Beautiful Dreamer

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“Dementia,” Dr. Hennessy said, writing the world in big letters on the whiteboard and underlining it with a flourish. “From the Latin root de-, meaning without, and ment, referring to the mind. Its clinical definition is exactly as one would expect it to be: the loss of certain brain functions. Be sure to write that down, it's very important.”

My fingers flew across the keyboard of my computer, copying down the definition before the professor could continue. That was our lesson today: dementia. Or, as Dr. Hennessy had put it when we walked into class, “the unholy deterioration of the human mind.”

“Dementia in itself is not a disease,” the professor intoned, striding measured paces across the pulpit of the lecture hall. “Rather, it is a syndrome, or a set of signs and symptoms, that is caused by a number of other diseases. Many of you, I'm assuming, have heard of Alzheimer's, the most common cause of dementia. A few others would be Parkinson's, multiple sclerosis, and progressive supranuclear palsy. And, generally, dementia does not occur in people under the age of sixty.

“Patients with dementia experience impaired performance in language, perception, and memory, among other functions. If you read last night, you should know that the main concentration of control for language is in Broca's Area. Perception is affected because, as you should all know, it mainly relies on memory, rather than actual sensory nerve signals. When a person's memory goes, so goes their ability to properly perceive the world around them. Some dementia patients may undergo bouts of hallucinations, delusions, and violent behavior as their brain's deterioration begins to interfere with their sense of proper judgment.”

My ears perked at that, my fingers freezing mid-type as I processed the professor's words. Edith Hummel had dementia, I was certain of it; I had heard the ladies at church conversing on the subject on more than one occasion. With eyes still focused on the front of the room, I reached over and smacked Logan across the arm with the back of my hand.

“Dude,” I hissed, “that's like Mrs. Hummel. She has all those things.”

Logan grunted, and I slapped him again, turning this time. He wasn't even listening to the lecture; his head was down, staring intently at the sketchbook in front of him. Sketched on the page was the lightly penciled face of a familiar girl. Squinting, I leaned in closer.

“Is that...me?” I asked, extending a hand toward the page. When Logan realized that he'd drawn my attention, he slammed the book shut with a muffled thump.

“No,” he said quickly, quietly, his eyes saucers. “Just my assignment—totally random.”

I raised an eyebrow. Since we were much younger, Logan had had a strict policy against drawing people he knew. He always said that he couldn't stand creating art from his life; all of his paintings and drawings were spawned purely from his imagination. In fact, I rarely saw him sketch people at all, but rather strange, hybrid animals and crazy, altered versions of reality. But never simple human beings. And never, ever me.

“All right,” I replied, watching his face go from pink to scarlet. I remembered what Juliette had said the night before, about Logan changing his subject of infatuation from her to me. Was it possible that—but no, of course not. Logan was still hopelessly in love with my next door neighbor, because that's how things had always been, and I had accepted years ago that it's how things would always be. So he was drawing a girl who possessed a striking resemblance to me—so what? That was no crime, nor did it mean a single thing. I was just making a big deal out of nothing.

Not to mention seriously over-thinking it.

I shook my head, clearing it, and cast a small glance over at my best friend. His face had returned to its normal color, but he wasn't looking at me and his sketchbook was clutched tightly both of his hands. Like me, he had his laptop open on the desk before us, opened to a Word document for taking notes. His screen was blank, though mine wasn't much better. The shaggy-haired boy in front of me had filled nearly an entire page.