The Swimmers

Part 5’s narration remains in second-person point of view but is now addressing Alice’s daughter as “you” instead of Alice. The daughter realizes, in hindsight, how many warning signs of Alice’s condition she overlooked before her dementia was finally diagnosed. Even when changes in Alice’s memory and behavior became fairly obvious, her daughter didn’t recognize their significance. In part, this was because of all the things Alice still remembered. She didn’t realize that long-term memories are more resistant to dementia in its early stages.

When Alice got confused or forgot things she’d once known well, her daughter acknowledges she was in denial that it meant anything. For as long as she could remember, Alice was always healthy, beautiful, and strong. It seemed unfathomable that anything could be really wrong with her. Gradually, however, she developed fixations. She complained about everything and hoarded nonperishables in preparation for a giant earthquake she’d long feared. She began to repeat stories over and over, especially stories about the Japanese detention camps in World War II. Once, Alice’s husband couldn’t find her. Hours later, he finally located her in the garage, sitting in the car, waiting to go for their Sunday drive.

When Alice’s doctor diagnosed her with frontotemporal dementia (FTD), he explained this causes personality changes, inappropriate behavior in public, apathy, and urges to hoard, among other things. He told Alice’s family it was terminal. Suddenly, the changes and odd behaviors Alice had been exhibiting made sense.

Alice’s daughter thought of Alice as always being so stylish. She loved shopping, and her hair and makeup were always flawless. After the onset of her dementia, she struggled to even dress herself. Her daughter considers the toxins present in so many everyday products and wonders if any of them are to blame. She also wonders if she’s to blame, recalling the distance she created between her and Alice as soon as she reached adulthood, though it was clear Alice still wanted a close relationship. She found Alice’s efforts at closeness exhausting.

Even when she wasn’t actively pulling away, Alice’s daughter feels as though she made no efforts to be there for her mom. Now she feels overwhelming guilt for this. When Alice’s mother experienced declining health, Alice took excellent care of her, visiting her at the nursing home five days a week for four years. Alice took her mother’s death very hard, though she lived to be 101 years old. Now, her daughter is unable to live up to the example her mother set, unable to provide the same level of care.

Alice’s husband has a difficult time adjusting to her being gone after she moves to Belavista. He lives as if she will be returning home soon and leaves her Post-It reminders all over the house, just in case. He insists her bedding be left on her bed. He keeps up with routine maintenance on Alice’s car and saves every magazine that comes for Alice in the mail. This all reminds Alice’s daughter of the story of the two songbirds her father had as a boy in Japan. When one died, the other was inconsolable, refusing to eat or sing. It seemed to be on the verge of dying when his mother put a mirror in the cage. The bird began to eat and sing again and lived many more years. Alice’s daughter wonders if the bird saw its own reflection in the mirror or its dead mate, or if the two were one and the same.

Throughout the time Alice is at Belavista, her husband doesn’t openly acknowledge that she’s never coming home. He worries about her, though he tries to stay positive and remains hopeful about her condition. He keeps up with his hobbies, like gardening, to stay busy. He even designs and builds a rock garden outside Alice’s old window. To his daughter, he seems to be living in the past, as if Alice were still at home.

Alice’s daughter learns that during her first few days at Belavista, Alice was in a panic. The first time her daughter visited, Alice thought she’d come to take her home. Another time her daughter visits, much later, Alice is waiting with her clothes stuffed into a pillowcase. She says to her daughter, “They’re sending me home today” (151). She tells her roommate every day that her husband is coming to get her. She still remembers to make kind, albeit small, gestures to those around her, like paying compliments and offering comfort. Her desires have become so small and simple. She doesn’t ask for much and says thank you for every task done for her.

When Alice’s husband visits, Alice tells her daughter he looks like he’s getting old. She asks her daughter, “Didn’t everything used to have a name?” (161). Over time, her daughter observes Alice becoming more frail and confused. Eventually, she can no longer walk safely and is put in a wheelchair. She’s quieter and doesn’t smile anymore. Visitors may see brief flashes of her old self, but these are few and far between. She gets to a point where she doesn’t speak much at all, and the last complete sentence she ever says is: “It’s a good thing there’s birds” (167).

Alice’s health fades until her daughter barely recognizes her. Two years after Alice stops speaking, she grips her daughter’s arm during a visit. Her daughter feels like she’s being held and is overcome by a sense of calm for five wonderful minutes. Most of the time now, Alice seems indifferent to her daughter’s visits and barely acknowledges her departure. If she recognizes her daughter, she has already forgotten her by the time she reaches the exit. On one of her last visits, however, Alice’s daughter is on her way out when she turns to see Alice’s hand raised in an affectionate wave.

After Alice dies, her daughter pays to have Alice’s brain analyzed by a renowned neurologist. The neurologist confirms the frontotemporal dementia diagnosis and specifies Pick’s disease as the subtype. Slides of Alice’s brain tissue will be presented at an international neurology-neuropathology conference in Paris called “The Euroneuro” (170).

In the wake of Alice’s death, her daughter develops insomnia. She tries every imaginable remedy, but nothing works. Alice’s husband, on the other hand, finally gets a continuous positive airway pressure (CPAP) machine and starts sleeping soundly for the first time. Feeling energized, he takes down all the Post-It notes and buys a better bed. Together, Alice’s husband and daughter go through her belongings; her old makeup and toiletries, hoarded magazines and newspaper clippings, expired coupons, and a pile of cheap, unused purses in her closet.

Alice’s daughter can’t find any of the jewelry Alice bought to replace her pearl necklaces. The pearls were brought from Japan by Alice’s father and stolen from Alice at the airport. She had planned to give them to her daughter, a sort of cultural inheritance. All the other family heirlooms her daughter should have inherited, Alice told her, were destroyed during the war.

Part 5 ends with a memory Alice’s daughter has of visiting Alice in Belavista. She’s unsure if her mother remembers who she is. She shows Alice a copy of her newly published book. Alice looks back and forth between the photo on the back cover, the byline, and her daughter’s face. She hasn’t spoken in over a year. She looks like she wants to say something to her daughter, but she doesn’t.