I couldn’t do it.
I moved the mouse over the little ring.
I clicked.
The folder opened.
Inside were dozens of files. Pictures. Documents. A spreadsheet. And at the very top, sorted first, one video file.
It was named START HERE — FOR LEE.
For Lee.
My name. The name only he called me.
My hand hovered over the mouse. My fingers had gone cold.
I double-clicked.
The video opened. It took a second to load.
And then there was Mark.
He was sitting in the chair I was sitting in right now. In this room. The same wall behind him, the same calendar from the lumber yard. He was wearing his gray work shirt. The light from the window made his face look tired and older than I remembered.
He looked straight into the camera.
He took a deep breath.
“Hi, Lee,” he said.
His voice was shaking.
“If you’re watching this, then either I finally worked up the guts to show you, or something’s happened and I can’t. I hope it’s the first one.” He gave a small, broken smile. “Knowing me, it’s probably the second.”
He looked down at his hands. Then back up.
“I need to tell you some things,” he said. “And I need you to know first that everything in this folder, every single thing, is for you. All of it. It’s always been for you.”
He swallowed hard.
“My name is Mark Ellison. I’m fifty-three years old. I’ve been married to Lena Ellison for twenty-six years. We have a daughter named Sophie who’s going to be a nurse. We live at 418 Cedar Street.” He was speaking slowly. Carefully. Like a man reading the instructions off the back of a box. “I’m saying all this out loud because my doctor said it helps to practice. And because one day, I might need to watch this to remember it.”
My hands went numb.
I mean that. Literally numb. Pins and needles, all the way up to my elbows. I couldn’t feel the mouse under my fingers.
On the screen, Mark rubbed his face with both hands.
“In March,” he said, “I went to see a doctor because I kept forgetting things at work. Little stuff. Names. Measurements. One day I drove to a job site I’d been going to every day for two months, and when I got to the corner of Fifth and Main, I didn’t know which way to turn. I just sat there at the green light while people honked at me. I didn’t know where I was, Lee. For about a minute, I didn’t know where I was.”
He looked away from the camera. His jaw was tight.
“They did a bunch of tests. Brain scans. Memory tests. Blood work. I didn’t tell you. I told you I was going to the dentist. Three times. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about all of it.”
He took another breath. A long, shaking one.
“It’s Alzheimer’s,” he said. “Early onset. The doctor says I’m in the early stages. She says there are medicines that might slow it down. She says I might have years. Good years. But she also said it’s going to get worse. And one day, I’m going to forget things I never thought I could forget.”
He looked straight into the camera again. His eyes were wet.
“One day I might forget you, Lee.”
I made a sound. I don’t know what kind of sound. Something torn.
“And I can’t…” He stopped. He pressed his fist against his mouth. When he took it away, he was crying openly. “I can’t stand that. I can’t stand the idea of looking at you and not knowing. So I’m doing something about it. While I still can. Everything’s in this folder. And I’ll explain it all. But I wanted you to hear this part from me first. In my own voice. While it’s still my voice.”
He reached toward the camera.
“I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you since you laughed at my hinge drawing. Whatever happens, I need you to remember that. Even if I can’t.”
The screen went black.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
The room was very quiet. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower started up. A dog barked twice. A car drove by with its radio playing.
The world was going on like nothing had happened.
I pressed play again. I watched it again. And again.
It’s Alzheimer’s. Early onset.
One day I might forget you, Lee.
I’d spent two days thinking my husband was having an affair.
I’d spent a whole night on the bathroom floor imagining another woman in Room 12. Imagining him slipping a ring on her finger. Imagining Carol at the café pouring her coffee and smiling.
And all along, he was dying.
No. Not dying. That’s not quite right. The doctor said years. Good years.
He was disappearing. Slowly. A little at a time.
And he hadn’t told me.
Since March.
Five months. Five months of dentist appointments. Five months of me nagging him about forgetting to pick up milk, about leaving the garage door open overnight, about calling Sophie’s roommate by the wrong name at Easter. I’d teased him. I’d called him an old man. I’d rolled my eyes.
He’d known.
He’d known the whole time, and he’d let me roll my eyes.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand and made myself look at the rest of the folder.
There was a spreadsheet called THE PLAN.
I opened it. It was so Mark it almost made me laugh through my tears. Neat rows and columns, the way he did his construction bids. Dates and names and phone numbers and dollar amounts.
Gull’s Nest — Carol — Deck reserved Sept. 20, 5 p.m. Sunset 7:12. DEPOSIT PAID.
Lakeview Inn — Rm 12 — Sept. 20–23. DEPOSIT PAID. (Asked for same room. They said yes!!)
