selling the house. She’s trying to be practical. She wants to find somewhere smaller. You’ve added it to the I can’t believe it list. You told her no, that you want to stay here as long as you can. You told her you don’t want to go into a home, that there’s enough money and enough insurance to hire home care. She said okay, and that these things would be reassessed further down the line. You know what further down the line means—it’s going to be just like when she read the journal. She’s going to tell you that you’ve agreed all along to selling the place and that you’ve forgotten.
You will have to keep an eye on her.
By the time Saturday has rolled around, Jerry has come to understand the fundamentals behind his disease. His conversation with Nurse Hamilton is proof he killed somebody, and reading passages from his books over the last few days have shown him the way the world works. It’s about balance. There is, he believes, a reason he has Alzheimer’s, and understanding that reason is the first step on the path to being cured.
He steps into the hallway. He’s been told he woke up this morning a little confused, but this afternoon he knows who he is—fifty-year-old Jerry Grey, killer of one, at least one. He heads to the more common areas of the home, where others are watching TV or playing cards or comparing stories about grandchildren. TV has lost interest for him. It’s impossible to follow a show when you don’t know what happened the week before. There are couches and coffee tables and some people are talking, some are reading books, others are just staring ahead, lost in a thought either real or imagined, confused or not, chasing down a memory they can’t quite grab. There are wheelchairs parked against walls and crutches parked against couches. The TV is muted. There’s a show on about auctions and antiques, only they aren’t really antiques to the core demographic of this show, but items they grew up with.
Eric is busy, so Jerry waits. On a couch. By a window. Fifty- year-old Jerry Grey, killer of one, those words going around in his mind like a skipping record, until Eric is free and comes over.
“I need your help,” Jerry tells him.
“Whatever you need.”
“I need to get out of here.”
Eric doesn’t answer. He just gives Jerry one of those sad smiles everybody who works here knows how to deliver, a smile Jerry is getting pretty sick of seeing.
“Please, it’s important.”
“It doesn’t seem like you need my help to get out of here, Jerry—you’ve done it three times by yourself now.”
Three times, Jerry thinks, where he’s functioned enough to walk twenty miles but not functioned well enough to create the memory. Three times where he’s essentially been sleepwalking. Only it should be called wake-walking. He is Jerry Grey, fifty-year-old crime writer, killer of one. He is the resident wake-walker. Maybe more than three times, he thinks, if he’s snuck his way back in.
“What do you need to get out for?” Eric asks.
He’s been wondering how much to reveal, and has decided the best way forward is to tell Eric everything. There is no shame in needing help.
“I know why I have Alzheimer’s. It’s because the Universe is punishing me for the bad things I’ve done. I hurt somebody, maybe even more than just one person. The only hope I have of the Universe returning my memories is if I confess to my crimes. I have to go to the police.”
Eric’s smile has turned into a frown. Jerry remembers somebody telling him once that a frown uses more muscles. The guy who told him that got shot in the back of the head during a drug deal in the back room of a furniture factory. Jerry can remember his face going through all kinds of frowning as he knelt there as a gunman stood over him, telling him he had a number in mind that he was counting to, and when he got there he was going to pull the trigger. The number was twenty-nine, only the gunman didn’t say that, he
You will have to keep an eye on her.
By the time Saturday has rolled around, Jerry has come to understand the fundamentals behind his disease. His conversation with Nurse Hamilton is proof he killed somebody, and reading passages from his books over the last few days have shown him the way the world works. It’s about balance. There is, he believes, a reason he has Alzheimer’s, and understanding that reason is the first step on the path to being cured.
He steps into the hallway. He’s been told he woke up this morning a little confused, but this afternoon he knows who he is—fifty-year-old Jerry Grey, killer of one, at least one. He heads to the more common areas of the home, where others are watching TV or playing cards or comparing stories about grandchildren. TV has lost interest for him. It’s impossible to follow a show when you don’t know what happened the week before. There are couches and coffee tables and some people are talking, some are reading books, others are just staring ahead, lost in a thought either real or imagined, confused or not, chasing down a memory they can’t quite grab. There are wheelchairs parked against walls and crutches parked against couches. The TV is muted. There’s a show on about auctions and antiques, only they aren’t really antiques to the core demographic of this show, but items they grew up with.
Eric is busy, so Jerry waits. On a couch. By a window. Fifty- year-old Jerry Grey, killer of one, those words going around in his mind like a skipping record, until Eric is free and comes over.
“I need your help,” Jerry tells him.
“Whatever you need.”
“I need to get out of here.”
Eric doesn’t answer. He just gives Jerry one of those sad smiles everybody who works here knows how to deliver, a smile Jerry is getting pretty sick of seeing.
“Please, it’s important.”
“It doesn’t seem like you need my help to get out of here, Jerry—you’ve done it three times by yourself now.”
Three times, Jerry thinks, where he’s functioned enough to walk twenty miles but not functioned well enough to create the memory. Three times where he’s essentially been sleepwalking. Only it should be called wake-walking. He is Jerry Grey, fifty-year-old crime writer, killer of one. He is the resident wake-walker. Maybe more than three times, he thinks, if he’s snuck his way back in.
“What do you need to get out for?” Eric asks.
He’s been wondering how much to reveal, and has decided the best way forward is to tell Eric everything. There is no shame in needing help.
“I know why I have Alzheimer’s. It’s because the Universe is punishing me for the bad things I’ve done. I hurt somebody, maybe even more than just one person. The only hope I have of the Universe returning my memories is if I confess to my crimes. I have to go to the police.”
Eric’s smile has turned into a frown. Jerry remembers somebody telling him once that a frown uses more muscles. The guy who told him that got shot in the back of the head during a drug deal in the back room of a furniture factory. Jerry can remember his face going through all kinds of frowning as he knelt there as a gunman stood over him, telling him he had a number in mind that he was counting to, and when he got there he was going to pull the trigger. The number was twenty-nine, only the gunman didn’t say that, he
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