He tries to remember.
The nurses don't understand that. They think it odd that he requests audio tapes of the books he has written, videos of the interviews he has given, and photograph albums of times past. The nurses also give him three-d moving pictures of his last few years, pictures so tiny they rest in the palm of his hand. In them, the people turn like toy dolls, but he cannot feel their feet against his skin. Outside the door, he hears the nurses whispering, "Sad old man. He's got nothing left to live for, so he lives in his past."
Only he doesn't have any memories except inconsequential ones: the runny eggs he had for breakfast, the plot of the crime drama he watched the night before on the wide screen television placed at the perfect distance from his bed. He has a superficial knowledge of everything he has done, like a back-of-theBook bio sheet written about someone else:
J. Reed Brasher, novelist, playwright, and essayist, born 1920 in Camden, New Jersey to physician Paul Brasher and his wife Mary. Published his first novel, Golden Sunset, in 1945. Wrote sixteen Broadway plays, including the Tony Award winning Stations in the Sky (1960). Published five books of essays, the last an autobiographical sketch. Married Olive Franklin in 1942, fathered two daughters, Mary and Paula. List of publications (including all 55 novels) follows.
But the memories are gone, stolen an incident at a time. He has noticed the first one missing on his ninetieth birthday when his daughter, Paula, asked him to recite her favorite bedtime story to his great-grandson. He did not remember telling bedtime stories, and said so. She reminded him of that only this morning, when he asked what day she first noticed his memory slipping.
"It's normal, Dad. The mind goes with age."
But not his mind. His mind has controlled his entire life. He knows that with the same certainty with which he knows he is male. He remembers the feeling of control, but he does not remember the incidents that triggered it.
It is the ultimate curse. His body is now so feeble that he can not spend much time out of bed. If he does, the nurses come after him as if he were a child. "Now, now, Mr. Brasher, we mustn't hurt ourselves."
He wonders how he can hurt himself in this house he has built--he saw the documentation in the photo album: his younger self standing over the blue prints, holding a hammer, speaking to a contractor. He chose the big brass featherbed, the ruby bedspread with matching carpet and curtains that set off the mahogany paneling. It is soothing to sleep in this room with his books and posters lining the walls, this place he has been for fifty years. It is like living in his own mind.
This morning he woke with the thought that the longer he remains passive, the sooner the thief will take his entire being. Until his daughter made her casual remark, he was willing to let his brain slip away drop by drop. But she was wrong. Age should equal wisdom, and somewhere, someone is stealing his wisdom from him. He cannot allow this to continue.
He needs a plan. A simple plan to prevent the destruction of his mind. A plan that will save the little bit he has left.
)
