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“This is not good,” I said.

“Yeah, and the dementia has been progressing pretty quickly. The doctor said he’s in the middle stages of the disease,” Jerry said.

“I don’t want to hear this right now,” I said.

“You need to, because you and I are at a higher risk for getting it someday.”

“Can you stop talking?” I asked.

“It would be just like you to hide your head in the sand.”

“Why are you so mean to me?” I pushed Jerry and almost knocked him off the bench. He didn’t even flinch. “It’s not like they opened Dad’s head and looked in his brain and saw these Lewy things,” I said. “We don’t even know for sure Dad has it. Doctors can be wrong.” Jerry stood up, shook his head, and left.

I pulled my keys out of my purse and walked quickly to my car. I hit the unlock button, but nothing happened. I hit it again, but still nothing. What the hell was wrong with my car? And then I realized my trunk was open because I’d pushed the wrong button. I closed the trunk and got in the car. I was about to back out when I froze. My foot couldn’t even push the pedal down. I put the car in park and turned it off. I took my hands off the wheel and started cracking my knuckles. It hurt, and the pain was poignant. If the doctor was right, my sharp, quick-witted father would forget his whole life. I didn’t know how to wrap my head around that. I never wanted to lose him and certainly not this way. He’d be alive, but he wouldn’t be living. He was going to be devastated when he heard his diagnosis.

I started the car again and tried to back out when a thought came into my head, and I slammed on the brakes. Could Jerry be right? Could we get dementia also? Last week, I forgot to turn the porch lights on at night, I forgot to return two library books, and I forgot to DVR60 Minutes. Had it already started?

I put my car in gear and drove to Jim’s office. When I walked into the waiting room, I was thankful there wasn’t anyone there. My shirt was rumpled, my makeup smeared, and except for my Michael Kors purse, I looked as if I could’ve been homeless. I pushed the red button in the waiting room that let Jim know his next client was there. I waited and waited, but he didn’t open the door. Where was he? Didn’t he know I was having a crisis out here? When he did finally come out, I shouted, “I think I have dementia.”

He scanned the waiting room for any patients and, seeing it was empty, said, “Come in here.” I followed him into his office. I wanted to pace, I needed to pace, but the room was small. I ended up walking in circles around the couch and chair. He sat down on the couch and watched me, sure this was just one of my rants.

“I have dementia, or at least I probably do. You’re always saying I forget things, and you’re right, I do. In fact, right now I can’t remember what those things I forget even are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The doctor said my dad has Lewy body dementia.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible.”

“Jerry said it could also be genetic.”

He thought for a moment. “Let’s take one step at a time. Even if your dad has it, that doesn’t mean you’ll get it too.”

“But it doesn’t mean I won’t.” I increased the speed I was pacing at.

“Can you sit down? You’re making me dizzy,” he said gently.

I couldn’t sit, so I kept moving. “This whole thing freaks me out. And I’m terrified Gia could also get it.”

“There’s no reason to tell her anything. We don’t want to scare her.”

“Why would you think I’d want to scare her? What kind of mother would that make me?” The red light that told him his next patient was waiting lit up. We both looked at it. “I can’t leave right now. I’m a mess,” I said desperately.

“I know you’re upset, and I’m really sorry. I promise we can talk about this for as long as you want when I get home.” He used his soothing therapist voice. I hated that voice.

“I need you.”

“And I feel awful that I can’t be there for you right now, but my next client is here.” He walked toward the door, expecting me to follow him.

It was unreasonable for me to expect him to cancel his client because I needed him, but I didn’t care. “I’m not leaving.” I raised my voice, so it was an octave below yelling.

Jim shushed me as if I were a child shouting during a bar mitzvah. “I really am sorry. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” He opened the door. In the waiting room was a woman in her early thirties, very pretty, and about to get my husband’s undivided attention. As I walked through, I accidentally made eye contact with her. When I say accidentally, I mean that I purposely gave her a look that said,Stay away from my husband. As I closed the waiting room door, I heard Jim apologizing to her for keeping her waiting. Jim was probably happy to get rid of me. He got to be with some pretty young woman sitting across from him for an hour a week, getting his attention. Especially one who wasn’t going to get dementia. I was likely putting my guilt on him for my relationship with Michael, but I was upset, and I didn’t care.

When I got home, I tried making a cup of tea, but tea was overrated for calming nerves. I tried reading a book, butGone Girlmay not have been the best choice right now. My thoughts drifted to Michael. He’d understand what I was going through because he was dealing with his own mother’s health issues. I would text him, if only I could find my phone. It wasn’t in the kitchen, in my bedroom, or in the laundry room. Could not remembering where I put it be another sign of dementia? Finally, I saw the outline of it underneath a washcloth in the bathroom. How it got there, I’d never know.

Now, what should I text? If I told him how I fell apart at Jim’s office, he could think I was crazy, and I didn’t want him to see me that way. Would he think I was too forward being the first one to text? Was I overthinking this? I got sick of listening to my excuses, so I wrote:

Hey, it’s Maggie. What’re you don’t?I hated autocorrect. I tried again. I typed,What’re you dong?Great, now he thinks I’m a pervert. Finally, I carefully typed,doing?