All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 29
When she hangs up the phone, she lets out a groan.
She turns and sees that I have been listening. I am sure she is mad at me.
Oh my God, I’m sorry. Did you hear all that, Daddy?
I nod.
Do you know what we were talking about?
No. Are you in trouble?
Am I? The girl looks like she is going to cry. She says, Yeah, I think I am.
* * *
—
Empty kitchen. Midday. Hot weather. Warm sunlight.
I am standing at the counter. Light-headed. The room swims around me. Objects waver, the edges of things tremble—counters, cabinets, appliances.
From the doorway, the girl says: Hey, Daddy, what are you doing?
I’m a little…
Do you want something? You hungry?
No. I just, I just…
Are you all right? What’s wrong?
She steps into the room cautiously, with a curious expression, comes around the counter.
Did something happen?
Her gaze travels from my eyes down to my hands, which dangle at my sides. She takes up my wrists in her hands and lifts them. They are glistening red with warm blood. Particularly the left hand.
Oh my God! Daddy, what happened? Oh my God, what happened?
Searching for the source of the blood, she raises my arms by the wrists to inspect my hands. Blood has been puddling in my left hand, caught in my cupped fingers; this pool now spills back down my wrist and over her thumb.
My pants are smeared red at my left hip. There is blood on the floor; it has already begun to soak into the old maple planks, turning it dark brown. A sharp knife is on the floor.
My wrist is slick. It slides in her fingers. The pain is very slight. Only a little burning or itching. Not as much pain as I expected.
What did you do? Are you all right? What did you do!
She lets go of me to snatch a dish towel.
On my wrist, blood oozes from a neat incision. I press the wound against my chest to stanch the blood, reddening the front of my shirt.
She tugs the arm away from my chest. Her eyes widen. She swaddles the wrist tight in the towel.
What happened? What were you doing?
I don’t know.
What were you trying to do? Come here, we have to rinse it. What were you doing?
Over the kitchen sink she unwinds the towel and tosses it aside, holds all four of our hands under the cold water as the blood dilutes and runs clear. She works her fingertips over my palms and between my fingers to rub away the rest.
We should go to the emergency room.
We’re not going to the emergency room, Daddy. If you walk in with this, they’ll give you a psych evaluation.
What does that mean?
It means maybe you don’t get to come home tonight.
How do you know?
Because I know.
But how do you know?
Here, hold this. Press on it. I’m going to go get some bandages. We need to get you cleaned up. Daddy, what were you thinking?
Sorry.
Don’t ever do this to me again.
She hugs me. I don’t remember her ever doing that before.
Not this way, Daddy. Not this way.
* * *
—
A man sits opposite me.
Do you mind if I record this? he says.
I don’t mind.
I’d like to talk to you about your life and your illness if that’s all right with you.
Okay.
We’ve actually met, many years ago. I don’t know if Miranda told you. I’m an old friend.
I don’t remember you. You’ll have to forgive me, there’s a lot I don’t remember now. This disease.
It’s okay. Can I ask how you’re feeling today, in terms of your illness?
Good.
Can you describe it to me, what it feels like? I have to say, you seem very present, very alert, articulate. Much better than I expected, to be honest.
Well, I’m working very hard to be, um, equal to this conversation. I’m concentrating and thinking very hard. Also, I have good days and bad days. I never quite know what I’ll be capable of from one day to the next.
This is a good day?
This is a good day.
Are your days mostly good or mostly bad?
Bad.
Miranda tells me you’re in the middle stage of the disease. Does that sound right to you?
No.
Why not?
Because I’ve lost so much.
In terms of memories?
Yes. And the ability to think.
What is that like? Can you describe it?
The past just falls away. It’s a constant deterioration. I lose more every day. Every day I wake up and take an inventory of what’s been taken away and what I still have. It’s just a constant taking-away.
Has it accelerated, the memory loss?
Yes.
Do you remember anything about the old days?
Yes. But you lose a lot. The details. There’s a kind of fog in your brain. You have a sense that those memories must be out there in the fog but you can’t see them. You can’t see anything clearly, you can’t think clearly.
That must be frightening, to be lost in the fog.
I have to accept it. I decided long ago that I would not resist this disease.
That’s remarkable.
I’ve had many years to get used to the idea.
What do you feel, then, if not afraid?
I don’t feel anything.
You must feel something.
I feel ashamed sometimes, embarrassed. People want to feel capable and normal, and I am not capable or normal anymore.
