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“I think I remember. Bits and pieces. Maybe.” Sighing, she slumped against him. “This must be so hard for you.”
“It’s hard for both of us. In different ways.” He kissed her temple. “I have something for you.”
“What?”
He stood and tugged her to her feet. “It’s in the kitchen.”
Grinning, he hoped the surprise would please her.
“Wha—” She stood in front of the huge whiteboard suspended on the wall of their breakfast nook. It had been sectioned off—one space a calendar with daily appointments noted, another a list of important names and phone numbers, yet another her daily routine, and across the top was: Baby Skye / Due Date 9.23 / 32 Weeks, 3 Days. On the table was a beautifully bound journal with the watercolor image of a mother holding an infant.
“Vickie suggested both ideas. A journal to record your thoughts and memories,” Ben said in a rush. “She said it might be helpful if you had somewhere to reference information that might be slipping through the gaps right now. August put together the frame. We couldn’t find a whiteboard this big at any of the office supply stores.”
“Oh, Ben.” She stepped closer, peering at big yellow stars on some of the calendar dates. “What are these? I don’t remember…”
“You don’t remember because I scheduled those…appointments. They’re surprises. For you.” Circling his arms around her, he nuzzled her neck. “So, what do you think?”
“I think we’re going to get through this just fine.” She sniffled. “And I think I’m not the only one with a memory problem because the lasagna is burning!”
7
34 Weeks
Ben pouredhimself a cup of coffee, popped an English muffin in the toaster, and dropped into the chair opposite Jules at the kitchen table. The journal was open in front of her, but she wasn’t writing in it. She was clicking the pen in her hand, indicating agitation.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
“I don’t know what to write in this damn thing,” she said, shoving the book away. “It feels like more pressure. Something else to do when I’m having enough trouble just getting through the day.”
Her frustration was a result of yesterday’s episode at the farmers market. She’d been walking the three blocks to and from the small park each Wednesday for months, but yesterday she got lost on the way home. A neighbor saw her standing on the sidewalk and had called him at the garage. He was there in minutes to pick her up, but the incident left her shaken.
“Have you eaten?” he asked. The glass and bowl he’d left on the counter last night as a reminder for her to make breakfast were untouched.
“I’m not hungry.”
“What time did you get up?” He hated feeling like he was interrogating her, but the occupational therapist Dr. Navi had recommended to help with memory therapy had pointed out that hunger and fatigue often made the problems worse.
“I don’t know. It was still dark,” she admitted.
“Let’s eat, and then we’ll brainstorm ideas on what you can write about.” Ben moved the journal to the other side of the table. Another tip that had proven useful: Break tasks down into simple steps. Sometimes people with memory issues could only handle one thing at a time.
The muffin popped up. He laid the two halves on a plate, smeared them with peanut butter, and set them in front of Jules. He added a glass of milk and small bowl of blueberries.
Her lower lip jutted out, and Ben anticipated her objection. “I know you can make your own breakfast. Let me do it for you. I like doing things for you.”
“Thank you.”
He fixed another muffin for himself and topped off his coffee. Although he longed to pepper her with additional questions, he allowed silence to settle over them while they ate.
When Jules was finished, she carried her dishes to the sink, rinsed them, and put them in the dishwasher. An alert chimed from her Fitbit, and she turned to the whiteboard. The previous days bore red Xs, making it easy for her to determine today was Wednesday. A large yellow star was marked in the center of the square.
“There’s something happening today,” she said.
“Yes. A surprise. Vickie will pick you up at one, and then I’ll meet you at the location. I programmed a reminder on your phone.”
“Can you give me a hint?” Her mood was already improving.
“Nope.” He grinned at her. “It’s a surprise, not a mystery to be guessed or solved.”
