Fragments (2 of 4)
What Remains After Goodbye
Two
Clara sat opposite Thad Simmons, his pristine desk between them. Thad had a laptop open, his fingers resting gently on the keys.
"So, how did it go today?" he asked.
"He remembers less and less all the time," she said, sadly.
He looked at her, empathy on his face. "We knew this would happen. I know that doesn't help you cope, but it's the nature of his condition. I know you know this already, but I need to remind you that it's not going to get better. He might have a few moments of clarity, but they are going to continue to fragment."
"I know," she said sadly.
"Was there anything new this time?"
"His thoughts were very sexual today," she said. "He wanted to make love to me."
"Fascinating!" Thad said. "I guess that even if the cognitive memories begin to fragment there are still some physical memories that he's retaining. It's good to continue to see him, especially if it helps you. He may have new things he brings up each time."
"The cafe seems to be a good place for it," she said. "He seems comfortable there."
"Well, as you know," Thad said, "It's his decision." He paused for a moment and then continued. "I know this is a strange ask, but I wondered if you might share how you felt when he came on to you sexually?"
"It's okay to ask. Actually, I got caught up in it. myself. It might have been mutual."
"Well, it's been a while."
"Yes, I miss that part of our relationship. He brought up some memories for me that were quite intimate."
"It's fascinating to see that," he said. "It's not exactly the same thing as Alzheimer's, of course; but there are some similarities to it. I find it interesting that he is having a hard time finding his memories, but can invoke memories in you. Do you think he recognized who you were?"
"I think he wants to remember me," she said. "I think he wants to remember he has a wife who loves him. I keep hoping that we'll have that one moment. That one connection, before it's too late."
"As we said when we began this, that's not likely to happen. I hope it does. I still mean to convince you to vote in favor of the funding when it hits the Senate floor."
"I'm keeping it in mind," Clara said, sighing resignedly. "But in the meantime, I can still have hope."
Thad leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the laptop as he studied Clara. The soft hum of the office filled the silence, a sterile contrast to the warm, flickering ambiance of the café she’d just described. His eyes, framed by wire-rimmed glasses, held a mix of professional curiosity and quiet compassion.
“Hope’s a powerful thing,” he said after a moment, his voice measured. “It’s what keeps you going back, isn’t it? Even knowing the odds.”
Clara nodded, her hands twisting together in her lap. The faint lines around her eyes deepened as she offered a small, tired smile. “It’s all I have left of him, in a way. Those visits… they’re not just for him. They’re for me, too. To feel like there’s still something there, even if it’s fleeting.”
Thad tilted his head, considering her words. “And today, with the… intimacy he expressed. Did it feel like a piece of him coming back? Or was it more like a shadow of what used to be?”
She hesitated, her gaze drifting to the window behind him. The late afternoon light spilled through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the desk. “Both, I think,” she said finally. “It was him. his voice, his eyes, the way he looked at me. But it wasn’t complete. Like he was reaching for something he couldn’t quite hold onto. And I wanted to meet him there, you know? To bridge that gap for him. For us.”
Thad nodded, jotting something brief on a notepad beside his laptop. “That’s a natural response. You’ve spent years building a life together. Those instincts don’t just fade, even when the circumstances change. It’s a testament to how deeply you’re connected, even now.”
Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked down at her hands. “I just wish I could tell if he knows it’s me. When he flirted, when he… wanted me, it felt so real. But then he’d say things, like how I’m ‘not like anyone he’s met before’—and it’s like I’m a stranger to him. A beautiful stranger, maybe, but not his wife. It doesn't hurt that I'm all dolled up for him.”
Thad’s expression softened. “That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? His mind’s rewriting the narrative, filling in blanks with what feels right to him in the moment. But the fact that he’s drawn to you, that he’s comfortable with you in that café—it suggests there’s still an emotional core there, even if the details are slipping away.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I do,” he said firmly. “Memory isn’t just facts and names. It’s feelings, habits, instincts. The way he responds to you, the way he lights up in that space—it’s not random. The café’s a anchor for him, and so are you, even if he can’t name it.”
Clara exhaled, a shaky breath that carried both relief and sorrow. “I keep going back because I want to be that anchor. I want him to feel safe, loved, even if he doesn’t know why. But it’s hard, Thad. Every time I leave, I feel like I’m losing him all over again.”
Thad closed his laptop gently, giving her his full attention. “You’re not losing him, Clara. You’re holding onto what you can, in the way you can. And that takes more strength than most people realize. What you’re doing—it’s not just for him. It’s preserving something for you, too.”
She blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. “I just miss him. The real him. The one who’d tease me about my terrible coffee, or who’d sneak up behind me in the kitchen and kiss my neck. I keep hoping I’ll see that man again, even for a second.”
Thad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “You might not get that exact man back. But the fact that he’s still reaching for you, in his own way? It’s not nothing. Today, with the intimacy… it’s a sign that some part of him still knows how to love you, even if it’s through a fog.”
Clara managed a small, watery smile. “You’re too good at this, you know that? Making me feel like there’s still something worth holding onto.”
He chuckled softly, a rare break in his usual professionalism. “It’s not me. It’s you. You’re the one showing up, day after day. I’m just here to listen and take notes.”
She laughed—a quiet, fragile sound—and wiped at her eyes. “Well, I’ll keep showing up. For as long as he’ll let me.”
Thad nodded, his expression warm but tinged with the weight of understanding. “And I’ll keep asking how it goes. Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time,” she agreed, rising from her chair. She paused at the door, glancing back at him. “Thanks, Thad. For not letting me feel crazy for doing this.”
“You’re not crazy,” he said simply. “You’re just in love.”
She smiled again, a little stronger this time, and stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Thad alone with his notes and the fading light.
He opened his laptop again, typing a quick entry: Session with Clara, April 06, 2031. Alexander’s condition regressing as expected. Emotional resonance persists. Clara remains committed. Hope still present. We may be winning her over. Investment seems worthwhile.
He saved the file and leaned back, staring at the screen. For a moment, he let himself wonder what it must be like to love someone so fiercely, even as they slipped away. Then he closed the laptop and turned off the light, leaving the office in shadow.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.