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Eight years ago， my mother received an unusual call from her mother.
“Have you got a minute？” my grandmother asked in her gentle drawl. She then claimed that my 60-year-old aunt， my mother’s sister， was seeing someone.
My mother was incredulous. “Unless she’s sneaking out of the window at night，” she said， “I’m not sure how she’s going on these dates. She’s living with me and Rickey.”
My aunt， having undergone double hip-replacement surgery， was recuperating under the care of my parents.
My grandmother continued： “Well， this new gentleman actually has been in love with your sister since kindergarten. He’s just been waiting for Ronnie to get out of the picture.”
Ronnie had been my aunt’s husband for 40 years. And he recently had left her， but not in the way anyone had expected.
Let me back up. The last few decades had not been kind to my aunt. She had wrestled with ending her long marriage to Ronnie， who was a troubled soul.
He wasn’t a bad person， but he struggled with addiction， a condition that can mold you， with sticky hands， into someone else.
With the news of her impending surgery， my aunt knew he would be unable to care for her， so after much consideration， she promised to find him a new home， gathered up her courage and left.
Not long after， on the day my uncle was scheduled to check himself into a retirement community， he put a gun into his mouth and killed himself.
Now， on the phone with my grandmother， my mother said：“I really think you’re imagining this. You’ve been watching too much television.”
But my grandmother， a woman of biblical patience， grew ornery at my mother’s refusal to believe that my aunt had a suitor.
While this may sound like a plot from daytime television， the story arc was not out of character for my grandmother. At this point in her life， she filled her days rereading books and watching television， marinating on these tales as if they were scandals plucked from her own life.
It was doubly difficult to know when her stories were true because of her Alzheimer’s. The disease preserved many of her old memories while stealing much of her ability to sustain new ones.
However strange her story of the make-believe man， it was remarkable that， so far into her disease， my grandmother remembered that my uncle was no longer “in the picture.” She had forgotten that my mother is a cancer survivor， that I live in New York and that my brother is married， despite the wedding photo on display in her room. Yet my uncle’s death was as fresh in her mind as if she had plotted it herself. About a week later， my grandmother called with more about this wealthy businessman. He had a name now： Nick Stephanopoulos. He was Greek， a convenient parallel to my Lebanese grandfather.
She gushed that Nick was flying my aunt to Paris， Rome and London， and that he planned to buy her luxurious gifts. He was crazy about her， not to mention that he was an international man of romance.
There comes a time when the caretakers and family of Alzheimer’s patients may be advised to adopt the patient’s reality as their own. This can help establish a sense of normalcy for the patient， diminish potential confusion and temper agitation.
So we brought Nick into our lives. Soon my grandmother began asking us about him. At lunch， as we caught up on one another， she would address the table with great expectation： “Well， how’s Nick？”
At first we’d pause， shifting in our seats and wondering who would be the first to accept my grandmother’s delusions as our reality. Eventually， my aunt would pipe up， “Nick is...great.”
We tried to keep our answers short， because to us they were lies. And even though we knew pretending was the best solution， we still weren’t comfortable making up a life for the man， though his life did seem exciting…
One afternoon when my aunt visited my grandmother in her assisted-living home， my grandmother spoke gravely， saying， “I need to tell you something about Nick.”
“What is it？” my aunt asked.
“On the train to New Orleans last week， he bumped into Mr. McDaniel， you know， the train conductor.”
“Mmm.”
“Mr. McDaniel thinks you should know that Nick is involved in some unscrupulous business deals，” she said， her eyes focused intently as she waited for a response.
“I’m so happy you told me，” my aunt replied.“I don’t want to be involved with someone untrustworthy， and I’ll bring this up with him.”
My grandmother was pleased. Crisis avoided. Never mind that people mostly drive that route these days， and Mr. McDaniel—well， he had been dead for 40 years.
These wild stories continued month after month， each vignette becoming a source of amusement among us. We marveled at my grandmother’s mind， which was restricted by memory but freed by imagination. When my mother and I spoke， I would always ask about Nick. She would giggle and say， “Oh， let me tell what Nick did this time.”
Nick Stephanopoulos offered us something to hold on to. He was the laughter born of our sorrow. More than two years after inventing Nick， my grandmother took a fall and broke her arm. At 88， she couldn’t recover and declined over the course of five weeks. But as she made her slow exit from the world， she continued to tell us stories about Nick.
And then， one afternoon at the hospital， near the end of my grandmother’s life， my aunt was huddled behind a television， fumbling with cables when， suddenly， my grandmother said， “I’m sorry to hear about Nick.”
