by Paul Cleave
Rick, by the way, does something involving software. He writes code or designs websites or plays computer games all day long—something like that. You and Sandra are going to tell them next weekend, after the appointment with the counselor who is going to, in a friendly way, prepare you for what is to come. If she mentions the words adult diaper then you’re going to pry up that floorboard.
Good news—you are still sane. You are still you in every way. You lost your watch this morning and it’s not on the A Place for Everything shelf. But more good news—soon you’re not going to need a watch. Bad news—you fought with Sandra, and you hate that. You’ll make it up to her. You’ll buy her some flowers when you find your credit card. Oh yeah, that’s the other bad news. Your Visa is floating around the house somewhere, God knows where. Good news—at least it’ll be a low bill this month.
It’s the thought of a buffet breakfast that gets Jerry’s stomach grumbling. He sits on the edge of his bed and he rubs his eyes and stretches his legs and stretches his back and hears something click into place. There’s a copy of Vault on the bed. It’s a novel about a bank robbery that goes horribly wrong, the twist at the end is that it all actually went horribly right. It’s one of his earlier books, though he can’t remember reading from it last night, and he’s not sure what it’s even doing here. He usually travels light.
He heads into the shower, and when he comes out he switches on the TV. He leaves it on the first channel that comes on, which is the news, and he guesses the last person who stayed here must have been English because it’s on an English channel, or perhaps it’s just the default setting of the hotel. His stomach kicks into overdrive. One of the best things about traveling for writers festivals and book signings are the nice hotels and big breakfasts. Suddenly he’s very keen to see what this hotel has available. He can’t remember the details of his schedule, but it normally involves a train in the morning as they travel from one part of the country to the other. And Jerry loves being in Germany, even if he does only know a couple of phrases—Mein name ist Henry, because Henry is who they think he is. Henry Cutter. He looks around the hotel room for his watch but can’t find it. No matter. He’s a morning person and has never slept past ten o’clock in his life. It can’t be much later than ten o’clock now. If it were, his German editor, who he’s traveling with, would have pounded on his door already. But not knowing where his watch is is somewhat of a worry. He had his wallet stolen once while in Germany, so these days he tends to lock his wallet and passport in the safe—which is probably where his watch is too. Though, for the life of him, he can’t remember the pin code for the safe and, come to think of it, where is the safe? A quick look around the room doesn’t reveal one, which must mean he’s left everything down in reception.
The hotel is a little drab, he thinks, as he steps into the corridor. He rounds the corner where two old people are standing outside a door, each of them wearing robes, and as he passes one of them nods and calls him by name. Probably somebody he met in the bar last night, or somebody he signed a book for. The man just says Jerry, which means it must be somebody he liked enough to have given his real name to, but with just the one word he can’t tell how good the man’s English is. He can’t find the elevator, but he does find the dining room, which probably means he’s on the ground floor anyway. In the dining room is a mishmash of people, most of them elderly, some of them staring into the distance, some wearing pajamas, some with food all over their mouths, making him wonder exactly what kind of hotel this is. In fact one person is being spoon-fed by another. His editor isn’t here—he’s either still asleep or out having a cigarette. He finds a table and waits for one of the waitresses to come over—they normally do with coffee, and to check your room number—but nobody shows up, which is okay, because he can’t actually think what his room number is, and, come to think of it, he must have locked his key card in the room. He starts checking out the buffet selection, which is, he thinks, not what he was hoping for. He grabs some soft-boiled eggs, toast, and a bowl of cereal, and makes his way back to his table.
He’s halfway through his cereal and has just spilled some when he realizes he’s still wearing the robe he put on when he got out of the shower. He pulls it aside and sees he’s wearing nothing under it. An intense feeling of embarrassment comes over him—this is exactly the sort of shit Sandra said would happen if he drank too much while on tour, and who the hell forgets to get dressed in the morning? He stands so suddenly that he knocks the table and tips over his glass of orange juice. It’s an effort not to swear, but he manages it. It’s an effort not to look out at all the people who are now staring at him, but he manages that too. There is something strange happening here, he can feel that, but he can’t quite figure out what. He keeps his head down and walks out of the dining room, and once he’s in the corridor he starts to run. He wants to get the hell out of here—next city please—and tonight, cross his heart and hope to die, he promises he’ll leave the gin and tonics alone. This is just like one of those dreams where you show up at work naked. He reaches his room and puts his fingers on the handle, hoping the door will be unlocked.
“Jerry, hey, Jerry, are you okay?”
A man is walking down the corridor towards him. He’s in a white uniform—he looks more like a chef than a doorman or concierge or whatever his title is at Hotel Wherever. He’s a big guy—the kind of guy who might have been a rugby player back in the day—whenever that was. He can’t be much older than forty. He has the kind of hairline that Jerry has always been frightened of getting, where there’s hair around the sides but nothing else. He has a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that need a wipe, and a thick set of eyebrows hanging over them. His jaw protrudes further than his nose, it’s big and square and well shaved.
