The Precipice

By Laurie Legault

The weather had always oddly affected Harry’s mood; the sun had been a stranger for some time now, lost in the grey of clouds. A persistent gloom and a brittle cold hung over Montréal, showing no signs of clearing anytime soon. Rain threatened the city on most days, and when it didn’t, a dense fog invaded them instead. They always hung precariously close to the precipice of a rain shower; the streets were silent, and an onslaught of air turned alarmingly more violent at each passing. Occasionally, a strike of thunder resounded sinisterly. That’s when they knew the rain was coming.   Harry missed the sun; stuck in its chiaroscuro, he felt hopeless. It was a particular sensation—one Harry had never once thought possible—to be unable to find a single care for his existence. If Harry was to be honest, he didn’t feel quite like himself. He was a scholar: a linguistics professor at McGill University. Harry had always fancied himself a man of various disciplines: a human encyclopedia, his wife called him. However, recently, he was struck with a distaste in occupying his sieve of a mind. The books that lined his shelves, dog-eared and annotated by an insatiable hunger for knowledge, were now collecting dust and yellowing at the edges, destined to curl in on themselves in their discarded state. Languages that had taken years to master felt like distant echoes, perhaps not out of reach, but locked behind a door that Harry could not locate. He often stuttered, forgot what he was saying mid-sentence, and experienced an infuriating lack of agility with his once nimble hands: his writing, formerly an elegant dance of ink and thought, had faltered into a careless scrawl, and even the simplest utensils seemed to slip his grasp. His brain was painfully foggy with an inexorable constancy, and his existence was the heaviest burden.      His wife Sophie entered his office then. Quietly, she poised herself motionless near the window’s ledge and, before she could say anything, observed the darkening landscape. When she turned, Harry’s gaze encountered, in precise succession: furrowed brows, evasive blue eyes, and a mouth drawn into a tight, unyielding line. Despite his wife’s visibly tortured mien, Harry found himself at a loss for words to comfort her. It was clear she had been crying.   The room soon filled with her tottering voice: “The diagnosis came in.” Her hands held a collection of stapled papers, wilted by her saddened grip. “The doctors say it’s early-onset Alzheimer’s.” The first droplets of rain began staining the window.   After a moment of silence: “Oh.”   It was all Harry could find to say.

*

  A journal, the doctor had declared, was to be Harry’s prescribed method of arranging his days. It would supposedly help build his memory against the destructive sickness from spreading too rapidly. However, the invalid was scarcely convinced about the results this would draw.   Last month, soon after his diagnosis, Sophie had phoned the university to ask for a leave of absence on his behalf. It was offered rapidly, in light of the circumstances, and this had irked Harry so much that it made him cranky until he eventually forgot what had plagued him. And so, with nothing better to do, Harry retrieved at last from a nearby drawer, a journal he had written in his youth; a collection of thoughts, poems, and notes, all at random. Most of them had been about Sophie.  The rain had persisted recently. Trying to ignore the gloom outside, Harry turned to a blank page. At first, he only lightly dabbled with his fountain pen, unacquainted now with what used to feel familiar. He didn’t know what to write; it had been a while since inspiration had last visited and even longer since he committed to it. Briefly recalling the words he had just read from a man he felt distanced from, his brain could not find the ability to produce more of what he once wrote with eloquence. It felt like a stranger was trapped in his head, distorting the languages he used to know distinctly. 

Cofee vas cold this morneng. I saw a kat cross the schtreet. Sophie laise food fur it. She is non painting anymore. Is it beecuz of moi? Je—

In a fit of ire, Harry flung his pen aside before he could finish. It struck the floor and rolled briefly until it surrendered against the nearest baseboard. A low growl of thunder prowled the distance. He rose sharply, the chair shrieking in protest, shoved his journal into a drawer, and retreated to the solace of sleep. 

*

Sophie urged him to pursue the writing, for which Harry—since his failure—had developed a hatred, and so refused. He claimed that it provoked the sharpest of agonies in his hand. Sophie had quietly observed him on a rare occasion, her heart aching at the view of Harry struggling like an infant who was still learning to coax reluctant letters into their forms.   She also noticed that Harry was often cross these days, and if not that, terribly fatigued. In the absence of his writing, Sophie attempted other ways of encouraging Harry to get up from the bed or the couch, where he’d often sleep the day away if unsupervised. It was hard to keep track of Harry’s emotional state. Waves of mismatched emotions came and went, at first changing every day, and soon, every few hours. 

*

With a zest of snobbishness, Harry now avoided doing anything he had previously, afraid to confront his degradation. It did nothing but anger him. In fact, Harry felt devoid of all emotions except frustration. Alzheimer’s tormented him and robbed him of the very things that had once defined him. He shunned doing what he loved because of it, yet, in doing nothing, the frustration he sought to escape only intensified. 

