Between Darkness and Dawn Read online

  Adam traced the scrolled design on his book’s cover.

  “Your journal?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Do you want to show it to me?”

  He nodded again and put it on my lap.

  I traced the scrolling on the cover as he had done. His journal likely held some of his most private thoughts and faded memories, unrecoverable if lost. “Do you want me to read it?”

  “Yes,” he said, and for some reason, I shivered.

  I turned to the first page. March 21, 1996.

  “You started this journal five years ago?”

  “Five years ago.”

  Jeez. While I was trying to erase portions of my past, Adam was being robbed of his. I shook my head at the irony.

  I have Alzheimer’s, Adam wrote. Oh, dear God, I have AD.

  Dr. Peters says my disease is in the preclinical stage, caught early using new imaging technology. The symptoms at this point are hardly noticeable and can last for years. The next stage is called mild cognitive impairment, MCI for short, where I’ll start having memory lapses and trouble making sound decisions. Then comes mild dementia, followed by the moderate dementia, where I’ll grow more confused and forgetful and will need extra help with daily activities and self-care. Apparently, my personality will change, too. And not for the better.

  I don’t even want to think about the severe stage of AD, when I completely go to hell. Thank God, Kathleen died peacefully with me at her side and will never know. How long before I become a burden to my friends and to my son? How long before I’ll no longer be capable of managing my day-to-day life or planning my future?

  I’ve always heard that life isn’t a dress rehearsal, that it is short and meant to be enjoyed. Only now do I fully comprehend what that means. All my life I’ve lived for the future, always trying to get somewhere other than where I was. I have an eight thousand square foot home, a BMW, a king-cab diesel truck (Ford, American made), and a shiny red Corvette. My key chain is heavy, an apt symbol of my accomplishments. Yet, lately, I feel as if it’s weighing me down.

  What I wouldn’t give to go back to the time when Kathleen was alive and we were so much in love. We were rich in ways I hadn’t realized.

  Until now.

  On the page dated March 21, 1998, Adam wrote:

  Two years ago, today, I was diagnosed with AD. Currently, I’m headed for the mild cognitive impairment stage, still able to drive, thank God, but getting lost more and more. I always make sure there’s plenty of gas in the tank, so I can make it home after many wrong turns. Rich people are supposed to live longer than poor people, damn it. Trouble is, I have a disease that high-tech medicine can’t fix or cure. Lucky me.

  On June 21, 1999, Adam wrote:

  The cost of nursing home care is shocking. And it’s not covered by insurance or Medicare! Yeah, yeah, I can afford it, but for how long? Anyway, I can’t remember how to use the VCR, and I can’t ask my son for help because he doesn’t yet know I have AD. How much longer before he figures it out?

  I can’t bear for that to happen.

  Patrick, my attorney, introduced me to a nurse and geriatric care manager named Anne. I guess he’s her attorney, too. Patrick has arranged for her to take care of me. We talked about an Advanced Directive otherwise known as a Living Will and that I have to write down my wishes for future care and treatment. There’s a special form designed for people with dementia. Patrick said I can give Anne the authority to make decisions for me for when I’m no longer able, and to let her know my preferences. The directive is not only for my protection but also for hers, in case someone tries to sue her on my behalf.

  I continued to skip ahead, since Adam’s journal was a long one.

  June 4, 2000: I’m getting lost a lot, but I refuse to give up my car. Anne says I’m beginning to ask the same questions over and over.

  November 12, 2000: I got into a car accident today. Just a fender bender. But they took away my license, even though it wasn’t my fault.

  March 21, 2001: I left home today. No one knows where I’m going, except for my attorney, and Anne, of course, who’s going with me. I left a note for my son, telling him I was taking a trip and not to worry, though I know he will. I’m changing my name to Adam and will find my Eden in Big Sur, the Big South, God’s country. That is, until I reach the final stages of this damn disease and need round-the-clock care.

  I looked up and met Adam’s eyes. He was crying. So was I.

