“Ready?” asked John.

“Yes.”

He let go of her, and she soared with exhilarating speed into the palette of the sky. The winds she traveled on were dazzling swirls of robin’s egg blue, periwinkle, lavender, and fuchsia. The ocean below was a rolling kaleidoscope of turquoise, aquamarine, and violet.

Christina’s butterfly kite won its freedom and fluttered nearby. It was the most exquisite thing Alice had ever seen, and she wanted it more than anything she’d ever desired. She reached out to grab its string, but a sudden, strong shift in air current spun her around. She looked back, but it was obscured by the glowing sunset orange of her parasail. For the first time, she realized that she couldn’t steer. She looked down at the earth, at the vibrant dots that were her family. She wondered if the beautiful and spirited winds would ever bring her back to them.

LYDIA LAY CURLED ON HER side on top of the covers of Alice’s bed. The shades were drawn, the room filled with soft, subdued daylight.

“Am I dreaming?” asked Alice.

“No, you’re awake.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple of days now.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s good to hear your voice. Do you think you took too many pills?”

“I don’t remember. I could’ve. I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m worried about you.”

Alice looked at Lydia in pieces, close-up snapshots of her features. She recognized each one like people recognized the house they grew up in, a parent’s voice, the creases of their own hands, instinctively, without effort or conscious consideration. But strangely, she had a hard time identifying Lydia as a whole.

“You’re so beautiful,” said Alice. “I’m so afraid of looking at you and not knowing who you are.”

“I think that even if you don’t know who I am someday, you’ll still know that I love you.”

“What if I see you, and I don’t know that you’re my daughter, and I don’t know that you love me?”

“Then, I’ll tell you that I do, and you’ll believe me.”

Alice liked that. But will I always love her? Does my love for her reside in my head or my heart? The scientist in her believed that emotion resulted from complex limbic brain circuitry, circuitry that was for her, at this very moment, trapped in the trenches of a battle in which there would be no survivors. The mother in her believed that the love she had for her daughter was safe from the mayhem in her mind, because it lived in her heart.

“How are you, Mom?”

“Not so good. This semester was hard, without my work, without Harvard, and this disease progressing, and your dad hardly ever home. It’s been almost too hard.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could be here more. Next fall, I’ll be closer. I thought about moving back now, but I just got cast in this great play. It’s a small part, but—”

“It’s okay. I wish I could see you more, too, but I’d never let you stop living your life for me.”

She thought about John.

“Your dad wants to move to New York. He got an offer at Sloan-Kettering.”

“I know. I was there.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I couldn’t imagine that you did.”

“I can’t leave here. The twins will be here in April.”

“I can’t wait to see those babies.”

“Me, too.”

Alice imagined holding them in her arms, their warm bodies, their tiny, curled fingers and chunky, unused feet, their puffy, round eyes. She wondered if they’d look like her or John. And the smell. She couldn’t wait to smell her delicious grandchildren.

Most grandparents delighted in imagining their grandchildren’s lives, the promise of attending recitals and birthday parties, graduations and weddings. She knew she wouldn’t be here for recitals and birthday parties, graduations and weddings. But she would be here to hold them and smell them, and she’d be damned if she’d be sitting alone somewhere in New York instead.

“How’s Malcolm?”

“Good. We just did the Memory Walk together in L.A.”

“What’s he like?”

Lydia’s smile jumped ahead of her answer.

“He’s very tall, outdoorsy, a little shy.”

“What’s he like with you?”

“He’s very sweet. He loves how smart I am, he’s so proud of my acting, he brags about me a lot, it’s almost embarrassing. You’d like him.”

“What are you like with him?”

Lydia considered this for several moments, as if she hadn’t before.

“Myself.”

“Good.”

Alice smiled and squeezed Lydia’s hand. She thought to ask Lydia what that meant to her, to describe herself, to remind her, but the thought evaporated too quickly to speak it.

“What were we just talking about?” asked Alice.

“Malcolm, Memory Walk? New York?” asked Lydia, offering prompts.

“I go for walks around here, and I feel safe. Even if I get a little turned around, I eventually see something that looks familiar, and enough people in the stores know me and point me in the right direction. The girl at Jerri’s is always keeping track of my wallet and keys.

“And I have my support group friends here. I need them. I couldn’t learn New York now. I’d lose what little independence I still have. A new job. Your dad would be working all the time. I’d lose him, too.”

“Mom, you need to tell all this to Dad.”

She was right. But it was so much easier telling her.

“Lydia, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“In case I forget, know that I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

“I DON’T WANT TO MOVE to New York,” said Alice.

“It’s a long ways off, we don’t have to make a decision on it now,” said John.

“I want to make a decision on it now. I’m deciding now. I want to be clear about this while I still can be. I don’t want to move to New York.”

“What if Lydia’s there?”

“What if she’s not? You should’ve discussed this with me privately, before announcing it to the kids.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did, many times.”

“Oh, so I don’t remember? That’s convenient.”

She breathed, in through her nose, out through her mouth, allowing a calm moment to pull herself out of the elementary school argument they were spiraling into.

“John, I knew you were meeting with people at Sloan-Kettering, but I never understood that they were wooing you for a position for this upcoming year. I would’ve spoken up if I’d known this.”

“I told you why I was going there.”

“Fine. Would they be willing to let you take your sabbatical year and start a year from September?”

“No, they need someone now. It was difficult as it was negotiating them out that far, but I need the time to finish up some things in the lab here.”

“Couldn’t they hire someone temporary, you could take your sabbatical year with me, and then you could start?”

“No.”

“Did you even ask?”

“Look, the field’s so competitive right now, and everything’s moving so rapidly. We’re on the edge of some huge finds. I mean, we’re knocking on the door to a cure for cancer. The drug companies are interested. And with all the classes and administrative crap at Harvard, it’s just slowing me down. If I don’t take this, I could ruin my one shot at discovering something that truly matters.”

“This isn’t your one shot. You’re brilliant, and you don’t have Alzheimer’s. You’re going to have plenty of shots.”

He looked at her and said nothing.

“This next year is my one shot, John, not yours. This next year is my last chance at living my life and knowing what it means to me. I don’t think I have much more time of really being me, and I want to spend that time with you, and I can’t believe you don’t want to spend it together.”

“I do. We would be.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Our life is here. Tom and Anna and the babies, Mary, Cathy, and Dan, and maybe Lydia. If you take this, you’ll be working all the time, you know you will, and I’d be there all alone. This decision has nothing to do with wanting to be with me, and it takes everything I have left away. I’m not going.”