“I forgot my key,” Jerry says, and decides not to point out he also forgot his clothes. The guy talking to him won’t point it out either if he wants a decent tip.
“The door isn’t locked,” the man says, and Jerry tries it out. Sure enough, the door pops open.
“It doesn’t lock automatically?”
“No.”
“What the hell kind of place is this?” Then suddenly it all comes to him. Things that didn’t make sense do now, and Jerry can feel himself getting angry. “This is why my watch is missing! And my wallet and passport—I can’t find them either. Seriously,” he says, “I don’t really like giving feedback, but you should do something about the security around here.” Then he flushes, because he knows what the man’s response is going to be. What, this from a guy who can’t remember to pull on a pair of pants? He decides to stay committed to the cause. To stay on the attack. “I’m going to call the police,” he says.
“It’s okay, Jerry. You haven’t lost anything. How about we get you into your room and sit down for a bit.”
“Where are my things?”
“I’ll explain it to you.”
Jerry shakes his head. “There’s no time. I have a train to catch.”
“Come on, let’s just sit down for a moment,” the man says, and he reminds Jerry of a car salesman, the Come on, just take her for a spin, see how she feels, get her out onto the open road and open her up kind.
“I don’t want to buy a goddamn car!” Jerry yells.
“Come on, Jerry, please, let’s just sit down.”
They head into the room. There’s a bookcase with all his books on it, which is pretty weird, he thinks, but then decides it’s not weird at all, but very sweet. The hotel staff must figure he travels a lot, and they’re trying to make his stay here feel a little more like home. He appreciates the gesture, but not at the expense of security. Then he sees a photograph of him and Eva leaning up against another photograph. Eva is holding a guitar. They really have gone all out here.
There are two armchairs in the room near the window. The view beyond is a partly cloudy sky with plenty of trees trailing out of sight. Jerry wonders what the collective noun for the trees would be, and decides on shitload. He s
miles at the thought. He’ll have to put that into a book. Then he realizes that the collective noun for trees is probably forest. Or woods, or copse, or an orchard, or plenty of other things. They sit down. The TV is on, and the news is on, and the news anchors are talking about a woman who was murdered yesterday, a really beautiful woman with long blond hair that reminds him a little of Sandra. There’s a gold four-leaf clover hanging on a chain around her neck, which isn’t something Sandra would wear. He feels sad for this woman. Sad for her family. Sad for the human race.
“Jerry, do you remember where you are?”
Hell, he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t in here alone. He turns towards the man sitting opposite. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Would you like to take a nap, Jerry?”
“What time is the train?”
“There’s time if you want to take a nap, and I’m thinking you’ll feel better once you’ve woken up.”
“And my stuff? My wallet and passport and watch?”
“Safe. All of them safe.”
“I have a hangover,” Jerry tells the man, though it feels more just like a headache than a hangover. He rubs his fingers against the side of his head. Suddenly the man looks a little familiar to him. “Is your name Derek?”
“It’s Eric,” Eric says.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Do you know where my wallet and watch are, Derek? They’re missing.”
“I’ll go and find them, Jerry, I promise,” he says, and he stands up. “How about you just lie down here and rest while I’m gone? I’ll come back and check on you in an hour or so, okay?”
“Okay,” Jerry says, and it does seem like a good idea. He can’t believe how tired he’s suddenly feeling. “But I don’t want to miss the train.”
“You won’t, I promise, okay?”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“It’s all going to be okay, Jerry.”
“It will be, as long as you come back with my things.”
“I will. How about you lie down first, and then I’ll leave.”
“Fine, if that will get you out of here quicker,” Jerry says, moving over to the bed.
“It will.”
The man switches off the TV. “Get some rest, Jerry. Yesterday was a big day and no doubt you’re tired,” he says. “I’ll be back soon,” he adds, and then slips out of the room.
Jerry knows he’s right. Yesterday was a big day—so big he can’t even remember it.
DAY TEN
Hey stranger! Remember me? I’m that guy you used to know, what’s his name, the writer dude, the one with the funny-sounding disease. This is day ten of the Madness Journal. Sorry it’s not so regular, but life and the things that go along with it (that you’ll soon start to forget) keep getting in the way.
Actually, enough joking around. How are you? Seriously, Jerry, you doing okay? Hopefully things aren’t too messed up. Hopefully the journal isn’t having a negative effect on you. It may be a map back to the person you once were, but it’s also serving as a reminder to what you’ve lost.
Day ten and you feel like you’ve always felt. Fit. Healthy. A little tired, maybe, but that’s all. You actually went out to dinner last night with Sandra—in all your years since being married, you’ve always had at least one date night every month—and you both spoke about books, and movies, what was happening in the news, what some of your friends were up to. It was really nice to just talk about something other than the insanity bomb waiting to detonate at some point in the future. Wherever you are, hopefully you’re coping.
