“I’ve had a thick leather scrapbook made. Each photo will take a page and the story will go next to the photo. Dad can read the story, see the photo, and even if his memory is gone, it will be recaptured for that moment, for that reading.” Shane’s voice cracked unevenly and he bent his chin toward his chest, rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact.

“Shane,” Colleen said quietly, “this is the most beautiful gift. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

He nodded. “You’re the writer, Lena. You can create each story to say what it needs to say. I want to gather some small part of his life this way. To keep his life this way. Even as he loses most of his days, I want to give some of them back to him. And you, Hallie, you’re the organizer. You can help Lena while you’re planning the party, as well as write out the timeline that will go in the front of the book.”

Colleen ignored the use of “Lena”—it wasn’t worth the fight and this was about Dad. Completely about Dad.

Hallie placed her coffee cup on the table and clapped her hands together, folded them into a prayer pose and placed them under her chin, propping it up. This old gesture, one of sincerity on Hallie’s part, caught Colleen’s breath. How many times had she seen Hallie do this as a child? A million or more, most likely. She could blame the sting of the hot coffee on her tongue and back of her throat, but the sudden urge to cry had nothing to do with the coffee at all.

“Ah,” Hallie said. “That’s why you asked me to start putting together a timeline of Dad’s life.”

“Yep, he’ll be able to see his life as a journey, each major event marked on the timeline. You’re so damn good at those things.”

Hallie nodded. “Got it.”

“This is a ticking clock,” Shane said. “If we want to create a decent memory book, we’re going to have to ask him questions even as his answers are slowly disappearing.”

“What do you mean?” Colleen asked, clearing her throat and her mind of sticky memories clinging to both.

“I’m told that Alzheimer’s is characterized by what is called retrograde amnesia. It takes the memories cluster by cluster, going backward, erasing the most recent memories first . . .” Shane’s voice caught on the last word.

“Oh, God.” Colleen sat hard on the chair. “Can’t something stop it?”

“No. Not that they know yet.” Hallie shifted her gaze to the photos on the table. “I don’t mean to sound know-it-all, but we’ve lived with this a bit longer than you, and it’s just that we know there’s nothing that breaks the cycle.”