Angry?
No. I’m not an emotional person. Things happen; why shouldn’t they happen to me?
Miranda says the disease has changed you, made you more mellow, kinder, gentler.
I don’t know. It may have.
It’s not how you used to be, if you don’t mind my saying. You used to be very proud, very argumentative, assertive.
Well, one thing the disease takes from you is confidence. When you feel incapable, when you feel dependent, then you behave differently. You live a different way.
And you’ve done that?
It’s not a conscious choice, but yes.
I wonder if it might even be a blessing. To set aside some of those negative emotions—vanity, aggression. To be changed in such a fundamental way.
It’s not a blessing. I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t romanticize this disease. It is eating me. And it will keep eating till I’m gone.
And then what?
Then you have a decision to make.
And you’ve made that decision, Miranda tells me.
Yes. I’ve made that decision.
Why now? You don’t seem unhappy. You’ve lost your memories, or some of them, but you seem very sharp to me. To an outsider, it seems like you still have a lot of time left.
Well, the nature of this decision is that you have to do it when there is still a lot of time left.
When you are still competent to make the decision, you mean.
Yes.
And you do feel entirely competent? You understand the decision, what it means?
I do.
Miranda gave me this document you wrote. “This is to memorialize the decision I have made to end my life before my disease compromises my quality of life in ways that are unacceptable to me. No one has played any role in this decision but me. No one has offered advice or assistance of any kind or participated in any way. The decision is solely my own and the act itself, when the time comes, will be solely my own.” Is that how you still feel?
Yes.
It seems very lawyerly, if you don’t mind my saying. You created a paper trail.
Yes.
So no one else will be blamed.
That’s right. We live in a country where—where we can’t control our own lives, we can’t choose how we die. So I have to do this alone.
Miranda says you cut yourself with a knife a few months ago.
Yes.
Because of the memory loss, the confusion?
Yes. Because of the disease.
It seems to me that the memory loss has already happened, to some extent, and yet you seem quite content, you’re not upset at all. I might even say—and this might just be the writer in me, it might just be me romanticizing, as you say—but the memory loss might even be the reason you feel so peaceful now. You’ve lost your past, but your past wasn’t all good. Maybe some memories are better lost. You’ve been through some difficult times, I can tell you. Maybe it would be easier for us all to forget our past—all the mistakes and regrets, the grudges—and just live in the moment. No past, no future. It sounds kind of Zen.
That’s not how I feel.
So why? Why now? Because the disease is accelerating?
Because it’s accelerating, yes. It’s changing. It’s not just the forgetting. It’s something else.
The fog.
Something in the fog.
Dementia.
Yes.
You feel this?
I am aware it’s happening.
How? What does it feel like? I want to know.
Why do you want to know?
I’m a writer. I’m writing about you.
Why would you write about me?
You’ve led an interesting life, Mr. Larkin. I’m writing about what’s happened to you. Is that all right with you?
I suppose.
I want to understand you, what it feels like to be you. So people can understand your position, what you’ve been through. I want to pry your head open.
You want to pry my head open.
Yes. What would I find if I did?
Nothing. Fog.
So tell me. I feel like I’m meeting one of my characters. I’ve never had the chance to do that before. What are you thinking right now, about your life, about the case, about Jane?
I’m not thinking anything.
I find that hard to believe, honestly. I find you very elusive.
I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be.
(After a long pause:) I have to ask—I’m sorry, but I have to ask you once, straight out. There’s no way to avoid it. Do you know anything about Jane’s disappearance?
What?
I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Do you know anything about what happened to Jane?
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Jane.
I don’t know any Jane.
You don’t remember her?
No. Who is she?
She was your wife. People thought you did something.
What did I do?
I don’t know.
What did I do? Tell me.
I don’t know. I don’t think you did anything, honestly. But I have to ask. It’s my job.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shh. It’s my mistake. I’m sorry.
(I am trying to whip my sluggish mind for information. But I have nothing, I have nothing. My brain is empty. Who is this man?)
Do you mind if we keep talking, Mr. Larkin?
Who are you again? Why are you here?
I’m writing a book. About your family. There was a crime.
I don’t know anything about a book.
It’s all right. I’m an old friend of Miranda and Jeff, an old family friend. That’s all. I’m your friend.
You’re not my friend.
I am, I promise you.
I don’t understand.
The man stares at me, searching. He has bland features and a benign expression, but he wants something. He drops his head, disappointed.
