Reawakening

The old man stood patiently in the narrow space between the conveyor belt and the rack of impulse buys at the checkout counter. At a glance, you’d have noticed something was not quite right. You’d have wondered who had brought him to the grocery store, who had helped him put his clothes on, who had shaved him and bathed him and made his breakfast.

Until you saw Elaine: a fortyish black female lifting milk and bread and a pack of Depends out of the grocery cart.

The man stood quietly, holding his hands behind his back   Only a year ago, he’d have unloaded the cart himself. He’d have opened the door for Elaine when they left the house. Today, he’d shuffled to the car with Elaine’s hand under his elbow, looking up at her with mild trust as she buckled him in. She had been his caregiver for five years.

Alzheimer’s had been invading his brain for more than a decade. As time passed, his losses accumulated: reading, watching a movie, talking on the telephone. Balancing his checkbook. Beating his three sons in ping pong.

Gardening. Car keys. Continence.

One thing he retained at age 75: his tremendous physical strength. But you wouldn’t have noticed it as he slumped there by the cash register, waiting.

Elaine lifted the last item from the cart and pulled out the cash envelope she used to buy groceries. But the cashier had overcharged her. When she pointed out the mistake, he flashed up in hostility. Like Elaine’s patient, the cashier was a white man. I don’t know what words he used with Elaine – but his tone was rude, demeaning, vibrating with racial overtones.

The Alzheimer’s patient vanished. Six feet, two inches and 235 pounds of anger leaned over the conveyor belt. His nose pressed against the cashier’s nose; his right shoulder cocked itself like a gun. His voice exploded in the store.

You don’t talk that way to a lady.

The cashier withered. It was like puncturing a balloon, Elaine said. People stopped what they were doing and stared at the white cashier, the black woman, and the suddenly dangerous man at the counter.

It was the first complete sentence he had said in six months.

Elaine laid her hand on the man’s arm. At her touch, his body relaxed. He moved his eyes from the cashier to Elaine and watched her put the grocery bags in the cart. She rolled toward the door, and he quietly followed.

Out the storefront window, you could see the young black woman putting grocery bags into the back seat of the car while the old white man stood silently by. You could see her help him into the front passenger seat, lean over, and carefully buckle him in.

Then she drove out of the parking lot and took my father home.