First Person Peculiar by Mike Resnick Page B

looking for her car,” he explained. “A 1961 Nash Rambler.”
    “We haven’t owned that car in 40 years or more,” I said. I turned to Gwendolyn. “Are you all right?”
    Her face was streaked by tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t remember where we parked the car.”
    “It’s all right,” I said.
    She kept crying and telling me how sorry she was. Pretty soon everyone was staring, and the store manager asked if I’d like to take her to his office and let her sit down. I thanked him, and the cop, but decided she’d be better off at home, so I led her out to the Ford we’d owned for the past five years and drove her home.
    As we pulled into the garage and got out of the car, she stood back and looked at it.
    “What a pretty car,” she said. “Whose is it?”
    * * *
    “They’re not sure of anything,” said Dr. Castleman. “But they think it’s got something to do with the amyloid beta protein. An abundance of it can usually be found in people suffering from Alzheimer’s or Down Syndrome.”
    “Can’t you take it out, or do something to neutralize it?” I asked.
    Gwendolyn sat in a chair, staring at the wall. We could have been ten thousand miles away as far as she was concerned.
    “If it was that simple, they’d have done it.”
    “So it’s a protein,” I said. “Does it come in some kind of food? Is there something she shouldn’t be eating?”
    He shook his head. “There are all kinds of proteins. This is one you’re born with.”
    “Is it in the brain?”
    “Initially it’s in the spinal fluid.”
    “Well, can’t you drain it out?” I persisted.
    He sighed. “By the time we know it’s a problem in a particular individual, it’s too late. It forms plaques on the brain, and once that happens, the disease is irreversible.” He paused wearily. “At least it’s irreversible today. Someday they’ll cure it. They should be able to slow it down before too long. I wouldn’t be surprised to see it eradicated within a quarter of a century. There may even come a day when they can test embryos for an amyloid beta imbalance and correct it in utero . They’re making progress.”
    “But not in time to help Gwendolyn.”
    “No, not in time to help Gwendolyn.”
    * * *
    Gradually, over the next few months, she became totally unaware that she even had Alzheimer’s. She no longer read, but she watched the television incessantly. She especially liked children’s shows and cartoons. I would come into the room and hear the 82-year-old woman I loved singing along with the Mickey Mouse Club. I had a feeling that if they still ran test patterns she could watch one for hours on end.
    And then came the morning I had known would come: I was fixing her breakfast—some cereal she’d seen advertised on television—and she looked up at me, and I could tell that she no longer knew who I was. Oh, she wasn’t afraid of me, or even curious, but there was absolutely no spark of recognition.
    The next day I moved her into a home that specialized in the senile dementias.
    * * *
    “I’m sorry, Paul,” said Dr. Castleman. “But it really is for the best. She needs professional care. You’ve lost weight, you’re not getting any sleep, and to be blunt, it no longer makes any difference to her who feeds and cleans and medicates her.”
    “Well, it makes a difference to me ,” I said angrily. “They treat her like an infant!”
    “That’s what she’s become.”
    “She’s been there two weeks, and I haven’t seen them try—really try —to communicate with her.”
    “She has nothing to say, Paul.”
    “It’s there,” I said. “It’s somewhere inside her brain.”
    “Her brain isn’t what it once was,” said Castleman. “You have to face up to that.”
    “I took her there too soon,” I said. “There must be a way to connect with her.”
    “You’re an adult, and despite her appearance, she’s a four-year-old child,” said Castleman gently. “You no longer have anything