My aunt stopped fidgeting with wires and peeked out from behind the television. “What about Nick？”
“I heard he only has three months to live，” my grandmother said. “I’m sorry.”
My aunt， stunned and disappointed， sat quietly calculating what this meant. After two and a half years， was this really the end？
A couple of weeks later， my grandmother passed away at hospice with my mother and aunt by her side.
For victims of Alzheimer’s， whole lifetimes vanish. For their loved ones， faith is tested and perseverance tried.
But to see Nick’s fictional life stretched before us like a partly painted canvas proved that even memory loss couldn’t shatter my grandmother’s hope that my aunt would receive all she deserved.
Playing along with my grandmother kept us close to her， even as she was being taken from us. It was easier for us to live a lie. But with Nick’s death， we discovered our strength as a family. We were no longer pretenders. We were believers.
八年前，我母親接到她母亲打来的一个不寻常的电话。
“有空和我说句话吗？”我外婆拖长腔调柔声问道。随后她声称我那位六十岁的姨母（我母亲的姐姐）在和某人约会。
我母亲不相信。“除非她晚上从窗户溜出去。”她说，“不然我不知道她是怎么出去约会的。她跟我和里奇住在一起。”
当时我姨母做了双髋关节置换手术，在我父母的照顾下休养康复。
外婆接着说：“嗯，这位新露脸的先生事实上自幼儿园时起就爱上你姐姐了。他只是在等着罗尼跟你姐姐分道扬镳。”
罗尼和我姨母维持了40年的婚姻。但最近他以出乎任何人意料的方式离开了她。
让我来解释一下来龙去脉。我姨母过去几十年可不好过。罗尼是个累赘的包袱，她费了很大劲才结束了他俩的漫长婚姻。
罗尼人不坏，但是个瘾君子，这种状况就像一双黏糊糊纠缠不放的手，把人摧残得面目全非。
姨母得知马上要做手术，也知道丈夫没法照顾她，因而经过深思熟虑之后，她承诺给他找个新家，然后鼓起勇气离开了。
没过多久，在姨父本该要去登记入住养老院那天，他吞枪自杀了。
当时，母亲在电话里跟我外婆说：“我真的觉得这是你的幻想。你看电视看得太多了。”
外婆素来有着圣人般的耐心，这次却因我母亲拒绝相信有人在追求我姨母而变得暴躁起来。
虽然这个消息听起来像日间电视节目里的剧情，故事主线却并非不符合外婆的性格。在那段日子里，她整天重读书籍、看电视，浸泡在这类故事中，仿佛这些令人咋舌的事件出自她自己的生活。
她患了老年痴呆症，因此要判断她的哪个故事是真的，更是难上加难。这种病让她的很多陈年记忆得以存留，却又让她丧失了不少保存新记忆的能力。
不管这个虚构男人的故事有多么奇怪，了不起的是，外婆病到那种程度，依然记得我姨父跟姨妈再也没有瓜葛了。她已经忘记了我母亲是个癌症幸存者，忘记了我住在纽约以及我弟弟已经结婚了，尽管他们的结婚照就摆在她的房间里。然而我姨父的死在她的记忆中却崭新得就像是她自己设计了这个情节。
大约一周之后，外婆打电话来，说起更多关于这位富有商人的事。他开始有名有姓了：尼克·斯特凡诺普洛斯。他是希腊人，与我外公是黎巴嫩人这点很相似。 她滔滔不绝地讲起尼克带我姨母飞遍了巴黎、罗马和伦敦，并打算给她买奢侈礼物的事。他疯狂地爱着她，更不要说他本来就是个浪漫的、走遍全球的异国男子。
有段时间，护理员和老年痴呆症患者的家人都知道应当认可病人臆想的现实。这样有利于帮助病人建立正常的意识，减少病人的潜在困惑和不安情绪。
所以我们接纳了尼克进入我们的生活。不久，外婆开始向我们问起他。午饭时，当我们互相交流各自的近况，她会满怀期望地问在座的人：“嗯，尼克怎么样了？”
一开始我们会冷场，坐立不安，琢磨着谁会第一个接受外婆的幻想作为我们的现实。最后，我姨母会接过话茬：“尼克……好极了。”
我们尽可能简短地回答，因为对我们来说，这些回答都是谎言。尽管我们知道假装是最好的解决方法，但我们还是为杜撰一个人的生活感到不自在，虽然杜撰出来的生活看起来确实激动人心……
一天下午，姨母去我外婆居住的陪助型老人之家看她，外婆忧愁地说：“我得告诉你一些关于尼克的事。”
“什么事？”我姨母问。
“在上周开往新奥尔良的火车上，他碰见了麦克丹尼尔先生，你知道，那位列车长。”
“嗯。”
“麦克丹尼尔先生觉得你应当知道尼克在不择手段地做一些不道德的生意。”她说道，目不转睛地等着回答。
“我真高兴你告诉我了。”姨母回答。“我不想和不可靠的人有什么瓜葛，我会和他摊牌。”
外婆感到满意了。危机避免了。先别说那条路线如今人们都是开车走公路而不坐火车的，而且麦克丹尼尔先生——嗯，他都去世40年了。
这些疯狂的故事一个月又一个月地继续着，每段小插曲都成了我们之间的笑料來源。外婆的头脑受限于记忆，却得以自由地发挥想象力，我们都为此感到惊叹。当轮到母亲和我在饭桌上发言时，我总会问起尼克。母亲会咯咯地笑着说：“噢，这次让我来说尼克做了什么。”
尼克·斯特凡诺普洛斯是我们的一段珍贵记忆。他是我们在悲伤中找到的欢乐笑声。
在杜撰了尼克的两年多以后，外婆摔了一跤，手臂骨折了。八十八岁高龄的她，经过了五周都不能恢复，健康状况恶化了。但在她行将离世时，还继续给我们说着尼克的故事。
后来，一个下午，在医院里，外婆即将走到生命的尽头时，姨母挤在电视机后面，胡乱地摸索着线路，突然，外婆说道：“我很遗憾得知尼克的消息。”
姨母停下折腾电线，从电视机后面探出头来。“尼克怎么了？”
“我听说他只能活三个月了。”外婆说。“我感到很遗憾。”
姨母愕然，又失望，静静地坐着盘算这意味着什么。两年半过去了，这真的要结束了吗？
几周以后，外婆在临终安养院去世了，我母亲和姨母守在她身边。
老年痴呆症患者一生的记忆都消失了。而爱他们的人的信心和毅力都受到了考验。
但像画作未完成的一块画布那样，尼克传奇的一生在我们面前展开，证明着，即使失去记忆也不能动摇我外婆的期盼，她期盼姨母能够得到她应得的一切。
