The Genesis Key (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Bethesda, Maryland.

“T
ry the Unagi Maki,” Whittaker said, placing a cylindrical sushi roll on Kathleen's plate. “Freshwater eel. It's delicious.”

They were seated by the front window of Hake, a trendy Japanese restaurant on Cordell Avenue in Bethesda. Outside, fashionable people bustled by: young, beautiful women in impossibly tight miniskirts, men in casual sport coats, and gaggles of twenty-somethings gearing up for the clubs.

“Any special plans for the weekend?” Whittaker asked as he ate.

Kathleen shrugged. “Just driving to Annapolis to see my grandfather.”

“Oh, I thought he lived in Great Falls.”

“He used to. But he moved to a retirement home in Annapolis a few years ago.”

“Hmmm. I've never been to Annapolis,” said Whittaker. “I hear it's nice.”

“It's beautiful. Especially in the spring. He really loves sailing, so I thought it'd be nice for him to be in a place where he could see sailboats every day.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Mm-hmm.” Kathleen watched as Whittaker transported a piece of sushi from his plate to his mouth with a pair of chopsticks.

“So,” Whittaker said after devouring the morsel, “would you like some company?”

“What, for Easter?”

“Sure. I don't have any plans, so I thought, you know . . . maybe I could go to Annapolis with you.”

Kathleen didn't respond.

“Like I said, I've never been there.”

Kathleen was consciously debating the idea in her head. Her instincts, however, were already screaming, “
No!
” A dozen logistical and personal issues came to mind all at once. Her grandfather . . . the travel arrangements . . . dinner at the nursing home? It all seemed so
awkward
.

Seconds passed, and Whittaker suddenly began to look embarrassed.

Decision time
, Kathleen realized. She liked Whitaker and definitely wanted to get to know him better. He was really a sweet guy, and she enjoyed being around him
. But a whole day in Annapolis?
She was just about to politely decline the offer when something stopped her. A tiny voice in the back of her mind was whispering: “Book smart, man dumb.”
Not this time
, she decided
.
She would not let this relationship fizzle like all the others before it.

By now, Whittaker was already backtracking. “If you've got other plans—”

“No, no, no,” Kathleen said. “That sounds great. Let's go together.”

Whittaker looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I could use the company.”

Whittaker smiled broadly. “Great,” he said. “I'm really looking forward to it.” Then he devoured another piece of raw fish.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Easter Sunday. Sunset Knoll, Maryland.

T
he Garrison Manor Assisted Living Center could easily be mistaken for an upscale hotel and conference center. Located on twenty acres of manicured lawns and gardens in Sunset Knoll, ten miles north of Annapolis, it consisted of two long wings adjoining a large, two-story entry hall with a buff-colored limestone façade and a high, red-tiled roof. The wheelchair-accessible front entrance led to a Southern-style covered porch, painted light gray, with white wooden columns and a white turned-spindle railing. At the back of the porch was a wide automatic sliding-glass door, flanked by two stylishly etched sidelight windows and a semicircular transom-and-window unit above.

“Very nice,” said Whittaker as he and Kathleen pulled up to the front entrance in her Subaru.

“It's one of the best assisted living homes in the area,” Kathleen remarked as she eased into the first available parking space. “The staff's really great. They do a lot of fun stuff with the residents. Music nights, and different themes for meals on weekends. Every Wednesday in the spring and summer they take a bus down to the harbor to watch the regattas. That's my grandfather's favorite.”

“Yeah, you mentioned he likes sailing.”

“Uh-huh. I come out here to watch the races with him sometimes . . . when I get can get away from work, that is.” She frowned as she surveyed the parking lot, which was less than half full. “Sad that more people don't visit on holidays. It means a lot to the residents when their families show up.”

“I bet.”

They made their way toward the front entrance, where Kathleen stopped just short of the steps. “Bryce?”

“Hmmm?”

“There's something I need to explain about my grandfather before we go in.”

“Okay . . .”

Kathleen took a deep breath and braced herself. “My grandfather has Alzheimer's disease. Stage five, which is a fairly advanced stage of the disease.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“He has good days and bad days. And lately, more bad than good. I just wanted to let you know in case . . . well, in case he's having a bad day.”

Whittaker smiled compassionately and said, “I understand.”

They walked up the steps together and entered the building through the automatic glass door. The main hall was nicely furnished, though far from luxurious. It smelled strongly of disinfectant—like a hospital. There were garish Easter decorations pinned here and there on the walls. A paper cutout of a cartoon bunny on one wall, paper Easter eggs on another. A banner across the front desk read “Happy Easter!” in bright pastel colors. It reminded Kathleen of the décor of a second-grade classroom.

“Well
hello
, Ms. Sainsbury!” boomed a middle-aged woman behind the front desk. She was cheerful, overweight, and loud. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, and she wore purple nurse's scrubs over a white, wide-collared blouse.

