All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 30
I’m your son.
No. I know who my son is.
Do you? What else do you know?
Come sit down.
No. What’s my name? Tell me.
I don’t know.
That’s what I figured. Miranda told me to stay here tonight. She says you need watching or you’ll wander off or set the house on fire or something. But you seem fine.
I’m okay.
You’re not going to burn the house down, are you?
No.
Good. Because I’m not staying here. Don’t you go making trouble, okay? Give her the night off, for once.
Okay.
Enough is enough with you.
Okay.
He puts his hand on the front doorknob and takes a moment to look at it. The doorknob is old, tarnished brass. Its surface is textured with a design of tiny flowers. The knob is loose, and he rattles it.
You should sell this house. It’s nothing but trouble.
What on earth is this man talking about?
You don’t fool me, he says.
I’m not trying to fool anyone.
You might fool Mimi, but you don’t fool me.
He leaves, using Miranda’s keys to lock the door from the outside.
* * *
—
Outside. Cool night air. The houses are all dark. The night sounds are nice.
A woman’s voice behind me says, in a whisper-talk, Daddy, what are you doing?
What a silly question. I’m not doing anything, just standing.
Do you know what time it is?
No. What time is it?
It’s almost one in the morning! I thought you were in bed.
I’m not tired.
Come in. It’s late. It’s time for bed.
I’m not tired.
So what are you gonna do?
Go for a walk.
A walk? Now? Where?
I don’t know.
She scrunches up her face. She has a nice face.
Okay, wait, let me get my shoes on. Don’t move. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.
Later, I am walking when she runs up beside me.
I told you not to go anywhere! I can’t take my eyes off you for one minute! Here, put this on, it’s freezing. Aren’t you cold?
No.
She puts a coat on me and zips it up. When it is closed, she tugs on the zipper pull to test it. There, she says. Better?
Good.
Where are we walking to?
I don’t know.
Well, the lake is this way. We could just keep going. How’s that?
Okay.
There is not enough room to walk side by side on the sidewalk, so we stroll right down the middle of the street.
I like this, I tell her.
Me too.
My illness has taken so much from me but not this, not the dumb joy of walking on a chilly night, between sleeping houses, with dried leaves banked up in the gutters and on the sidewalks. Maybe I appreciate it more now, knowing it will go, too, in the end.
She clasps her hands behind her back. She is about my height but seems much bigger than me. Strong. I have a feeling she could pick me up like a baby and carry me home if she had to.
She calls me Daddy to remind me who she is, which I appreciate. I cannot recall her name right now. I realize how crazy this is, how ridiculous I am, but I do not want to ruin the moment by asking. The walking is so pleasant, the night is so perfect. I will feel sad later, maybe. Not now. I may remember her name in the morning anyway.
We come to a lake. She slips her arm around mine to lead me down a slope, past the trees, to the lakeside where the surface of the water riffles in the moonlight and city light.
It’s beautiful, she says. Isn’t it?
Yes.
Thank you for showing it to me.
I smile at her. Okay.
You happy, Daddy?
Yes. You?
No. I’m very sad, actually.
Why?
Because I hurt you.
No, you didn’t. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.
Why not? It’s true.
It doesn’t matter.
Of course it matters.
No! Don’t say that!
Okay. Sorry, Dad. You ready to go home? It’s getting late.
Not yet.
* * *
—
One day—months later, it is spring now, the world is rainy and green—the woman comes to me with a sneaky grin, quivery with excitement: Daddy, come, I have something I want to show you. Don’t worry, it’s going to be fun.
She takes my hand and leads me to the living room. The coffee table has been cleared except for a small cardboard box.
What is it?
It’s a memory machine.
She tells me to sit down on the couch in front of the box, and when I have, she says, Now close your eyes first and listen, okay? They closed? Keep ’em closed. Just listen. You used to love this record.
She turns on music, adjusts the volume.
It had to be you, it had to be you. I wandered around and finally found the somebody who—the beat is slow, strolling, sad—could make me be true, could make me be blue, and even be glad just to be sad thinking of you.
There. Just keep your eyes closed. Relax.
Some others I’ve seen might never be mean.
Just keep your eyes closed. Try and relax. Let’s just listen for a couple minutes. Enjoy the music.
Might never be cross or try to be boss, but they wouldn’t do.
When I was little, you used to listen to this one all the time.
For nobody else gave me a thrill, with all your faults, I love you still. It had to be you, wonderful you, it had to be you.
I don’t remember it.
That’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Don’t try to remember anything. It’s not a test. Just relax and enjoy the music.
The song plays. A muted trumpet. Bass. The sad singer.