Holloway & Sons — new ring. Wide band, sized for bad knuckle. Hinged so it opens over the joint. Engraving. Pick up Sept. 14.
Pastor Jim — confirmed. He says he’s honored.
Sophie — TELL HER. Ask her to help with Lee’s dress?? (Lee will kill me if I pick it.)
Dave, Ray, Tommy — keep your mouths shut. ESPECIALLY RAY.
Lee’s sister — call after Sophie.
Flowers — white daisies. Like the first time.
Song — “At Last.” Like the first time.
At the very top of the spreadsheet, in bold, he’d typed:
MARRY LEE AGAIN. WHILE I STILL REMEMBER WHY.
I read that line about twenty times.
There was a folder of photos. Pictures from our wedding, scanned from the old album in the hall closet. Me in my mother’s dress, squinting in the sun. Mark in a rented tux that was too big in the shoulders. The two of us on the dock at Loon Lake on our honeymoon, my head on his shoulder, the sunset behind us.
There was a document called VOWS — DRAFT 9.
Draft nine.
I didn’t open it. I couldn’t. Not yet. I felt like that belonged to him. Like it was something he should get to say out loud first.
And there was one more video. Shorter. Called RING.
I clicked it.
It was filmed on a phone. Shaky. Outdoors. I could see trees and water behind him. The lake.
Mark was holding up his left hand to the camera. On his ring finger was a band. Wide and gold, with a thin line of silver running around the middle.
“Okay,” he said, a little out of breath. He was smiling. A real smile. “So the jeweler made a test one. A practice ring. Just a cheap one, to check the fit before he makes the real thing. And Lee… it doesn’t hurt.” He laughed. “Twelve years, and it doesn’t hurt. He made it with this little hinge, see? So it opens up and closes over the knuckle.” He fiddled with it. “I’m gonna wear it all weekend. Make sure it’s right. Make sure I can fish in it and sleep in it and everything.”
He looked at the ring on his finger for a long time. The smile faded into something softer.
“The doctor says routines help,” he said quietly. “Things you do every day. Things your body remembers even when your brain doesn’t. So I figure, if I wear this every day, then maybe one day, when I don’t remember why… my hand will. Maybe I’ll look down and see it and feel something. Even if I don’t know what. Maybe that’s enough.”
He looked at the camera.
“See you soon, Lee,” he said. “Act surprised.”
The video ended.
That was the ring mark. Three days in the August sun with a practice ring on his finger. Long enough to leave its shape behind.
Probably from holding the fishing rod.
My poor, sweet, terrible liar of a husband.
The key card to Room 12 wasn’t for her. It was for us. He’d gone there Saturday morning, while the guys ate pancakes, to look at the room. To make sure it was still the same.
The receipt from the jeweler. Congratulations.
Carol at the café. Is this his wife?
She hadn’t been feeling sorry for me because he was cheating.
She’d been feeling sorry for me because she knew.
She knew he was sick. He must have told her. He must have stood at her counter and explained why he wanted the deck at sunset on September twentieth, and she’d heard it all.
And when I called, she thought I’d found out. She thought the surprise was ruined. Oh, honey.
I sat in his office chair with my head in my hands, and I cried. Really cried. Big, ugly, heaving sobs that I couldn’t have stopped if I tried.
I cried because he was sick.
I cried because I’d thought the worst of him.
I cried because he’d carried this alone for five months, getting up every morning and driving to work and kissing my cheek and saying love you like everything was fine.
And I cried because, under all of it, under the shock and the grief and the fear, there was something else.
He wanted to marry me again.
I thought that was the worst of it.
I thought nothing could be worse than finding that video.
I was wrong.
The worst part came an hour later.
I’d made myself get up. I’d washed my face. I’d closed the laptop and put it exactly back where it was. I’d gone downstairs and sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I wasn’t drinking, trying to figure out what to do.
Should I tell him I knew? Should I pretend I didn’t, and let him have his surprise? Should I call his doctor? Should I call Sophie?
Should I call Sophie.
Oh God. Sophie.
I was sitting there with my head in my hands when my phone rang.
It was still on the floor, where I’d thrown it after Carol’s call the day before. I’d picked it up and set it on the table without even looking at it. Now it was buzzing against the wood.
MARK.
I stared at his name on the screen.
He never called me from work. Never. He texted at lunch. Sometimes. But he didn’t call. The job sites were too loud.
I picked up.
“Mark?”
Silence. I could hear wind. Traffic. A loud truck going by.
“Mark? Honey?”
“Lee.” His voice was strange. Small. “Lee, is that you?”
“It’s me. Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t…” He stopped. I heard him breathing fast. “I don’t know where I am.”
The coffee cup slid out of my hand and tipped over. Coffee ran across the table and dripped onto the floor. I didn’t move.