“Hi Ellie,” Kathleen replied. “Happy Easter.”

“Same to you! Oh, your grandfather will be so glad to see you. He asked about you the other day.”

“He did?” Kathleen was surprised to hear that.

“Well . . . sort of. He asked when that girl with the Oreo cookies was coming back.” Ellie McDougal let out a boisterous laugh, obviously finding the comment utterly hilarious.

Kathleen, on the other hand, managed only a melancholy smile. She turned to Whittaker to explain. “Sometimes, I bring him Oreo cookies. He likes them.”

Whittaker nodded.

“Okay,” said Nurse McDougal, several decibels too loud, “I've got you all checked in. You can go on back now. Dinner starts at two.”

Kathleen made her way around the front desk and through a set of double doors that led to the north wing. Whittaker followed behind and quickly caught up with her in the corridor. “How long's your grandfather had Alzheimer's?” he asked as they walked.

“First signs were about six years ago. Forgetfulness, trouble concentrating. I thought it was just a passing thing, but it kept getting worse and worse. Pretty soon, he was getting lost coming back from the store or the library, even from the neighbors'. Then he starting forgetting simple words, like ‘toothbrush' and ‘dishwasher.' That's when I realized he needed full-time care.”

They stepped into an elevator, and Kathleen pushed the button for the third floor.

“So that's why you're working on a cure for Alzheimer's, isn't it?”

“Well, it's certainly part of it.” Kathleen turned to face him. “Bryce, it's an awful disease. It robs people of some of the best years of their lives. I mean, you should have seen my grandfather before—” She stopped short, feeling herself getting choked up.
No need for that right now
, she reminded herself.

“You okay?” Whittaker asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

A monotonal voice announced, “Third floor,” and the elevator doors slid open. Kathleen and Whittaker exited, turned left, and made their way to Room 308.

“Here it is,” said Kathleen nervously. She rang the doorbell and gave Whittaker a wilting smile.

More than thirty seconds passed in silence with no apparent activity inside.

Finally, Kathleen unlocked the door with her own key and poked her head inside. “Grandpa?” she said. “It's me, Kathleen.” She swung the door fully open and walked in.

Whittaker followed.

The most prominent piece of furniture in the small room was an adjustable bed opposite the door. It sat lengthwise beneath a large picture window overlooking the lawn. The bed was neatly made up with a floral-pattern bedspread and a slipcover over the pillow, but it was still, unmistakably, a hospital bed, with its collapsible side rails and painted footboard. The room was carpeted with a light taupe Berber, and the walls were painted nearly the identical color. A framed print of the 1983 America's Cup champion—Dennis Connor's
Stars and Strips
—adorned the wall above the bed.

John Sainsbury—Kathleen's grandfather—sat in an upholstered armchair, watching TV. He looked at Kathleen and Whittaker with demonstrable surprise as they walked in.

“Hi, Grandpa,” said Kathleen sweetly.

“Oh, hello . . .” replied the elder Sainsbury without the slightest sign of recognition. He could just as easily have been speaking to a nurse or a janitor.

Kathleen pointed to Whittaker. “This is my friend, Bryce. He's a newspaper reporter.”

“Uh-huh,” said her grandfather shakily, obviously still confused as to why these two people were entering his room in the middle of
Family Feud
.

John Sainsbury was eighty-five years old and looked every day of it. His face was deeply creased and craggy. Across his forehead were four deep parallel lines, like two sets of railroad tracks running temple to temple. The wrinkles around his eyes extended halfway down his face and blended into the wrinkles around his mouth. His white hair was neatly combed, yet swept awkwardly to one side, as if someone else had combed it. He had a gentle, almost bemused expression on his face that somehow conveyed both intelligence and an utter absence of recognition or command of the events around him. His light blue eyes were hazy and distant.

“You look nice, Grandpa,” Kathleen said. “Are you dressed for dinner?”

The elder Sainsbury was dressed in a sky blue checkered shirt, a navy blue button-down sweater, and tan corduroy pants. “Is it time for dinner?” he asked uncertainly.

“Not yet,” Kathleen replied. “We thought we'd visit with you for a while before dinner. Is that okay?”

“Okay.”

Kathleen walked over and gave her grandfather a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. He smiled and nodded.

Does he recognize me?
Kathleen wondered. “Grandpa, I brought you something.”

“Huh?”

Kathleen reached into her purse and pulled out a small package of cookies. “Oreo cookies—your favorite.” She smiled and whispered, “Don't tell the nurses I gave these to you, okay?”

Mr. Sainsbury took the package of cookies and slipped them, fumblingly, into his sweater pocket. “Is it time for dinner?” he asked again.