They say sometimes music can reach into a deeper part of the brain and unlock old memories. You may not experience it as a specific memory; it may just be a feeling, a stirring. Maybe it just feels familiar. Familiar and old and fun and good. But you don’t have to feel any pressure. We’re just listening to music, that’s all. Just enjoying.
The song ends—wonderful you, it had to be you—and immediately it restarts in a loop. It had to be you, it had to be you, I wandered around and finally found—
She sings softly with the stereo: Somebody who-o-o could make me be true, could make me be blue, and even be glad just to be sad thinking of you.
I begin to bob my head to the music.
Are you enjoying it, Dad?
Yes.
Do you know this song?
I don’t know.
Okay. That’s okay. Just keep listening. You had this record. Do you know who it is?
No.
It’s Billie Holiday. Do you remember Billie Holiday?
No. Did I know him?
No, silly. Okay, you can open your eyes now. You ready? You’re doing great.
My daughter turns down the volume of the music but leaves it playing. She sits down next to me, gives my back a few scrubs with her palm to reassure me.
Now we’re going to look at a few pictures, okay? We’ll look together. You and me. How’s that?
Okay. If you want.
Some others I’ve seen might never be mean….
She takes the lid off the cardboard box, takes out an old photo. The color is washed-out and yellowed. It shows a man wearing a fancy suit with a vest. Wide yellow necktie. His shirt is pale blue with a contrasting white collar. He has thick curly hair, aviator glasses. He stands up very straight, a drink in his hand.
Do you know who that is?
He’s at a party.
He’s at a party, I think you’re right. But do you know who it is?
No, who is it?
Do you know where it is? Look closely. Look at the room. See if you can figure it out.
I don’t know. Tell me.
It’s this room! He’s in this room!
He is?
He is! Look. You see the bookcase there? He’s standing right there. Okay, that was kind of a trick question. Let’s try another.
For nobody else gave me a thrill, with all your faults, I love you still.
She pulls out another photo. They seem to be arranged in order; she pulls out the top photo on the pile without hesitating or rummaging through the box. This picture shows a lanky, long-faced teenage boy. He is wearing a white oxford button-down. Looking into the camera with a serious expression.
Who’s that?
Don’t know.
Take your time. Who’s that boy? He was your favorite. Your favorite favorite. Do you remember him?
No.
Okay, here’s a clue: look what he’s holding. What’s that in his hand?
A ball.
A ball, good. What kind of ball?
A ball. What do you mean, what kind of ball?
Okay, never mind. It’s a basketball. A basketball. Does that help? Who liked basketball?
You?
No, not me! Silly. Are you making jokes? Come on, who likes basketball?
Him.
Yes, him. Oh, you are so funny today. That’s Alex. You remember Alex, your son.
Okay.
Okay, let’s try another one.
Another boy. Longer hair, slouchier, wise-guy grin.
Who’s that?
My son.
Your son! Right! Do you remember his name?
Alex.
No, this one is Jeff. Do you remember Jeff?
Of course.
Really? Or are you just saying it? Tell the truth.
I remember everyone.
Are you telling the truth?
Sure.
Okay, let’s try another one. You ready? This one’s super tricky.
Okay.
The song restarts. It had to be you, it had to be you. I wandered around and finally found the somebody who…
This photo shows a little girl. Blond. Beautiful.
It’s you.
It’s me. How did you get that? Were you just guessing?
No. I know you. I know my beautiful daughter.
You do?
Of course!
Oh my. That is so sweet.
She clasps her hands over her heart and makes a ready-to-cry face. She kisses me on the cheek.
Okay, should we keep going? This one is hard. I don’t think you’ll get it.
Some others I’ve seen might never be mean, might never be cross or try to be boss.
Photo of a couple, on vacation maybe, somewhere sunny. He with curls and aviator sunglasses, a fancy watch on his wrist, she with blond hair swirled up in an elegant bun, wearing a bright flower-print dress.
Who is this woman, do you know?
No. Should I?
There’s no should. If you don’t remember, it’s okay.
I don’t remember.
Her name is Sarah. Does that help?
I don’t think so.
And how about him?
Hmm.
It’s you again, silly! Now I know you’re kidding! Okay, just two more.
The next photo shows a woman with white hair. I do not even wait for the question: That’s my mother.
That’s your mother! Excellent! She was my grandma too! Okay, last one.
The last photo shows a pretty young woman with a full face and warm half-smile. She is wearing hoop earrings. Her brown hair frames her face.
Take a good look. Who is this?
Do I know her?
You did once.
Are you sure?
Yes, I’m sure, Daddy.
You knew her too?
Very well. We both knew her. Take your time. Take a good, long look.
I pick up the photo and take a good, long look. I want to know the answer for my daughter. I am supposed to know. She thinks I once knew. She wants me to come up with it; that much I can tell from her expression, from the eager way she leans forward.
