The only positive thing about this version of the disease is that people don’t usually get it until they’re older, and so it was with Iris, who wasn’t diagnosed until she was forty-five.

Other than that...well, that’s it really. Everything else about the disease is...well, I suppose it isn’t always easy to see the positives.

Iris put a brave face on it, she didn’t battle it as such. She mostly ignored it. Never mentioned it. And that worked, I think. For a long time. People sort of forgot she had it, and that suited Iris down to the ground. And while there were always reminders, should you care to look for them, these were outnumbered by Iris herself. The mighty tour de force of her. The indefatigable fact of her.

I suppose that’s what’s so wrong about where we are now. Here, on a boat that smells like dirty J Cloths. It’s so unlike her. Oddly, it’s this thought that gives me pause. And some comfort. This is probably just a temporary setback. A down day. We all have those, don’t we? God knows, Iris, of all people, is entitled to one.

I walk back to my seat with my tray of gray teas and three Kit Kats—the only confectionary on offer with a protective wrapping—and also an ever-so-slight bounce in my step. Perhaps bounce is an overstatement, but there is definitely more flexibility in my gait than before.

An off day. That’s what this is. We’ll be calling it a “glitch” in a few weeks’ time.

5

You must not park in any way which interferes with the normal flow of traffic.

The ferry takes three hours to get to Wales and, to be honest, I could not say much about the journey other than it passed.

I can say that Wales smells different. And it sounds different. Mostly fumes and the blaring of car horns as I release the hand brake and now we’re on the ramp again, but this time I’m driving down the ramp, onto foreign soil.

I have no idea what’s going to happen next. Iris does.

She tells me that I am going to buy two ferry tickets back to Dublin for Dad and myself.

I nod and don’t say anything because I need to think.

THINK.

On the way into the car park, I have a panicky thought about what side of the road English people drive on. And Welsh people. It’s the same side as us, isn’t it? Of course it is. It’s just... I hate driving in unfamiliar places. Or in the dark. Or in bad weather. I have never driven in another country. The routes I drive are well-worn and familiar. The school run, back in the day. Over to Santry where the Alzheimer’s Society holds a few events during the week; singsongs and tea and buns and round-the-table conversations like what’s your favorite food and who’s your favorite singer and whatnot. Frank Sinatra always gets a mention, and not just from Dad. Semolina is a hit when puddings are discussed. I made it for the girls once. They wouldn’t believe me when I told them it was dessert. I ended up eating theirs as well as mine. They were right, it was lumpy.