The Things We Keep(18)

“If I don’t remember,” she muttered. “Will I have been here at all?”

When the paramedics arrived, I listened as Jack explained that she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and that she was easily confused. She must have thought she was driving somewhere, he said. Or perhaps she thought it was her favorite chair and decided to have a sleep. I wondered if Jack really believed that. As he talked, I stared at Mom, trying to catch her eye. “Is that what happened?” I’d whispered. “Were you confused?” The fact that she wouldn’t look at me told me all I needed to know.

After that, we never left her alone. She had a nurse that stayed with her all day. Dad had already left us, so Jack or I slept by her side at night. After a few months, she went into a nursing home. She’d gone downhill so fast that by that point, even if she’d still wanted to kill herself, she wouldn’t have known how. The window had closed.

Most people who want to kill themselves can wake up and decide, You know what? Today’s not the day. If I feel terrible tomorrow, I’ll do it then. Or the day after. Maybe next year. But the thing about having Alzheimer’s is that you’re a ticking clock. You don’t have the luxury of waiting. You have to beat the bomb.

*

I’m back in my spot by the window, sitting in my chair, looking into the dark night. I wonder if, after I’m gone, there will be an imprint left in this chair. A marker that I was once here. I won’t leave much else in the way of markers. No money. No friends. No children.

Something a lot of people don’t understand about Alzheimer’s is that while you won’t find Alzheimer’s listed as the cause of death on my death certificate, it will kill me. Trouble going to the bathroom will lead to bladder infections. Problems with swallowing may make it hard to eat. Less mobility will result in blood clots. And if I’m not eating and not moving while fighting infections and pneumonia, guess what? I’m on a one-way street to God’s waiting room.

In front of me is a row of envelopes, clean and white, addressed with first names. Jack. Ethan. Hank. Brayden. Helen. (I didn’t want her to feel left out.) Dad. I thought about that one awhile: Dad. What do you say to the man who left your mother right after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? On second thought, perhaps there was a lot to say to a man like that? I decided not to go with the torrent of abuse, tempting as it was, and instead wrote down memories. Of Mom’s death-ceremony-thingy. My graduation. The birth of Jack’s children. For some reason, it felt important to document them. Maybe it was my way of responding to the letters he’d sent me over the years, the ones I’d burned during my pyromaniac years, and simply thrown out after that. Or maybe I was trying to rub it in, to make him feel the sting of what he missed. Or maybe it was just the idea of having it all on paper, something tangible that would exist after I’d gone.

It feels a little strange leaving my room without a bag, without keys. But it’s not like I’m going to need them. The place is quiet. I’m ready.

I twist the doorknob quietly. It opens without a rasp, and I send a thank-you to the gods. But I speak too soon, because on my first step into the hallway, there’s an almighty creak. I tuck myself back into my room, straining to hear something over my thundering heart. My favorite helper-person, the young one—Blondie, I call her—is on duty, and if she finds me, she’ll probably offer to play cards or make me a cup of tea, and then I’ll never be able to go through with it.

After a minute, when nothing happens, I step over the creaky board and pick my way along the corridor toward the stairs. I’m in my sleeping-clothes. I’ve thought this through. If someone finds me out here, I have a great excuse. I have Alzheimer’s. I’m lost. Confused. Take me back to my room. It may or may not happen again. I am nearly at the stairs when I hear a click.

“I kn-know what you’re doing.”

For a moment, I think about thrashing around, acting disoriented. Then I recognize the voice. Young Guy.

When I turn, he is standing there in a T-shirt and undershorts. His bare legs extend from his shorts, long and quite muscular. His left cheek is creased from the pillow, and his hair is mussed.

It takes me a moment to remember what he said. “You know what I’m doing?” I ask when it returns to me. “What?”

He takes a few silent steps toward me, and his eyes do a lap of my face. “Doesn’t take a … really s-smart person to figure it out,” he says. “Who wouldn’t want to kill themselves, d-diagnosed with dementia at your age?”

I blink. When he puts it like that, it does seem obvious. Yet Jack has never questioned me about suicide. Neither has Helen. Or Eric. The only one who asked me about it, as a matter of course, was Dr. Brain. And only because it was a printed question on his list. Number seven. Or perhaps eight.

“You have dementia at my age,” I say. “Do you want to kill yourself?”

“No.” He doesn’t hesitate, even for a second.

“Well, then.” It’s strange that I sound—even feel—triumphant. I’ve proved him wrong. Even though he’s right.

“Why not?” I ask suddenly.

“I value life,” he says. “As long as my heart keeps b-b-beating, I want to be here.”

“Even if you’re stuck in a wheely-chair and you don’t know your own name?” I ask.