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I know who I am. I am Russ. I forget other names, but not my own. Russ.
I remember how it was with Ma, how it was with Ethel, my sister. At the
end, they didn’t know their names. I remember that.
I don’t want to forget my name. I remember. Russ.
I
am sitting in a chair on the sun porch. I know that. I know where I am.
My children are here, and my wife. They are looking at me. I don’t like
that.
One of my sons says, “It is hard for Mom to take care of
you all by herself.” I know what he is saying. I need to be very
careful. If I am not, they will put me in a home. I took Pa to that
kind of “home.” Pa died there. Why did we call it a home? It is not
home.
I built this house so that we would never have to go to
that kind of home. Downstairs a kitchen, a bedroom, a TV. Someone could
live there. Someone could take care of us. I want to tell my son that.
But I can’t find the words. Where are all my words? Before, I knew so
many words.
I am afraid. But I never say that. You don’t ever
tell anyone you are afraid. It is dangerous to let people know that,
see that.
I need to say something, something that sounds like
I can think, that I can reason. I know that word. I am a lawyer. I won
trials because I could reason. Because I had words.
I say,
slowly, “Well, ok, if that’s what all of you think.” I don’t mean what
I say. I mean, “Let’s talk about this.” I mean, “Don’t take me away.”
But I can’t find those words.
My wife leaves the room. She is
crying. My children look away. They don’t want me to see they are
crying. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to be afraid. I don’t want to
go.
My two sons walk towards me. They stand, one on either side
of the chair. I look up at them. They are so tall. They take my elbows
to help me stand. I look at one and then the other. They try to smile.
Then we are going. We walk through the living room. Where did my sofa
go? It is grey, my sofa, and long. I always buy a sofa that is longer
than I am so that I can stretch all the way out whenever I take a nap.
I sleep too much these days. I know that. But where is my sofa now?
I
walk as slowly as I can. It doesn’t matter. We walk through the
kitchen, pass the table where my dog Ben sits by me when I am eating.
Where is Ben? Now we are through the door and down the little step into
the garage. We go past my car, the one I can no longer drive. I
remember driving. I remember going wherever I wanted to go.
I
see a car in the driveway. One of my daughters is holding open the back
door. She is waiting. She is waiting for me. I stop walking. I lean my
whole body back, away from that car, that door. I say, “I don’t think
this is a good day to go.” I want them to say we can wait — another
day, another week, another year.
My sons shake their heads. They are strong. They lift me up. They keep walking, taking me where I do not want to go.
****
They
show me the room where I will live. There is a small bed. I have not
slept in a bed this small since the War. Not since the War. My sofa is
here. My children tell me that I can take naps on it, like I do at
home. I want to go home. I want to sleep on my sofa in my home.
“Look
Dad — A new TV!” I can see that. What do they think? Do they think I am
a child? “And here is a chair,” my daughter says, “right next to a
window.” But there is nothing outside that window that I want to see. I
look away.
Outside the door of this room, on the wall, they
show me a photograph. They say this is how I will know which room is
mine. It is a photograph of my family. Ma, Pa, Chick, Dorothy, Ethel,
me. Not little B. He died. I touch each face. I say, “I am the last
one.”
It is time to eat lunch. My daughter and I walk down a
long hallway with shiny steel railings on either side. I take hold of
one of them. It is smooth. It is cold.
We go into a large room
with tables. I sit down at one. My daughter has come too. She sits next
to me. Everyone is already eating.
A woman brings me a plate of
food. She smiles. I don’t think I remember her, but I could be wrong. I
pick up my spoon. Before I start to eat I look carefully at the other
people sitting around the table. I begin to eat, but I keep my eye on
them. Some people are not eating. One woman is sleeping. Her chin is on
her chest. She is snoring. These people look old. Old and crazy.
My
daughter moves her chair closer. I don’t look at her. “You may meet
some new friends here!” she says. I keep eating, very slowly. “Or
enemies,” I say.
I am afraid. But I won’t say those words. I never say those words.
Never.
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