“What do you mean?”
“I was driving to the Henderson job. And I was driving, and I was driving, and then I looked up and I didn’t…” His voice cracked. “I don’t know this road, Lee. I don’t know where I am. I pulled over at a gas station. I’ve been sitting here. I’ve been sitting here a long time, I think. I don’t know how long.”
“Okay.” My voice was steady. I don’t know how it was steady. “Okay, honey. It’s okay. Can you see a sign? Can you read me the name of the gas station?”
“It’s a…” A pause. “It says Kwik Fill. There’s a Kwik Fill. And a Dairy Queen across the street.”
“Okay. Can you see a street sign?”
Another long pause. I could hear him turning around. Breathing hard.
“Route 9,” he said. “It says Route 9 North.”
Route 9 North.
Route 9 North was the road to the lake.
The Henderson job was ten minutes from our house, in the opposite direction. He’d been driving it every day for three weeks.
And this morning, he’d turned the wrong way and kept going.
“Mark,” I said. “Look at the clock in your truck. What time does it say?”
“It says eight… eight-fifty.”
He’d left the house at six-forty.
He’d been driving for two hours. North. Toward Loon Lake.
Toward the place he’d been dreaming about all weekend. Toward the dock where he told me he’d marry me.
Some part of him, the part that wasn’t working right anymore, had just pointed the truck at the place he loved most and gone.
“Stay right there,” I said. “Do you hear me? Don’t drive anywhere. Lock the doors and stay right there. I’m coming to get you.”
“Lee.” He was crying now. I could hear it. “Lee, I’m scared.”
“I know, baby. I know. I’m coming. Just stay on the phone with me. Okay? Don’t hang up. Just stay on the phone with me the whole time.”
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
I grabbed my keys and my purse and ran out the door in my slippers.
It took me an hour and forty minutes to get there.
I kept him on the phone the whole time. I talked about everything. Nothing. The weather. Sophie’s anatomy class. The new neighbors with the yappy dog. Whether we should paint the bathroom blue or green.
Every few minutes, I’d ask him, “You still there?”
“Still here,” he’d say.
Around the halfway point, his voice changed. It got clearer. Calmer. Like he was coming back into himself.
“Lee,” he said. “I know where I am now. I know. Route 9. Near Harmon. I can drive home, I can—”
“No,” I said. “You stay right there. You don’t drive anywhere.”
He was quiet.
“You found it,” he said finally. “Didn’t you? The folder.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“Yes.”
He let out a long breath.
“How?”
“The ring mark,” I said. “And the receipt. And Room 12. And Carol.” I laughed, and it came out half a sob. “I thought you were having an affair, Mark. I thought you had another woman. I went through your bag in the middle of the night like a crazy person.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “God, Lee. I’m so sorry.”
“Your password was LoonLake. It took me four tries.”
He made a sound. Almost a laugh.
“I changed it in March,” he said. “After the doctor. I thought, if I ever forget it, I’ll just think about where I’d most want to be. And I’ll remember.”
I had to pull over onto the shoulder for a minute after that. I couldn’t see the road.
He was sitting in his truck at the Kwik Fill with the doors locked, just like I told him.
When I pulled in next to him, he looked over at me through the window.
For one horrible second, I was afraid. Afraid he would look at me and not know who I was.
But his face crumpled. He knew me. He knew me.
He unlocked the door and got out, and I got out, and we met in the middle of that gas station parking lot between the pumps, and he held me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he kept saying into my hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Stop it,” I said. “Stop saying that.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I didn’t want you to look at me different. I didn’t want you to watch me. Every time I lost my keys or forgot a word. I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”
“What look?”
He pulled back. His eyes were red. He looked so tired.
“That one,” he said softly. “The one you’ve got right now.”
I didn’t know what my face looked like. Scared, probably. Heartbroken.
“Mark,” I said. “This is my face because you got lost, and I didn’t know where you were. That’s all. This is just my face when I love you and I’m scared.”
He put his forehead against mine.
A man came out of the gas station with a bag of chips and stopped. He looked at us, two middle-aged people crying and holding each other by pump number four. Then he walked a wide circle around us to his car.
Neither of us cared.
I drove us home in my car. I called Dave on the way and asked him if he could pick up Mark’s truck. He didn’t ask a single question. He just said, “I’ll get it, Lena. Don’t worry about anything.”
That’s how I knew Dave knew too.
Mark was quiet for the first half hour. He sat in the passenger seat with his hands in his lap, looking at his left hand. Running his thumb over the pale band on his finger.
“How long have the guys known?” I asked.