  “Would you like to have it back now?” I asked.

  He shook his head no.

  “I’ll return it when I’m done reading it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Adam,” I said. “Why did you call me Sunwalker?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  ~~~

  I was surprised, and a bit disappointed, that three particular youngsters hadn’t invaded my tent while I was gone. I checked out the Circus Camp and noticed the car was missing. Clouds were forming. It looked like it might rain. I fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, crawled into my tent, and opened Adam’s journal to where I’d left off.

  The handwriting had changed. Soon I discovered why.

  April 30, 2001: Anne is writing this journal for me. I can no longer do it for myself. Sometimes, even with Anne’s help, it takes hours to put into words what I want to say. Like how I feel about my son. I want to hold him, transfuse all I have and all I know into him, make him strong, but mostly happy. However, I can’t give him what I have and what I know. Maybe our blood types don’t match. Or maybe my love, my concern, all that I have, would smother him.

  During most of his life, I’ve tried to stand back and watch him fall, hoping the excruciating pain I felt as a result wouldn’t kill me. His looks of disappointment, hurt, and anger nearly broke my heart. I watched his chin come up—a good sign as far as it went—and wondered why love had to hurt so much. I would give my life for my son, yet I’ve never let him know. There are no words to convey to him what I feel. Guess, he’ll have to discover it for himself.

  I used to be such a big shot.

