No Way Back from Love and Hate Chapter 1

In my previous life, my husband, Arthur Vance, was sixty-two when he was diagnosed with late-stage Alzheimer’s. He transformed from a refined, cultured intellectual into a disheveled old man, prone to outbursts, prone to violent rages, yelling vile obscenities at me. At those times, only a photograph of his first love could calm him. So, our daughter, Lillian, brought Arthur’s first love, Serena Reed, home, telling me to care for her.

“Dad only recognizes Aunt Serena now. Just think of it as helping him get better. They’re both so old, what could possibly happen between them?”

For Arthur’s sake, I agreed. I served them, fetching their meals, cleaning up after them, bustling about like a live-in housekeeper. I endured this life for three long years, only to be told I had terminal liver cancer. I writhed in agony on my sickbed, but Lillian, busy with work, never once came to visit. In my final moments, I dragged myself home. There, I saw my grandson, Benjamin, holding a cake, shouting to Arthur’s first love, “Happy birthday, Grandma Serena!” And in the place of honor, Arthur’s eyes were clear, his gaze on Serena filled with profound adoration.

He said, “I’ll marry you once Elara is gone. She’s had me for all these years, I owe her nothing. The rest of my life, I only want to make it up to you.”

There was no Alzheimer’s. It was all a cruel deception, and I was merely their unwitting accomplice, their live-in maid.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Lillian brought Serena home for a grand welcome dinner.

* * *

On the spinning lazy Susan, five large crabs lay piled. By the time it reached my spot, they were gone. My husband, Arthur, wore an unnatural smile, his movements clumsy as he meticulously shelled a crab for Serena. My daughter, Lillian, solicitously introduced the restaurant’s signature dishes to Serena, asking if she wished for anything else. From start to finish, no one noticed the empty plate before me. No one asked what I wanted to eat.

This feeling of being overlooked, of being treated as invisible, I had experienced it countless times in my previous life.

Arthur and I had been married for forty years. When he was sixty-two, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I dedicated myself to caring for him, yet he frequently left me bruised and battered. My eyes were perpetually shadowed, my face swollen, the backs of my hands covered in scratches. Arthur’s hateful words during his fits of rage were like stale garbage, reeking of putrefaction.

One of Alzheimer’s symptoms is memory loss. Simply put, Arthur forgot me. It was only by showing him a photograph of his first love that I could avoid his wrath. How ironic. My husband, afflicted with a disease, forgot me, his wife, but remembered another woman.

Lillian suggested bringing Arthur’s first love, Serena Reed, home, ostensibly to aid his recovery. So, I found myself caring for the ailing Arthur while also serving the perfectly healthy Serena. During the most grueling period, I wasted away from a hundred and twenty pounds to a mere ninety. If I dared to complain about the hardship, Lillian would point to Arthur, who was eerily calm around Serena, and retort, “Why doesn’t Dad cry or make a fuss when Aunt Serena is around? Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough?”

I endured that life for three agonizing years, through over a thousand days and nights. In the end, I withered away from disease, from terminal liver cancer, beyond all medical help.

“Mom, what are you spacing out for? Hurry up and bring the dishes!” Lillian’s voice snapped me out of my memories. I looked up. The embarrassed waiter stood beside me, tray in hand, quickly saying there was no need. Lillian, however, waved him off with a dismissive air, grandly pointing at me. “She sits by the door so it’s easy for her to serve the dishes. It’s always been that way.” She then turned her gaze back to me. “Mom, hurry up! The waiter’s arms must be tired.”

Suddenly, all eyes turned to me. Their expressions were normal, none of them seemed to find anything wrong with Lillian’s words. I remembered how, in my previous life, when Serena first came to live with us, Lillian’s family had not only thrown a welcome dinner but also arranged a family vacation for Serena. I had spent an entire night packing luggage for everyone. But when it was time to board the train, the tour guide informed us. Lillian had purchased five tickets, and all the activities were for five people. But there were six of us, and it was too late to buy an additional ticket. The group discussed it, and finally, they told me, “Mom, we’re going to the beach this time. It’s not good for your joints. You should stay home.” I, along with my packed luggage, was left standing at the train station entrance. This wasn’t an isolated incident. I was always the one left behind.

The waiter placed a soup tureen on the lazy Susan and discreetly withdrew. Lillian, still annoyed by my earlier reaction, pressed on. “Mom, what’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you serve the dishes when I told you to? You’re sitting by the door precisely for that reason.”

Without a word, I filled my small bowl with soup and flung it, with deliberate aim, at Lillian.