“I already told you, please, Wren is fine,” I say, trying to reciprocate his calm and happy expression as best I can.

“All right, then, Wren.” With his eyes on his computer, he scrolls through my file, probably reading what he had noted in the evaluations of the past years. “Are you ready for some questions?”

I nod, and we get started.

These exams are always more or less the same. Dr. Steinberg asks me questions about general culture—who’s the current President, in what museum resides the Mona Lisa, what’s America’s Independence Day. He asks me if I’ve gotten lost recently, or if I’ve been struggling at work or during my daily tasks. I’m then told to draw a clock, to name some animals, to retain seven numbers and to tell them back to him after a minute, in different orders. I have to do basic math calculations and other tests I think might be new, and finally, after a quick physical exam, he asks me questions about personal things I told him in the past—what’s my mother’s date of birth, where did I grow up, when did I graduate college.

“And that’s it,” Dr. Steinberg says after what must’ve been thirty minutes of testing my brain. He smiles, but that smile could mean anything. Doctors are taught to keep a reassuring face no matter the circumstances.

In reality, I think I know that I’m okay. I was able to answer his questions, or at least I think I was. Do people who lose their minds realize that they’re not answering properly? I never thought to ask my mom or my uncle or my grandpa. And now two of them are gone, and one can’t answer any question I ask her, and no one can tell me whether I would know if I’d drastically failed my test.

With a swallow, I force out, “So?”

“So everything looks great.”

I let out a huge breath, just like I do every time he tells me that sentence. Because one day, he won’t.

“Thank you, Doctor,” I say as I get up from my chair.

He frowns before folding his hands over his belly and leaning back. “You know, Wren, there’s a lot of uncertainty regarding Alzheimer’s. I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself so much at your age about this.”

I don’t answer.

“Chances are, you have many, many years in front of you, if it ever does occur.”

“Right. Thank you,” I say before waving and leaving his office. The moment I walk into the waiting room, Aaron is on his feet, my purse and coat in his hands.

“So? How did it go?” he asks. The room is empty—a perk of having the last appointment of the day—so no one’s here to listen to our conversation.