  Look at me now.

  ~~~

  When a drop of moisture fell onto the page of the journal, I realized I was crying. I heard the patter of rain on the roof of my tent and, for a moment, wondered if God was crying, too.

  Anne crawled into my tent, her hair and clothes misted with rain. “Guess a mega tent comes in handy after all.”

  All I could manage was a weak smile.

  “Hey.” Anne’s earrings and bracelets jingled. “What happened to you?”

  I held up Adam’s journal.

  “Ah, and I thought you were missing me.”

  “It’s so sad that nothing can be done for him.”

  “Says who?”

  I patted the book on my lap. “Adam.”

  “His last entry was almost a month ago. His attitude has changed since then.”

  My look must have appeared skeptical because Anne added, “Girl, he’s got one foot in heaven, and if we watch and listen, we may get a glimpse of it, too. What you see as lack and limitation is part of what helps him feel so grateful.”

  “He doesn’t seem grateful to me.”

  The expression on her face softened. “There are good things happening to him now. He’s plugging in.”

  “Sure,” I said, not believing it for a minute.

  Chapter Seven

  ANNE’S STUDIO WAS NO MORE than a cubbyhole in a former cannery warehouse along Ocean View Avenue. “It’s nothing fancy, I’m afraid,” she said as she unlocked the door and gave it a shove. “Studio space in Monterey is expensive, thus limited, but thanks to a friend, I was able to get a whopping 500 square feet, including a sink, without breaking the bank. Many artists are going the communal studio route these days, but, as long as I can afford it, I prefer to pay extra for a place of my own.”

  I stepped into the neat and orderly studio and right off
noticed an electric wheel fitted up against the wall in front of me. “You do wheel-thrown work?”

  Anne’s lips twitched. “I do sculpture now and then, but ‘throwing’ gives me the greatest thrill.” She pointed out a series of adjustable shelves holding jugs, jars, and vases in a wild array of styles and colors. “I start with freshly thrown pieces, then stretch, pinch squash, even drop them.”

  “Sounds violent,”

  “Sometimes it is. At other times, it takes a gentle touch to bring a creation to birth.”

  To the left of the wheel stood a long workbench with a storage area underneath for what appeared to be large containers of plaster and glazes. I saw a scale for weighing, a radio splotched with clay and paint, and a deep porcelain sink. The concrete floor sloped towards a drain as though the room were a giant shower stall. Anne drew my attention to the bank of fluorescent lighting mounted on the ceiling. “Full spectrum fluorescents mimic diffused daylight without the distraction of windows.”

  “Makes me want to slap down a glob of clay and start doing some punching of my own,” I said. I’d only taken one art course in college as part of my GE requirements. We were assigned to mimic Pablo Picasso’s method of collage. Ha. I barely passed with a C.

  Anne crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “Feel inspired, do you?”

  The variety of objects and forms on the shelves made me wonder how it would feel to create something so original. “Hard not to be in this place.”

  “Another place to bring out the artist in you,” Anne said, “is an art gallery, which I’m proud to say, we have plenty of in Monterey County. Budding craftsmen often start with something functional like a bowl, while others go hog wild.”

  “Like you?”

  Anne shrugged, though I knew my comment had pleased her. “More like Adam. He came as quite a surprise. I introduced him to a primitive form of clay sculpture, using the mud along the bank of the pond. A little art therapy, I decided, would do him good. He could use it as a symbolic language to express himself, like telling stories with his hands. He enjoyed touching the clay and manipulated it for hours. However, I had no idea he would have such great, untapped talent. It’s remarkable, really, to have such a command of the form without years of schooling and practice. On top of that, Alzheimer’s, even at the mild stage, robs one of the ability to perform complex tasks and to organize and express one’s thoughts. Something remarkable, something unexplainable is going on. It’s almost scary to watch.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s beyond remarkable the way he reproduces with his hands the images he sees in his mind. It’s like he’s channeling into a collective unconsciousness most of us aren’t aware we’re privy to.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught what appeared to be a stainless-steel refrigerator butted against the opposite studio wall. “What’s that?”

  “A kiln,” Anne said. “Want to see what’s inside?”

  “You bet.”

  Anne’s bracelets jingled as she disengaged two latches on the outside of the kiln. “There are a variety of kiln styles. Mine happens to be the front-loading kind.” She blew out a breath and opened the door. “It’s like Christmas every time I open it. I never get over the thrill of seeing my pieces fired.”

  The kiln was filled, side-to-side, bottom-to-top, with forms of all shapes and sizes. “You made all this?”

  “When the mood strikes, I’m a regular assembly line. This happened to be a bisque firing, where the clay pieces can touch without fusing, so I was able to put smaller pieces inside of larger ones, even stack them, to get as much as possible into the kiln. But when the pieces are glazed” —Anne rolled her eyes— “it’s a different story. If glazed pieces make contact during firing, they’re stuck together for life, like a bad marriage.”

  Anne pulled out what appeared to be a squirrel teapot, its tail the handle, its nose the spout. I laughed, a merry sound like the jingle of Anne’s bracelets. “Cute, cute, cute.”

  She handed it to me. “Feel the texture.”

  I cupped it in my hands as if it were a newborn, which in a way it was.

