Sixteen

"My name isn't Rosie. It's Rose mary . You know that, Mr. Jankowski."

I am startled into awareness, blinking up into the unmistakable glare of fluorescent lighting.

"Eh? What?" My voice is thin, reedy. A black woman leans over me, tucking something around my legs. Her hair is fragrant and smooth.

"You called me Rosie just a minute ago. My name is Rose mary ," she says, straightening up. "There, now isn't that better?"

I stare at her. Oh God. That's right. I'm old. And I'm in bed. Wait a minute—I called her Rosie?

"I was talking? Out loud? "

She laughs. "Oh dear, yes. Oh yes, Mr. Jankowski. You've been talking a blue streak since we left the lunchroom. Just talking my ear off."

My face flushes. I stare at the clawed hands in my lap. God only knows what I've been saying. I only know what I've been thinking, and even that's in retrospect—until I suddenly found myself here, now, I thought I was there .

"Why, what's the matter?" Rosemary says.

"Did I . . . Did I say anything . . . you know, embarrassing? "

"Heavens, no! I don't understand why you haven't told the others, what with everyone going to the circus and all. I'll bet you've never even mentioned it though, have you?"

Rosemary watches me expectantly. Then her brow furrows. She pulls a chair over and sits next to me. "You don't remember talking to me, do you?" she says gently.

I shake my head.

She takes both my hands in hers. They are warm and firmly fleshed. "You said nothing to be embarrassed of, Mr. Jankowski. You're a fine gentleman and I'm honored to know you."

My eyes fill, and I drop my head so she won't see.

"Mr. Jankowski—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"About the circus?"

"No. About . . . Oh hell, don't you understand? I didn't even realize I was talking . It's the beginning of the end. It's all downhill from here, and I didn't have very far to go. But I was really hoping to hang on to my brains. I really was."

"You still have your brains, Mr. Jankowski. You're sharp as a tack."

We sit in silence for a minute.

"I'm scared, Rosemary."

"Do you want me to talk to Dr. Rashid?" she asks.

I nod. A tear slips from my eye and into my lap. I hold my eyes wide, hoping to contain the rest.

"It's another hour before you have to be ready to go. Would you like to rest a spell?"

I nod again. She gives my hand a final pat, lowers the head of my bed, and leaves. I lie back, listening to the buzzing lights and staring at the square tiles of the dropped ceiling. An expanse of pressed popcorn, of tasteless rice cakes.

If I'm completely honest with myself, there have been hints I was slipping .

Last week, when my people came, I didn't know them. I faked it, though—when they made their way toward me and I realized it was me they had come to see, I smiled and made all the usual placating noises, the "oh yesses" and "goodness graciouses" that make up my end of most conversations these days. I thought it was going just fine until a peculiar look crossed the mother's face. A horrified look, with her forehead scrumpled and her jaw slightly open. I raced back over the last few minutes of the conversation and realized I'd said the wrong thing, the polar opposite of what I should have said, and then I was mortified, because I don't dislike Isabelle. I just don't know her, and so I was having trouble paying attention to the details of her disastrous dance recital.

But then this Isabelle turned and laughed and in that instant I saw my wife. This made me weepy and these people whom I didn't recognize exchanged furtive glances and shortly thereafter announced that it was time to leave because Grandpa needed his rest. They patted my hand and they tucked my blanket in around my knees, and they left. They went out into the world, and they left me here. And to this day I have no idea who they were.

I know my children, don't get me wrong—but these are not my children. These are the children of my children, and their children, too, and maybe even theirs. Did I coo into their baby faces? Did I dandle them on my knee? I had three sons and two daughters, a houseful indeed, and none of them exactly held back. You multiply five by four and then by five again, and it's no wonder I forget how some of them fit in. It doesn't help that they take turns coming to see me, because even if I manage to commit one group to memory, they may not come around again for another eight or nine months, by which time I've forgotten whatever it was I may have known.

But what happened today was entirely different, and much, much scarier.

What in God's name did I say?

I close my eyes and reach for the far corners of my mind. They're no longer clearly defined. My brain is like a universe whose gases get thinner and thinner at the edges. But it doesn't dissolve into nothingness. I can sense something out there, just beyond my grasp, hovering, waiting—and God help me if I'm not skidding toward it again, mouth open wide.