Slow Dancing with a Stranger by Meryl Comer Read Free Book Online Page B

day I had an important meeting, but halfway downtown, I got a frantic call from Olga. Harvey had pushed her aside when she tried to block his exit at the front door. He was already a good distance up the street and headed for Cedar Lane, a rigorous three-mile trek to the NIH. A long-distance runner, Harvey could move fast, but he was carrying two heavy briefcases and wearing slip-on loafers. I knew because I had helped him dress before I left for work. I turned the car around, backtracking to cut him off before he came to any harm.
    A return trip that should have taken fifteen minutes took only ten, as I raced through side streets and cut through alleys, like a flashback to my adrenaline-driven reporter days when I raced to be first on a crime scene. Turning off Wisconsin Avenue past the NIH complex onto Cedar Lane with no Harvey in sight, I made a U-turn and headed in the direction of the Clinical Center, where Harvey used to see his patients. The route was devoid of pedestrians. What about Rock Creek Park, which intersected Cedar and where we ran on weekends? I had just driven under the overpass before Beach Drive when I noticed in the distance a solitary figure propped awkwardly against a tree. As I approached, I saw it was Harvey. Next to him stood like sentinels the two briefcases filled with research he would never finish.
    I pulled onto the gravel strip and jumped out of the car. “Hi, love,” I said to him, trying to feign a nonchalance I did not feel. “Need a ride home?” Harvey did not look surprised to see me there in the middle of the park. He merely looked up and said he had spent the morning at the NIH Library doing research and thought he would walk home for lunch. It was only 10:30, and I knew that he had never made it there, but I said nothing. He did not inquire why I wasn’t at work.
    We sat together for a few minutes while I debated how to cajole him to come home with me. Fortunately, Harvey began to get hungry since he had refused breakfast. I reached out to pick up one of his briefcases but the anger in his eyes made me recoil. I felt stung by his unspoken admonition that he did not need my help. He asked about his car again and why he couldn’t drive himself to the office. I told him it was in the shop so we’d have to commute together, but the only place he was going that day was home. Even after we arrived back at the house, I remained terribly shaken by the turn of events. I called work and canceled the rest of my meetings for the day.
    With Harvey now home all day, I tried hard to keep things as normal as possible. It was maddening, but I just quietly played along as if it were the first time I had heard, “When can I go back to work?” “Where’s my car?” “How come you are in my house?” “Do I know you?”
    The most pressing issue was figuring out what was going wrong with Harvey. I wasn’t sure how to explain my current home situation at work. Under new leadership, the broadcasting division had been decimated, our ranks stripped away, the studio emptied, and jobs reassigned. Any request for time off would be viewed critically. There was no way to manage Harvey at home without devising a better plan. My accrued vacation time combined with sick leave would give me six weeks to try to pin down a diagnosis. I needed to be careful not to jeopardize my position at work. Right now, my job was our sole source of income.
    At first, I tried to engage Harvey in the quest for information about his symptoms, but that once-brilliant mind could no longer remember the most basic tasks. He began needing prompts on how to button his shirt and reminders to bathe and to brush his teeth. There were days when he engaged in endless repetition and others when he said nothing at all. It was hard to decide which I disliked more. But if you asked him directly how he was, he answered that he was fine.
    We only had a short time before my leave would end, so