But my mind has gone blank. As it increasingly does. I don’t know, and I don’t know if I ever knew, and I don’t know if I will ever know again or if that part of my self has crumbled away. Staring at the picture won’t bring the memory back, because there is no memory to recover; I have never seen this woman.
But I did know her. My daughter tells me I did.
Increasingly, I don’t know if I am sane and merely forgetful or if this is what insanity feels like, the mind going dark in chunks, disintegrating, vanishing. What will be in my thoughts when I reach the other side of this, when the erasure is complete? Will my head contain only silence? Or will something else swarm in to fill the emptiness—delusions, dreams, chaos? If this is how it feels to know I am slipping away—if this is the middle stage, as the woman says—then what comes next? What comes after?
I don’t know.
It’s okay. Try. Look at her face. You knew her once.
Who is it?
She was very special to you.
I don’t know her.
My daughter covers her mouth with her hand and closes her eyes.
I tell her, I’m sorry. You’re sad. What did I do? Why are you upset?
It’s okay, Daddy, I’m not upset.
You are. Who is it?
It’s okay, Daddy. It’s no one.
* * *
—
Sometime later. I don’t know how long; the days, weeks, months pass uncounted, unclocked.
I am in bed.
My daughter comes into the room, tells me “Good morning, Daddy,” and with practiced movements she glides around the room opening the shades. How many mornings have begun this way?
Summer light softens the edges of things. The familiar details of the room—the woodwork aged to the color of honey, the pastel yellow walls—all seem freshly beautiful.
How do you feel this morning?
Good.
You remember what today is?
No.
She sits down on the edge of the bed, takes up my hand and kisses the back of it. She says, It’s the last day. July twenty-fifth.
Oh. Yes. I know.
How do you feel about it? Are you ready?
I’m ready.
You’re sure?
I’m sure.
And I am sure. It is time. Before I lose control, before the monster in the fog—dementia—can take what is left of me. I am not afraid; we are not meant to live forever. I am not bitter about my illness; all bodies fail. I am ready.
Okay. Come, let’s get you washed up and presentable. Come.
She walks into the bathroom with me.
Do you need to use the toilet?
Yes.
Okay, I’ll wait outside.
When I am done with a reluctant, sputtering pee, she knocks on the door. Are you ready?
Yes.
She comes back in, flushes the toilet. Are you showering today?
I shake my head.
Okay then. She puts toothpaste on a brush and hands it to me. Get brushing, she says. I’ll get a washcloth.
When I am done, she hands me a pill. Do you remember what this is?
No.
This is the anti-nausea pill. You have to take it a few hours ahead of time.
Okay.
Okay, so put it in. Good. No, don’t chew. Just put it on the back of your tongue and drink the water and it’ll go right down. Good, like that. That’s good. Did you swallow it?
Yes.
Pills are hard, aren’t they? I hate pills.
Yeah.
She shows me the washcloth. You want to do this or do you want help?
Help.
Okay, arms up.
My arms go up on their own, with no urging from me.
She slides my T-shirt off, wets the washcloth in warm water and scrubs some soap onto it, then she wipes down my shoulders, arms, armpits, back, and belly, rinsing the cloth under the faucet now and then. That done, she gives the cloth a good rinse and wrings it.
Eyes closed, she says.
My eyes close for her, and she dabs my face with the warm cloth.
Sit.
She gestures toward the edge of the tub for me to sit. She kneels and wipes my feet, first the left then the right.
Up.
I stand, my pajama bottoms are lowered, she wipes my butt with the warm cloth, and she raises the pajamas again.
Okay, that’s it. Feel good?
Yes.
We’re getting pretty good at this, aren’t we? Now, what are we going to do about that hair?
Does it matter?
Does it matter? Oh my goodness, do you know how you used to fuss over your hair when you were younger? Of course it matters. You want to brush it yourself?
No, you can.
Okay, hold still.
She fetches a brush from the drawer and fiddles with my hair awhile, chattering about how I used to be very particular about it.
I think that’s the best we can do. You want to have a look? Come stand in front of the mirror. Good?
Good.
Excellent. Let’s get you dressed.
She leads me from the bathroom back to the bedroom closet. She saunters slowly for me. I move slowly now. I speak slowly too. But I can tell she is bristling to move at her normal pace.
She opens my closet. Slacks and suits hanging on the right, the rest on shelves.
Do you want to pick? Have you thought about what you might want to wear?
No.
Well, let’s pick something comfortable. I think you’ll want to be comfortable today.
She hands me a clean pair of underpants.
Put those on. I won’t look. Pajamas go in the hamper, Daddy, not on the floor.
Okay.
When I get my underpants on, I stand before her like a child.