“Not yet, Grandpa.” Kathleen stepped in front of him and bent down so that her face was directly in front of his. “Grandpa, do you know who I am?” Kathleen hated asking this question, and she hated even more the response she usually got. But she forced herself to do it each time she saw him because she had to keep track of the progression of the disease.

Mr. Sainsbury studied her face for several seconds, clearly trying to remember—struggling to make a connection. He grimaced for a moment and then replied in a shaky, confused voice. “Becky?”

Kathleen closed her eyes and turned her head away. “My mother,” she whispered to Whittaker in a choked-up voice. Then, despite her best effort, she began to cry.

D
inner was pleasant enough. Yet, for Kathleen, it was just one more heartbreaking episode in a long string of heartaches involving her grandfather's Alzheimer's disease. She watched in dismay as he pushed food around his plate, barely eating anything. “You need to eat, Grandpa,” she admonished several times. Yet, he barely ate five bites. He was wasting away before her eyes, and it was agonizing for her to watch.

For Kathleen, the only bright spot at dinner was Whittaker's valiant, albeit clumsy, efforts to engage her grandfather in conversation. Whittaker talked to him endlessly about sailboats, about how much he liked Virginia, and, after Kathleen explained to him that her grandfather had been an engineer for NASA, about airplanes and spaceships and the moon landing. For the most part, Mr. Sainsbury responded with a series of indistinct grunts, offering nothing in the way of return conversation. At one point, though, when Whittaker asked about his experience with the space program in the 1960s, Mr. Sainsbury started to say something that sounded meaningful. “Yeah,” he began, “we were working on . . . uh . . . the Apollo . . . that, uh . . . Apollo . . .”

Kathleen leaned in expectantly. “Go ahead, Grandpa,” she said encouragingly, “You were working on the Apollo project?”

But the moment had passed. Whatever thought John Sainsbury had managed to seize upon had already slipped away.

“Sometimes, he remembers things from way back then,” Kathleen explained quietly to Whittaker. “That's one of the strange things about Alzheimer's. It leaves some memories intact but erases others.”

“It must be very frustrating,” Whittaker said.

“Very frightening is more like it.”

After dinner, they walked with Grandpa Sainsbury around the grounds of Garrison Manor. It was a cool spring afternoon with almost no wind at all. The giant pin oaks and sycamores that dotted the manicured grounds were still bare from the cold Maryland winter. But the crocuses and tulips in the raised flower beds were already beginning to bloom, providing a cheerful, if sparse, backdrop of lavender and yellow.

Easter—a time of loss and renewal.

They returned Mr. Sainsbury to his room around 4:00
P.M.
and said good-bye. Kathleen watched with lingering sadness as an orderly helped her grandfather into bed and administered his medication. He was asleep in less than a minute.

“Bye, Grandpa,” she said quietly as they left his room.

Leaving the nursing home after a visit like this was always difficult for Kathleen. She walked slowly down the hall, lost in her thoughts, wondering, as she always did, if she'd see him again.

Whittaker walked silently beside her.

They reached the main entry hall without saying a word, and Kathleen signed them both out. Then, willing herself into a better mood, she said to Whittaker, “How about a tour of Annapolis?”

“Sure,” said Whittaker with a smile. “I think we still have a little daylight left.”

T
hey parked near the old market square at the Annapolis harbor, which was nearly deserted. Only a handful of people were strolling about.

They spent an hour touring the grounds of the U.S. Naval Academy, making it as far as Bancroft Hall—the massive dormitory that housed the entire Brigade of Midshipmen—before finally turning back. It was nearly dark, and noticeably colder, when they returned to the market square. After some searching, they found an open pub—McGarvey's. They entered and ordered drinks at the bar.

“Here's to my first visit to Annapolis,” Whittaker said, hoisting a mug of Aviator Lager, McGarvey's specialty.

“Cheers,” Kathleen said, touching her glass to his.

Whittaker took a long swig of his beer. “You know, your grandfather seems like a really nice guy.”

Kathleen smiled. She knew he was just being polite. “I wish you could have met him before. He really was a wonderful man. Even in his seventies, he was energetic and full of life.” Kathleen sipped her beer and thought about how lively her grandfather had been just five years ago. “We used to go sailing together.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. We'd come here to Annapolis, or go up to Delaware, and rent out a thirty or thirty-five-foot boat. Take it out for the day. He was a really great sailor.”

“You guys were close, then, huh?”

“He basically raised me. And after my grandmother died, he raised me by himself.”

“Must have been tough.”

“Yeah, but you know what? In a way it was nice. All my friends' dads were lawyers or doctors or businessmen. Always traveling, always working. They never had time for their kids. But Grandpa . . . he was always home. Always there . . . for me.”

Whittaker nodded.

“And now, I intend to be there for him.”

Whittaker was about to say something when Kathleen's cell phone rang. She fished it out of her purse. “Hello?”

“Dr. S, it's me, Jeremy.”