The counselor came around this afternoon. Her name is Beverly, and her breasts were so huge they were resting on her knees when she sat down, and were almost resting on her knees even when she was standing. She’s in her fifties now, but by the time she’s sixty they’ll surely have snapped her spine in half. Sandra told me afterwards that she reminded her of one of our professors back at university, a Miss Malady, who she used to call Miss Catlady, and as soon as she said it you saw the resemblance. You’d like Beverly—she’s pretty funny, for the most part, but serious when she needs to be. She came around and we were right, buddy—out came the five stages of dementia, or grief. Stage one—denial. She pointed out you had been in denial since the first time you forgot Sandra’s name and put it down to the drinks. She said you’re still going to be in a stage of denial for a while—it’s the shock, you see. Of course where you are, denial was way back, along with the other four. You probably reached acceptance a long time ago—or did you? Are you reading this now, still refusing to believe what’s happened? It’s hard to know how to feel about that. Sad, in some ways, but in others it’s comforting to think of you staying strong, of staying steadfast and refusing to allow the Dark Tomorrow that is on its way to arrive.
Stage two—anger. She said anger was something you were going to be prone to as the disease becomes more pronounced. She said there will be mood swings ahead, that you’re going to get pissed off at the disease, at life, at those trying to help. You’re going to be snapping at people and saying mean things. You thought earlier it might be useful to push Sandra away—useful for her—but after today, after listening to Beverly, well, you’re as scared as ever. There are drugs to make you more comfortable—us more comfortable—and she said this journal was a good idea and asked if Sandra could read it because it might help chart the progression. You said you’d think about it, but you should have just said no. This is for your eyes only, buddy. Remember that.
So denial and anger are the two things you’re going through now. Bargaining is next. Not sure who to bargain with, really. Who do you have to sell your soul to around here to get a clean bill of health? It’s possible within the next few weeks you’ll end up telling Doctor Goodstory there must be something, begging for anything that money can buy, just get you into the next clinical trial that is showing some kind of promise, doesn’t have to be the next sure thing—at this point you’d take the next maybe thing. You’d sell the house and use the money to bribe your way into any kind of trial at this point—who wouldn’t?
You told Beverly it felt like The Very Hungry Caterpillar was about to make its way through your mind, leaving holes everywhere it went as it gorged itself on memories before turning into a butterfly and taking flight. You told her you were starting to think of the man you’re going to become as The Jerry Replacement, a version of you that would function on different levels, and you were worried about the kind of person he would be. A kind man? Short tempered? How many of the same qualities would you share with him?
She said there would be good days and there would be bad. Take from that what you will, Future Jerry.
You can’t remember what the fourth stage of grief is. You were going to look it up online earlier, but, eye-roll, you can’t remember the password on your computer. It’ll come to you soon, no doubt, and if not Sandra will know it. She knows everything—you just don’t want her to know you can’t remember it.
Beverly was here for three hours. It was a long day, and she gave you both some worst-case scenarios and some best-case scenarios. It’s possible you could be in a nursing home within the next few months. Can you believe that? A few months! She stressed that was the worst case, but the fact that at forty-nine you got Alzheimer’s, well, isn’t that already worst case? You shook her hand when she left, and Sandra exchanged hugs with her. When she was gone, you sat down with Sandra and between you decided it was time to tell Eva. She’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night. She’ll ask to pass the salt, and you’ll say sure, and by the way I’m dying. Jesus . . . there’s no way to tell her in a way that isn’t going to devastate her. You can imagine her sitting the same way she did with your mother, reading To Kill a Mockingbird to you, pouring a glass of water and asking you every now and then if you’re okay.
So it’s good news, bad news time. Good news—you’re still sane and you still know your name! Perhaps all good news can be rhymed in the fut
ure. And you found your credit card—it was in the yard. See? A perfect rhyme. Except it wasn’t in the yard. You’d used it to buy cat food the other day from the supermarket and left it there by accident. They called the following day to let you know.
Bad news—you don’t have a cat. It died six years ago.
He wakes up thinking about the money. Large bundles of cash stuffed into duffle bags, two security guards tied up and left in the vault, the bank manager with a hell of a concussion, and a future of beaches and pussy and maybe he’ll even get a tattoo to celebrate. After all, it’s not every day a job like this can be pulled off—they’ve gotten away with 3.4 million in cash, divided up three ways—he can retire on a million dollars and blow the leftover on partying.
He sits up on the edge of his bed and looks at his wrist where there is no watch and he wonders what the time is, where they’ve stopped, and all he wants to do is get back to the cash, which they buried beneath the farmhouse, which will stay buried until things die down. The key is to be patient. There is a book on the bed next to him. Vault. It’s written by a guy named Henry Cutter, and the name is familiar, but he can’t place how, even though it feels like it ought to be important. He stands up and stretches, then takes off his robe and pulls on a T-shirt and . . .