*

Harry’s good friends received news of his condition and attempted to call him. However, he often only glanced at the ringing phone, not wishing anyone to hear his shame. Once, Harry’s hand hovered over the phone, debating whether he should pick it up, knowing—from the answering machine—that it was his dearest friend, James. Ultimately, Harry didn’t, and his friend’s familiar warmth faded into the void where all unanswered things were condemned to be forgotten: “Harry! It’s James again. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hopefully, you’re keeping up, call me when you can!”    Harry stopped doing handiwork around the house. Fixing a lightbulb, painting the mouldings or changing the kitchen cabinet doors required assistance because he’d trip on the ladder, spill the paint tray or misplace the screws. Sophie observed him in these moments, never too far away—either tucked behind a doorway where she believed herself unseen, halting mid-passing when she caught Harry curiously lost in some preoccupation, or studying him from beneath her brows as she sifted through paperwork at the kitchen table. She always tried to be subtle about it and was prepared to feign her innocence should Harry suspect her; however, it wasn’t always a success. Once, Harry noticed it, and a terrible fury befell him: his voice rose before he could catch it. It was hard to remember exactly what had slipped through this blind frustration, but he remembered, with aching clarity, the shame that settled in when Sophie scolded him: “Don’t ever say such vile things again. It’s not like you, Harry. God…what have you become…”   And that was the question. What had he become? Harry had stopped enriching his brain with the research and studies that used to inspire him. Even less did he practice any of his various languages—his brain always felt painfully foggy—nor was he keeping up with any personal projects. Every day, Harry continued to forget words, mix up his languages, or forget them entirely, trip over his feet, knock things over, and turn violently angry at any minor inconvenience. He slowly started acquainting himself with the idea that things would only get worse; the pills he was finally prescribed would merely stagnate the disease—hold it back for a little while, but just long enough to give Harry the time to grieve. He would never heal from it and return to his usual self: the one he had grown up with, and who would forever hold the 45 years of memories of who Harry was. All he could do until then was swallow the pills every day until their effects mitigated and, eventually, extinguished. And then one day, creeping up on him unnoticed, Harry would not only forget those closest to him, but he’d forget himself; he’d forget his scholarly nature, the passions he had pursued, and the dreams he still had; he’d have to accept that his mind had betrayed him—leaving him stranded as a scholar who once grasped every discipline, but who thereon, could master none. And that idea pained him. 

*

I dunt feel like mein self. I keep getting worst. Sophie want to aide me, but she is tierd. Je c. I am tierd de me to.

*

Sophie had changed, but then, so had Harry. For his benefit, Sophie left work and devoted herself to the quiet burden of caring for him and navigating the maze of legal documents and medical appointments that would shape the uncertain pathway of their future. Scattered paperwork overwhelmed their kitchen table, with which Sophie needed in pristine condition. She kept telling Harry, “Eat at the counter, not at the table.” It annoyed him tremendously to have his habits disrupted, but he scarcely had an appetite and would often be over it in minutes.   At Sophie’s insistence, Harry had made an effort to write. Incapable of writing poems or any creative prose anymore, he instead dutifully recorded his days in an attempt to map his state of well-being and see if his pills were still functional. But he stopped soon after the habit dulled, his words meandered, and his calendar became confused.   Since his diagnosis, Sophie and Harry had fallen into two separate rhythms. Sure, both no longer worked, but Harry slept constantly; Sophie barely slept a wink. Harry scarcely talked; Sophie filled in the silences. They were opposites: disconnected and out of sync. And, willing or not, this new inconsistency settled between them like a parasite, gnawing at their relationship little by little. Sometimes, he could hear, from just around the corner, Sophie weeping to herself. 

*

Assisted suicide was a topic Harry avoided at all costs. Perhaps he was ignoring it, in his denial of the disease growing, or perhaps the disease made him forget about it. Sophie noted the queer way which, when she circled back on the idea, his face was illuminated by confusion as if he had never heard of such a thing. Worst of all, Harry had completely forgotten that it was he who had asked for the possibility of such an ending. To his unconscious dismissal of the subject, Sophie had alternatively suggested the idea of a private caretaker. But Harry was so insulted by the notion that she let it go. She’d try again later, she told herself.

*

Sophie wanted a change of scenery. “Your turn, dear.” She watched as Harry rounded the pool table, billiard cue in hand. His eyes swept over the arrangement, analyzing how to take his next shot. His expression was distant and disoriented. At one of the city’s bars, where they had long since become regulars, she hinted at a game of pool, not just to test Harry’s cognitive senses, but because Sophie wanted a certain sense of normality to return. Once, this had been their tradition. Harry had always played with an elegant precision she could never match, a quiet confidence in every stroke. But now, watching him hesitate, cue hovering in midair, Sophie wondered if he still recognized the game at all—or if, like so much else, it was already slipping beyond his grasp. Harry often neglected the existence of the white ball, couldn’t stabilize the cue, or misjudged the angle entirely and sent the shot astray. Committed to the striped balls, he had forgotten that the solids were not his game, and Sophie could see how upset he was with himself when he accidentally sunk her last ball.   Later, as she fastened the buttons of Harry’s coat, he stood quiet, adrift in some unreachable place. Then, with a sudden flicker of cheer, he spoke of the shot that had secured his victory. Sophie smiled. “You did well. I’m proud of you.” If a lie was kinder than the truth, then Sophie would choose kindness. 