陪外婆玩“故事接龙”让我们和她更亲近，尽管死神正在把她从我们身边带走。对于我们而言，过欺骗人的生活并不难。但随着尼克死去，我们找到了作为一家人的团结力量。我们不再是伪装者。我们是信仰者。
“Have you got a minute？” my grandmother asked in her gentle drawl. She then claimed that my 60-year-old aunt， my mother’s sister， was seeing someone.
My mother was incredulous. “Unless she’s sneaking out of the window at night，” she said， “I’m not sure how she’s going on these dates. She’s living with me and Rickey.”
My aunt， having undergone double hip-replacement surgery， was recuperating under the care of my parents.
My grandmother continued： “Well， this new gentleman actually has been in love with your sister since kindergarten. He’s just been waiting for Ronnie to get out of the picture.”
Ronnie had been my aunt’s husband for 40 years. And he recently had left her， but not in the way anyone had expected.
Let me back up. The last few decades had not been kind to my aunt. She had wrestled with ending her long marriage to Ronnie， who was a troubled soul.
He wasn’t a bad person， but he struggled with addiction， a condition that can mold you， with sticky hands， into someone else.
With the news of her impending surgery， my aunt knew he would be unable to care for her， so after much consideration， she promised to find him a new home， gathered up her courage and left.
Not long after， on the day my uncle was scheduled to check himself into a retirement community， he put a gun into his mouth and killed himself.
Now， on the phone with my grandmother， my mother said：“I really think you’re imagining this. You’ve been watching too much television.”
But my grandmother， a woman of biblical patience， grew ornery at my mother’s refusal to believe that my aunt had a suitor.
While this may sound like a plot from daytime television， the story arc was not out of character for my grandmother. At this point in her life， she filled her days rereading books and watching television， marinating on these tales as if they were scandals plucked from her own life.
It was doubly difficult to know when her stories were true because of her Alzheimer’s. The disease preserved many of her old memories while stealing much of her ability to sustain new ones.
However strange her story of the make-believe man， it was remarkable that， so far into her disease， my grandmother remembered that my uncle was no longer “in the picture.” She had forgotten that my mother is a cancer survivor， that I live in New York and that my brother is married， despite the wedding photo on display in her room. Yet my uncle’s death was as fresh in her mind as if she had plotted it herself. About a week later， my grandmother called with more about this wealthy businessman. He had a name now： Nick Stephanopoulos. He was Greek， a convenient parallel to my Lebanese grandfather.
She gushed that Nick was flying my aunt to Paris， Rome and London， and that he planned to buy her luxurious gifts. He was crazy about her， not to mention that he was an international man of romance.