  “It’s a bit fragile,” Anne said, “since it still needs to be glazed and fired.”

  I ran my fingers over the teapot’s surface, appreciating every detail. “It’s rough, yet smooth.”

  Anne lifted it from my hands and set it on the work surface. “At this point, it’s porous and strictly ornamental, until glazed and fired again.”

  A thought struck me. “Why don’t you fire Adam’s pieces so they don’t dry out and crumble over time?”

  “Because they’d self-destruct in the kiln. His pieces are made of pure mud, with nothing added to strengthen them and lessen the degree of stress during drying and firing. I wouldn’t know what temperature to fire them at or what color they’d turn on doing so. They could turn red, tan, brown, even gray or white.”

  “All clay comes from the ground, right? So, what’s the big deal?”

  Anne took an odd-shaped vessel out of the kiln and placed it on a shelf. “Clay, or in Adam’s case mud, can be dug from the ground and prepared by slaking, sieving, and returning it to its plastic state, but that’s very labor-intensive and needs special equipment, which I don’t have. I buy the ready-made clay in a moldable state and packaged in sealed bags. For hand building and modeling, I use ‘open clay’ favorable for limited shrinkage as well as safe drying and firing, which is different from the clay I use for throwing.”

  “How about giving him some of your ready-made clay to work with?”

  She waved her hand, dismissing my suggestion. “Believe me, I’ve thought of that, but it would be too much work to haul the clay and finished pieces back and forth. Adam rarely creates anything small...” She paused and appeared to think for a moment. “I guess I could try using clay with fiberglass in it. The glass fibers fuse with the clay during firing and give it greater tensile strength and resilience. But it would take a kiln larger than mine to fire some of his pieces.”

  She turned back toward the work area and clapped her hands. “So, what would you like to do today?”

  I picked up a chunk of clay wrapped in plastic. It reminded me of the Play Dough I played with as a kid, except this was a grayish brown instead of bright pink, yellow, green, and blue. “Working with this looks like fun.” Did I just say “fun?” When was the last time I’d really enjoyed doing something creative?

  Anne appeared pleased with my answer. She tore a chunk of clay from a large block sealed in a bag and cut it into pieces with a wire, then lifted one piece of clay at a time to shoulder height and slammed it onto the pieces below.

  “Wow,” I said, impressed with the violence of it.

  “You can get rid of a lot of frustration this way,” she said.

  “I guess so.”

  She handed me a chunk of clay and kept a sizable portion for herself. “Frank Wilson, Professor of Neurology at Stanford School of Medicine, says that we are creatures identified by what we do with our hands. So, we need to free our hands from our keyboards once in a while and introduce them to play.”

  She folded her piece of clay in on itself, using the heel of both of her hands and exerting a downward pressure. Then she rocked the clay up toward her body with her fingers, and down again with the heels of her hands. “This is called Ox-head kneading, where you coax the clay into a workable state.”

  I thought back to another childhood memory, that of watching my mother make bread. The sensory pleasure she had derived from handling the fresh dough had manifested itself in the relaxed, almost meditative, expression on her face. This feeling of well-being—that everything was right with the world—had filled me with joy, equal to that of watching the bread rise and bloom in the oven. Later, my mother “upgraded” to a bread-making machine, which took care of the mixing, kneading, rising, and baking and, as a result, robbed the activity of much of its joy.

  “Try it. You’ll like it,” Anne said.

>   And I did.

  She left me to it, saying something about unloading the kiln. But she could’ve left the building for all I knew, so entranced was I with the effort and joy of this child-like play. I hadn’t played in years. Too many years. Apparently, I had some catching up to do.

  “Good job,” Anne said, in what seemed like minutes. She handed me the wire she had used earlier. “Now cut the clay and check for lumps, air pockets, and foreign objects. If it’s still uneven, continue to knead.”

  It was, and I did.

  Anne hummed to herself, doing who knows what, until I finished preparing my clay.

  Cut, push, pull, squeeze, like chewing gum with the hands.

  “Enough!” Anne said finally. “Your clay’s ready for the next step. But before you go any further, I’m taking you to an art gallery for inspiration.”

  This woman was leading me places I needed to go. I would be a fool to object.

  ~~~

  “Few materials are as responsive to a sculptor’s hands and tools as clay,” Anne said as we walked into the Flowering Bloom Gallery on Highway 1 the following afternoon. “It’s plastic when moist and yields to the slightest pressure.”

  Although we had come here to inspect the ceramic artwork, I was immediately attracted to a magnificent glass vase displayed on its own pedestal near the gallery entrance.

  “Glazed ceramics are related to glass,” Anne said as we paused in front of the glass display. “Glazes are part glass, you know.”

  I didn’t, but then again, there was a lot about art I didn’t know, illustrated by my barely passing grade in the subject while at school.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how glass is sculptured,” Anne said, noticing my absorption with this particular piece. “Although I do know glass can be blown, cast, molded, pressed, rolled into sheets, and spun into threads.”

  “This vase looks hand blown,” I said. It had an iridescent surface, shaded from gold to emerald to purple. I thought of Picasso’s three-dimensional collage technique, with its assembly of different forms. “Do you think it’s made of glass layers?”