*

The night was cold and silent. It was a night when Harry could not sleep, and he shifted to his back, staring at the ceiling’s uneven textures. He kept thinking of the man he was, who he used to be, and who he was condemned to become. He wondered idly if Sophie’s love could survive watching Harry’s slow withering of self. And if not—well, he would not blame her. He did not love himself either, not like this. He listened, waiting for the quiet rhythm of her breath: it was hard to tell if she was already sleeping. Quietly, he asked, “Do you st-still…love me?” He needed to be certain. And from the darkness came a very gentle, “In sickness and in health.”   Sophie then reached a hand to his side, their fingers intertwining in the haste of forgotten intimacy. And there they lay, parallel in the darkness, dreaming of all the things that could’ve been, wishing for everything that couldn’t. 

*

8 years later 

The smell of petrichor lingered in the streets. The pavement, still damp from the rain, sent up gentle wisps of steam as the warmth slowly returned; every droplet of the morning rain had disappeared instantly, and a colourful mist replaced it. Everything was covered with a golden light that filtered through parting clouds. The air was thick with the mingling scents of wet earth and blooming flowers.

 “Bon aller, you’ve been brooding long enough now Harry. How about we give your wife some alone time and go take some fresh air, oui? It’ll do you some good,” said Marie—his full-time caregiver—in her thick, French accent. She was much younger than Harry and his wife, and had a typically Parisian appearance: long face and a matching nose marked by a delicate rise in its center. She had shoulder-length brown hair and Harry considered her both a beautiful, and yet slightly disheveled woman—balancing poise and carelessness in equal measure. She also had a unique skill in caring for Harry, especially in his most fastidious times. She shared the weight of his tender watch with Sophie. 

 Harry had first refused when his wife introduced him to the idea of hiring a private caregiver for the sole reason that it infantilized him. But he adjusted swiftly, lulled into routine by Marie, who ensured that Harry took his medication punctually, watched over him with quiet vigilance, tethered him to a regimen of movement lest his limbs betray him, and occupied his hours when Sophie, weary or longing, sought the brief comfort of solitude.

 Marie took him out for a stroll while Sophie—what with the rain gone—tended to her garden and pursued her painting, which she’d set up on an easel in their backyard. She had left her career behind sooner than planned, and yet, in these solitary hours, she painted—if not for ambition, then for the simple persistence of habit. She did find a few private collectors captivated by her art who offered them a generous income—enough to live comfortably. Harry and Sophie didn’t love each other any less than before, but their relationship had adapted to the circumstances, and that suited them fine.

 At this moment, Marie guided the invalid towards a park to sit. She carried a copy of her favourite book, Les Misérables—translated, because Harry could no longer understand French—and read it aloud to him to ease his restlessness. At the sound of her voice, an octave too low for a woman, yet nonetheless appealing with its soft-edged vowels, he allowed his mind to carry him away where it must. But at one particular sentence, his brain came to a halt, and he felt a surge of electricity pass through him: “To love or to have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.” He replayed it in his head over and over again until each word was etched deep in his head and sank into his heart. All he could think of then was his love for Sophie; he remembered the sole love of his life.

 He stood from where they sat on the grass and immediately started searching for Sophie. Marie was interrupted from her reading.

 “Harry? What are you doing?” But he ignored her. Harry wanted Sophie; needed her; he felt heavy just remembering how difficult he had become—his sharp words, his restless frustration, the quiet storms he stirred without meaning to. He had not always noticed it, the way Sophie bore it all with grace. Through every moment of forgetfulness, misstep, and grievances, she had remained and loved him even when he made it hard to be loved. He had to see her again! Harry started back home.

 “Non mais enfin—Harry! Where are you going? Harry, bordel! Come back!” The caregiver attempted to follow him, but he was faster. The animosity he had had for himself and his disease suddenly didn’t feel as important anymore. All that he wanted was to find Sophie again; he had to return to her; tell her that he remembered her. That he loved her.

 Harry started off slowly, giving himself time to ease into a more urgent pace. But as his strides lengthened and his body settled into the rhythm, he didn’t stop: at the pinnacle of his epiphany, as if time itself was racing against him before he’d become a slouch, a brute, and an idiot once more, Harry ran back home. The sun was so bright it was blinding, but he refused to let that stop him from returning to Sophie. He had to see her. She had to see him again. The real Harry, with the mind he once had. Sophie needed to know he was still there, deep within this shell of a person he’d become. All his thoughts of her, from the very moment they had met to their first kiss, their dates, their wedding, and all their life achievements together, accumulated until he stood at the edge of a steep precipice and suddenly felt them wash over him like waves coming to kiss the sandy shore, leaving very little behind. His pace slowed, and he suddenly wondered where he was going. He looked around and was met only with unfamiliar faces going about their everyday lives, not minding him; he was invisible, forgotten. And currently, he faced a problem—forgetting both where he had come from and where he was going.

 A shortness of breath struck him so heavily that Harry needed to sit for a minute. When he did, he watched the sun slowly disappear once more into an ashen melancholy.

 And then came the rain.

By Laurie Legault