There comes a time when the caretakers and family of Alzheimer’s patients may be advised to adopt the patient’s reality as their own. This can help establish a sense of normalcy for the patient， diminish potential confusion and temper agitation.
So we brought Nick into our lives. Soon my grandmother began asking us about him. At lunch， as we caught up on one another， she would address the table with great expectation： “Well， how’s Nick？”
At first we’d pause， shifting in our seats and wondering who would be the first to accept my grandmother’s delusions as our reality. Eventually， my aunt would pipe up， “Nick is...great.”
We tried to keep our answers short， because to us they were lies. And even though we knew pretending was the best solution， we still weren’t comfortable making up a life for the man， though his life did seem exciting…
One afternoon when my aunt visited my grandmother in her assisted-living home， my grandmother spoke gravely， saying， “I need to tell you something about Nick.”
“What is it？” my aunt asked.
“On the train to New Orleans last week， he bumped into Mr. McDaniel， you know， the train conductor.”
“Mmm.”
“Mr. McDaniel thinks you should know that Nick is involved in some unscrupulous business deals，” she said， her eyes focused intently as she waited for a response.
“I’m so happy you told me，” my aunt replied.“I don’t want to be involved with someone untrustworthy， and I’ll bring this up with him.”
My grandmother was pleased. Crisis avoided. Never mind that people mostly drive that route these days， and Mr. McDaniel—well， he had been dead for 40 years.
These wild stories continued month after month， each vignette becoming a source of amusement among us. We marveled at my grandmother’s mind， which was restricted by memory but freed by imagination. When my mother and I spoke， I would always ask about Nick. She would giggle and say， “Oh， let me tell what Nick did this time.”
Nick Stephanopoulos offered us something to hold on to. He was the laughter born of our sorrow. More than two years after inventing Nick， my grandmother took a fall and broke her arm. At 88， she couldn’t recover and declined over the course of five weeks. But as she made her slow exit from the world， she continued to tell us stories about Nick.
And then， one afternoon at the hospital， near the end of my grandmother’s life， my aunt was huddled behind a television， fumbling with cables when， suddenly， my grandmother said， “I’m sorry to hear about Nick.”
My aunt stopped fidgeting with wires and peeked out from behind the television. “What about Nick？”
“I heard he only has three months to live，” my grandmother said. “I’m sorry.”
My aunt， stunned and disappointed， sat quietly calculating what this meant. After two and a half years， was this really the end？
