1
Two weeks after Arietta and Fred’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, they found themselves in Athens, Greece, sunning on a stone veranda overlooking the entirety of that ancient city. An orange sun hung lazily in the sky, bathing them in light.
Arietta slid her fingers through her husband’s, filling her lungs with hot air. “I can’t believe we’re here,” she whispered.
Fred cocked his head and delivered his delicious smile, one that yanked her back through time—twenty-five years and beyond—to the summer on Nantucket Island when they’d first met one another. It felt like last week, or maybe the one before that. But now, Arietta was forty-nine years old, and Fred was fifty-six. How had that happened?
“It’s been one heck of a ride, babe,” he said.
“It really has.”
They’d flown in from Boston that morning. The idea was that they’d attend a conference here in Athens before taking a ferry to Mykonos, then to Paros, and finally to Santorini. It wasn’t Fred’s work that brought them here. It was Arietta’s. She wondered if that made Fred uncomfortable, then told herself not to thinkabout it. Regardless of how much Fred respected her work or how much money her work had brought to their lives over the years, it was still important to her.
This conference had invited Arietta specifically because she was one of the leading journalists in Alzheimer’s research. Here in Athens, the best and brightest scientists in memory care were coming together to discuss new research, innovative strategies, and the future of eliminating the disease for good. Arietta had leaped at the opportunity, grateful to hear about the cutting-edge research from the scientists themselves rather than reading about it in a press release alongside everyone else.
She’d worked hard for this status—long-form articles, building a social media presence, and traveling around the United States to interview scientists at prestigious universities and research centers. She knew all of the major players in the field.
Arietta and Fred got dressed—Arietta in a sleek black dress and Fred in a suit—then took an Uber to the conference center, which was on the outskirts of the city, where the buildings were considerably more modern than the Acropolis. Once there, Fred got out of the car and opened the door wider to help Arietta out. His mother had always told him to be a gentleman, especially when people were watching. Now, cameras flashed from the “blue carpet,” which had been set out for them to walk down. Apparently, blue had been decided as the color to represent memory. But nobody was entirely keen on showing off their outfits or getting their pictures taken. Arietta and Fred hurried past, barely glancing at the photographers.
Almost immediately, Arietta recognized a few other journalists inside the convention center. Like Arietta, they’d initially studied science and the brain before swapping careers for journalism, realizing they were more word-oriented and could use language to advance the field. Arietta had had to failthree laboratory classes before she’d realized she was needed elsewhere.
After her mother’s diagnosis eight years ago, what had begun as a purely science-leaning journalism career had catapulted her into Alzheimer’s research journalism. And now, two years after her mother’s untimely and harrowing death, a death that nobody should ever have to experience, Arietta was immersed in this field. She knew everything about the latest technologies and medications. She knew where the best memory clinics in the world were and about every “bizarre” tactic doctors had used to try to bring memory back into their patients’ lives.
“I’m going to grab a wine,” Fred said. “You want one?”
“Champagne for me,” she said, watching as the Greek servers walked with drink-ladened trays.
Fred left for a moment, then returned with two glasses. “I’ll try to keep up with everything tonight,” he said, laughing as they clinked. “I don’t know how many times I’ve asked you to explain what an amyloid plaque is.”
Someone else, a man, interjected, “There are a lot of terms. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Arietta and Fred turned to find Jasper Harris coming toward them, carrying a cocktail. He shook first Arietta’s hand, then Fred’s, and said, “I wondered if you were going to make the trip.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Arietta said. “When did you get over here?”
Jasper thought for a moment. “I’ve been in Europe for about two months now, interviewing a few specialists in Switzerland, Belgium, and the Netherlands. My wife threw me out, you see. Marriage over! So I thought I’d take the opportunity to spread my wings and see what was going on over here.”
Arietta put her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Jasper.”
Jasper laughed. “It was a long time coming, honestly. We’re both happier. We’re talking more now than we have for the past ten years!”
Fred clinked his glass with Jasper’s. “Cheers to that, my friend.”
At that moment, the moderator came to the stage to announce it was time for everyone to take their seats. He explained that first, the researchers would give their speeches, and then dinner would be served. “After that, we’ll have another couple of speeches, a Q&A session, dessert, and, of course, one final wrap-up,” the moderator said in an English accent. “We’re so glad you could all make it for this exciting night of memory research. Let’s begin!”
Arietta and Fred said quiet goodbyes to Jasper, then made their way to their table, where they sat alongside three scientists and their spouses, plus another journalist whom Arietta had met three years ago at a conference in Paris. They waved hello, just as the first speech began.
When the evening was over, Arietta, Fred, a few of the scientists they’d befriended through the night, and Jasper all went for a nightcap at a hotel bar not far from the convention center. Everyone had something to say about the evening. Arietta’s heartbeat was fast, proof of her excitement. “I’ve never heard them talk about neurodegeneration like that,” she gasped to Fred and another scientist as they sat with their cocktails.
The scientist nodded and said they’d been flirting with those conversations at his laboratory for the past six months or so. “But this puts us ahead another six months at least,” he said.
For the next couple of hours, Arietta fell into an easy rhythm with these lovely people—scientists and journalists who cared just as deeply about Alzheimer’s research as she did. They all had their own reasons; many had lost someone, too.
At some point, just as she usually did, Arietta brought up the fact of her eldest daughter, Shannon. “She’s in grad school at Yale. Neuroscience. She wants to figure this out,” she explained.
The scientist smiled. “Yale! That’s really something.”
“She was always our brainiest kid,” Fred said proudly. “All our kids are smart, though.”