No, he says, I’m sure you don’t understand. I believe you.
I’m sorry.
It’s okay, Mr. Larkin. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for upsetting you. Your daughter asked me to come. She wanted me to talk to you.
So you can write your book?
So I can write my book her way, I think.
You won’t make me look like a fool? The way I sound. I have trouble finding words sometimes. I’m not myself anymore. This isn’t me.
It’s okay. I can sharpen things up a little. I can find the words for you.
My daughter says, finally, Do you have enough, Phil? I think he’s getting tired.
Yeah. Of course.
We still have a long time ahead of us, don’t we, Daddy? We’re just making plans, that’s all. I just wanted my friend to meet you before it’s too late. But we still have years together. Years.
2
Night.
Sound of a car in the driveway.
I go to the window to peek out. It is a funny old beat-up car.
A man gets out. Middle-aged. Sloppy like the car. Beard, baseball cap, potbelly.
He walks around to the passenger side, opens the door, talks to someone inside:
Would you get out already?…No…I’m not carrying you…. No…It’s not that I don’t want to; I can’t…. Because you weigh too much…. I didn’t say fat. I said you weigh too much…. Just stand up…. Of course you can…. No, I told you, I’m not going in…. Because I’m not, that’s why.
Offering his hand, he draws Miranda up out of the car. She stands with her head bowed, eyes closed, heel of her palm on her forehead.
Okay, you ready?
Just a second. How’s the car?
The car is fine.
How’s the fire hydrant?
Better than the car.
Oh God. I’m in such trouble.
You’re not in trouble. I’m the only one who knows. Can you walk?
No.
All right, come on, get on.
The man turns his back to Miranda and bends over.
What are you doing?
I’m asking for a prostate exam. What do you think I’m doing?
Ew.
Knucklehead, I’m giving you a piggyback.
Oh.
Get on.
You’re too high. I can’t get up that high. Bend your knees.
They’re bent.
Bend them farther.
If I bend them any farther, I won’t be able to get back up.
But the guy does bend his knees a little more, and Miranda drapes herself over his rounded back and shimmies up onto him.
Okay, go.
The man grunts and sways, but he is able to straighten up.
Oh my God.
You used to be stronger.
No shit. You used to be skinnier.
Can you do this?
I’m only taking you as far as the door.
The man clumps to the stairs with Miranda on his back. I lose sight of him from the window, though I can hear his burdened footsteps as he climbs the wooden stairs and heaves his way to the front door.
I open the door before he can ring.
Oh. Hi, Daddy.
What happened?
Nothing. Everything is fine.
Who’s this?
This is your son Jeff.
It is?
He nods at me with a wince.
Is she okay? What happened?
She’s fine. She’s drunk. She’s just being dramatic.
I am not being dramatic. Bring me to my room.
Mimi, for God’s sake, I just told you!
Can you just— Can we not do this now? Just bring me to my room. It’s just a house. What do you think is gonna happen? It’s just a house, for Chrissake.
He bears her up the stairs, stooped, hand clamped on the railing.
When he comes back down, he says, She’s out. In the morning she won’t remember any of this. Neither will you, I guess.
No. Probably not.
She takes good care of you?
Yes. She’s very nice.
Too nice. Lucky for you.
I say nothing.
You must be the luckiest asshole on earth.
I let this insult pass too. I ask him only, You wanna come sit down?
No. I’m going home.
You sure?
Yeah.
Did you two go out tonight?
No. Miranda called me to come get her.
What about her husband?
He narrow-eyes me like he is mad, then he grunts at me like I’m just a dummy—which I am—and I know I have made a mistake.
She doesn’t have a husband.
Oh.
Mimi shouldn’t be drinking. I’ve told her that. She can’t do it. Fucking amateur hour.
Drinking’s bad for you.
Drinking’s bad for her. She doesn’t drink. This is all your fault.
Me?
Yes, you. Driving her crazy. Making her run around after you, taking care of you.
I have no idea what he means.
Tell Miranda I’m taking her car. Tell her—never mind, I’ll text her tomorrow. You won’t remember. I’ll take it with me. I know a body shop, I’ll take care of it.
Thank you.
Why are you thanking me?
For helping.
Yeah, well. I’m bringing her car to the shop, I’m not donating a liver.
Of course.
He humphs and studies my face. He makes me a little afraid. His anger, his size.
Do you even know who I am?
No. Who?