A couple of weeks later， my grandmother passed away at hospice with my mother and aunt by her side.
For victims of Alzheimer’s， whole lifetimes vanish. For their loved ones， faith is tested and perseverance tried.
But to see Nick’s fictional life stretched before us like a partly painted canvas proved that even memory loss couldn’t shatter my grandmother’s hope that my aunt would receive all she deserved.
Playing along with my grandmother kept us close to her， even as she was being taken from us. It was easier for us to live a lie. But with Nick’s death， we discovered our strength as a family. We were no longer pretenders. We were believers.
八年前，我母親接到她母亲打来的一个不寻常的电话。
“有空和我说句话吗？”我外婆拖长腔调柔声问道。随后她声称我那位六十岁的姨母（我母亲的姐姐）在和某人约会。
我母亲不相信。“除非她晚上从窗户溜出去。”她说，“不然我不知道她是怎么出去约会的。她跟我和里奇住在一起。”
当时我姨母做了双髋关节置换手术，在我父母的照顾下休养康复。
外婆接着说：“嗯，这位新露脸的先生事实上自幼儿园时起就爱上你姐姐了。他只是在等着罗尼跟你姐姐分道扬镳。”
罗尼和我姨母维持了40年的婚姻。但最近他以出乎任何人意料的方式离开了她。
让我来解释一下来龙去脉。我姨母过去几十年可不好过。罗尼是个累赘的包袱，她费了很大劲才结束了他俩的漫长婚姻。
罗尼人不坏，但是个瘾君子，这种状况就像一双黏糊糊纠缠不放的手，把人摧残得面目全非。
姨母得知马上要做手术，也知道丈夫没法照顾她，因而经过深思熟虑之后，她承诺给他找个新家，然后鼓起勇气离开了。
没过多久，在姨父本该要去登记入住养老院那天，他吞枪自杀了。
当时，母亲在电话里跟我外婆说：“我真的觉得这是你的幻想。你看电视看得太多了。”
外婆素来有着圣人般的耐心，这次却因我母亲拒绝相信有人在追求我姨母而变得暴躁起来。
虽然这个消息听起来像日间电视节目里的剧情，故事主线却并非不符合外婆的性格。在那段日子里，她整天重读书籍、看电视，浸泡在这类故事中，仿佛这些令人咋舌的事件出自她自己的生活。
她患了老年痴呆症，因此要判断她的哪个故事是真的，更是难上加难。这种病让她的很多陈年记忆得以存留，却又让她丧失了不少保存新记忆的能力。
不管这个虚构男人的故事有多么奇怪，了不起的是，外婆病到那种程度，依然记得我姨父跟姨妈再也没有瓜葛了。她已经忘记了我母亲是个癌症幸存者，忘记了我住在纽约以及我弟弟已经结婚了，尽管他们的结婚照就摆在她的房间里。然而我姨父的死在她的记忆中却崭新得就像是她自己设计了这个情节。
大约一周之后，外婆打电话来，说起更多关于这位富有商人的事。他开始有名有姓了：尼克·斯特凡诺普洛斯。他是希腊人，与我外公是黎巴嫩人这点很相似。 她滔滔不绝地讲起尼克带我姨母飞遍了巴黎、罗马和伦敦，并打算给她买奢侈礼物的事。他疯狂地爱着她，更不要说他本来就是个浪漫的、走遍全球的异国男子。
有段时间，护理员和老年痴呆症患者的家人都知道应当认可病人臆想的现实。这样有利于帮助病人建立正常的意识，减少病人的潜在困惑和不安情绪。
所以我们接纳了尼克进入我们的生活。不久，外婆开始向我们问起他。午饭时，当我们互相交流各自的近况，她会满怀期望地问在座的人：“嗯，尼克怎么样了？”
一开始我们会冷场，坐立不安，琢磨着谁会第一个接受外婆的幻想作为我们的现实。最后，我姨母会接过话茬：“尼克……好极了。”
我们尽可能简短地回答，因为对我们来说，这些回答都是谎言。尽管我们知道假装是最好的解决方法，但我们还是为杜撰一个人的生活感到不自在，虽然杜撰出来的生活看起来确实激动人心……
一天下午，姨母去我外婆居住的陪助型老人之家看她，外婆忧愁地说：“我得告诉你一些关于尼克的事。”
“什么事？”我姨母问。
“在上周开往新奥尔良的火车上，他碰见了麦克丹尼尔先生，你知道，那位列车长。”
“嗯。”
“麦克丹尼尔先生觉得你应当知道尼克在不择手段地做一些不道德的生意。”她说道，目不转睛地等着回答。
“我真高兴你告诉我了。”姨母回答。“我不想和不可靠的人有什么瓜葛，我会和他摊牌。”
外婆感到满意了。危机避免了。先别说那条路线如今人们都是开车走公路而不坐火车的，而且麦克丹尼尔先生——嗯，他都去世40年了。
这些疯狂的故事一个月又一个月地继续着，每段小插曲都成了我们之间的笑料來源。外婆的头脑受限于记忆，却得以自由地发挥想象力，我们都为此感到惊叹。当轮到母亲和我在饭桌上发言时，我总会问起尼克。母亲会咯咯地笑着说：“噢，这次让我来说尼克做了什么。”
尼克·斯特凡诺普洛斯是我们的一段珍贵记忆。他是我们在悲伤中找到的欢乐笑声。
在杜撰了尼克的两年多以后，外婆摔了一跤，手臂骨折了。八十八岁高龄的她，经过了五周都不能恢复，健康状况恶化了。但在她行将离世时，还继续给我们说着尼克的故事。
后来，一个下午，在医院里，外婆即将走到生命的尽头时，姨母挤在电视机后面，胡乱地摸索着线路，突然，外婆说道：“我很遗憾得知尼克的消息。”
姨母停下折腾电线，从电视机后面探出头来。“尼克怎么了？”
“我听说他只能活三个月了。”外婆说。“我感到很遗憾。”
姨母愕然，又失望，静静地坐着盘算这意味着什么。两年半过去了，这真的要结束了吗？
几周以后，外婆在临终安养院去世了，我母亲和姨母守在她身边。
老年痴呆症患者一生的记忆都消失了。而爱他们的人的信心和毅力都受到了考验。
但像画作未完成的一块画布那样，尼克传奇的一生在我们面前展开，证明着，即使失去记忆也不能动摇我外婆的期盼，她期盼姨母能够得到她应得的一切。
陪外婆玩“故事接龙”让我们和她更亲近，尽管死神正在把她从我们身边带走。对于我们而言，过欺骗人的生活并不难。但随着尼克死去，我们找到了作为一家人的团结力量。我们不再是伪装者。我们是信仰者。