“Since June.” He didn’t look up. “I had to tell them. I needed them for the trip. To cover for me Saturday morning so I could go to the jeweler. And to look at the room. I needed Ray to post a bunch of stupid pictures so you wouldn’t wonder.”
“Ray posted a picture with your plate of pancakes sitting there full.”
Mark closed his eyes.
“Of course he did,” he said. “Of course Ray did that.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
“And Carol?”
“Carol owns the Gull’s Nest. She’s owned it for thirty years. Before it was the Gull’s Nest, it was the bait shack. Remember? Where we sat on the dock that night.” He looked out the window. “When I called to reserve the deck, I told her why. I told her everything. I don’t know why. She just had that kind of voice. She cried on the phone. And then she said she’d do the whole thing at cost. She wouldn’t take a dime over.”
Oh, honey.
“She thought I found out,” I said. “When I called. She thought the surprise was ruined.”
“Probably.”
“I hung up on her.”
“She’ll forgive you. She’s tough. She’s got a tattoo of an anchor on her forearm.”
We drove for a while in silence. The pine trees went by. The sun came out from behind the clouds and lit up everything gold.
“Who else knows?” I asked.
“Pastor Jim. My doctor. The jeweler. The lady at the Lakeview.” He paused. “That’s it.”
“Not Sophie.”
“Not Sophie.” His voice broke. “I didn’t know how. I kept practicing. In the truck. In the shower. How do you tell your little girl that you’re…” He couldn’t finish.
“We’ll tell her together,” I said.
He looked at me.
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m furious,” I said. “I’m so mad at you I could scream. You lied to me for five months. You let me make fun of you for forgetting things. You let me call you an old man. You went to the dentist three times, Mark. Three times. You have perfect teeth.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to be mad at you for a long time.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m also going to be right here. The whole time. For all of it. Every single day. You don’t get to do this alone. Not one more day. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t answer. He just reached over and put his hand on my knee, the way he used to when we were young and drove everywhere with the windows down.
I put my hand on top of his.
His left hand. The one with the pale stripe.
We told Sophie that Saturday.
She drove home from school. We sat at the kitchen table, all three of us. Mark had tried to write out what he wanted to say on an index card, like he was giving a speech at a job site meeting. His hands were shaking so much he couldn’t read it.
So I said it. Slowly. Carefully. While he held her hand.
Sophie didn’t cry at first. She sat very straight in her chair and asked a lot of questions. Nursing student questions. What stage. Which medications. Had they done genetic testing. What was his MMSE score. Mark didn’t know what half of the questions meant. Sophie wrote everything down in a little notebook.
Then she put the pen down.
She looked at her father.
“Daddy,” she said. She hadn’t called him Daddy since she was about eleven.
And then she cried. She cried into his shoulder, and he held her and rocked her like she was still small enough to fit in his lap.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” he said into her hair. “I’ve got some good years left. The doctor said. I’m going to be at your graduation. I’m going to walk you down the aisle someday. I’m going to make terrible jokes at your wedding.”
“You’d better,” she said into his shirt.
“I will.”
He didn’t know if that was true. None of us knew. But I loved him for saying it.
After a while, Sophie sat up and wiped her face with the heel of her hand. She sniffed hard and looked from him to me and back.
“Okay,” she said. “So what’s in the folder? Mom said there was a folder. With a ring on it.”
Mark looked at me.
I nodded.
He took a deep breath.
“I’m going to marry your mother again,” he said. “September twentieth. At the lake. And I need your help picking out her dress, because if I do it, she’ll kill me.”
Sophie stared at him.
Then she burst into laughter. Real laughter, through the tears. She threw her arms around his neck.
“You big sap,” she said. “You big stupid romantic sap.”
“Guilty,” he said.
The next few weeks were a strange kind of beautiful.
We went to Mark’s neurologist together. Dr. Patel, a small, brisk woman with kind eyes who shook my hand and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Mrs. Ellison. I told him he should bring you in March.”
“Did you?” I said, looking at Mark.
“Several times,” said Dr. Patel.
Mark looked at the ceiling.
She explained everything again. The medicines. The stages. What we could expect, and what we couldn’t. She told us about routines. Labels on cabinets. A whiteboard calendar in the kitchen. A GPS tracker on his phone. No more driving, she said, after what happened on Route 9. Not ever.
Mark took that one hard. He was quiet the whole ride home.
When we pulled into the driveway, he sat in the passenger seat looking at his truck parked by the garage. Dave had brought it back that Wednesday and left the keys under the mat.
“I’ve been driving since I was fifteen,” Mark said. “My grandpa taught me in his old Ford. Up at the lake, on the dirt roads. I stalled it about forty times.”
“I know,” I said. “You’ve told me.”
“Have I?”
“Lots of times.”
He was quiet for a second.
