sound.
“Listen,” Dr. Hamilton said. “There’s an experimental drug coming out soon. I’d have to do some tests to see if you’re a candidate.”
“What kind of experimental drug?” Wes immediately thought of the seventies. He’d been in his twenties, and times had been very strange.
“It’s a drug that helps clean the plaque off your brain cells,” the doctor explained. “The plaque is what kick-starts the dementia in the first place.”
“So all I’ve needed this whole time is a cleanup?”
Dr. Hamilton laughed. “It’s not that simple. But it could slow the process down a great deal.”
Wes knew enough not to get his hopes up. “What are the side effects?”
“Pretty typical so far. Weight changes. Poor sleep or too much sleep. Headaches. Dizziness. Confusion.”
“I’m already pretty confused. That’s the point.”
Dr. Hamilton nodded. “We don’t have to try it if you don’t feel comfortable.”
But Wes saw this as his only option. The other roads led to gray valleys and the darkness that came with the complete loss of his memory and soul.
“Let’s do it,” Wes said. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
Wes made his way to the Sunrise Cove that afternoon to meet with Frank Fish before returning to Providence. Frank was already seated on the back veranda with a novel splayed open in front of him and a glass of white wine. In his tweed suit, he looked like a professor of psychology. Wes didn’t look half bad, either. He’d dressed in another suit jacket and a pair of dark jeans. He had to admit that Beatrice had elevated his style from “sloppy older man” to “sophisticated gentleman.”
Frank stood to hug him, which felt like a surprise. It wasn’t normal for older men to hug like this. It touched Wes’s heart.
“Big rumors around the inn about that archaeological site downstairs,” Frank said.
Wes chuckled. “We still don’t know what’s back there. The anticipation is killing me.”
No, his mind corrected. Your dementia is killing you. He swallowed and turned as a server approached to take his order.
“Iced tea,” he said, “and a salmon salad.” Amanda said salmon helped with brain health.
“I’ll have another glass of white,” Frank said, “and a burger. No cheese.”
“French fries?” the server asked.
Frank gave Wes a bug-eyed look. “Tell me you’ll share?”
Wes’s laughter bubbled up. Whether he lived another thirty years or died tomorrow, he couldn’t resist french fries. “Okay.”
The server retreated to the bistro kitchen to put in their order.
“Tell me,” Wes said, “what are the rumors? What do the guests think we have downstairs?”
“I heard a little kid telling his mom there were mummies down there.”
“Egyptian mummies?”
“I believe so,” Frank said. “But another guy thinks it’s all a scam to boost tourism. People don’t like to believe in magical things anymore. Have you noticed that? Everyone is so cynical these days.”
Wes tilted his head. “Usually, I see people during the best times of their lives. They’re on vacation. They’re celebrating their romantic love and their family love. They’re swimming and sailing and eating and…” He trailed off. “What I mean is, I don’t hear much cynicism. But that doesn’t mean it’s not out there.”
“You live in a bubble,” Frank said. “I should really move out here.”
“You really should.”
After lunch, Wes led Frank downstairs so he could see the wall. The concrete they’d torn apart before finding it was jagged and dangerous, and rubble was everywhere. Frank approached the wall slowly, then gave Wes a look. “Doesn’t it make you think you’re Indiana Jones?”
“You think the Holy Grail is back there?” Wes asked. He could get on board with everlasting life, he supposed. As long as he could spend it with the ones he loved on the most beautiful island in the world.
“Or the Ark of the Covenant,” Frank said. He folded his lips. “Anna would have loved this.”
Wes’s chest heaved. He could practically see Anna in the basement with them now, folding laundry or searching for cleaning supplies or calling out, “Wes? Can you come down here? I need your help!” In his mind’s eye, she’d been frozen forever in her late thirties.
“She’d be so proud of the life you built for yourself,” Frank said, clapping Wes on the shoulder. “Anna loved squeezing all she could out of life.”
“I never knew how she managed it.”
Wes had a dark thought that Anna had “squeezed so much out of life” that she’d had an affair with Stan Ellis and drowned. But he promptly shook that away. He would always love Anna, warts and all. That was the nature of marrying someone. You were forced to see every single side of them; everything that made them unique—even the parts that didn’t fit with you.