Back then, of course, in your university days, you weren’t really a writer. You always suspected that the university education you were getting is what you would fall back on as your house filled up with rejection slips from the publishers. You wanted to be a writer from day one, but it was your mother who encouraged you to continue your education, her scoring point being what an English degree would do for your creativity. By the time you met Sandra, you had written a couple dozen short stories, but you didn’t dare show Sandra any of them until you’d been dating for a few months—and even then it was only after she assured you that she knew they were going to be just great, because you were just great. You were convinced if she read any of your stuff she would tell you it was good in a very vague Oh yeah, it’s good, I mean, sure . . . I’m sure people will like this, and by the way I can’t see you Friday night as I have to wash my hair / pick up a cousin from the airport / I’m getting a cold, don’t call me I’ll call you kind of way. What she did tell you was that your stories needed work. She told you that every character had to be perfectly flawed. She was the one who over the years convinced you to write a novel. THE novel. And that’s what you did. You wrote THE novel, and THE novel was awful and Sandra was kind enough to tell you. So then you wrote THE NEXT novel, and that was awful too—but not as awful, she told you, and you tried again. And again. It would be years later you finally put that university degree to good use and got it right, but during those years of study Sandra was tiring of psychology and was thinking of switching to law when she found out she was pregnant.

Life changed then. A few days later you asked her to marry you, and at first she said no, that she didn’t want to marry you just because she was pregnant, but you convinced her that wasn’t why you were asking. Having her in your life was the most amazing thing, and any day without her would be full of heartache and despair. She said yes. You didn’t get married until after Eva was born—Eva was eighteen months old when you walked down the aisle. By then you were also no longer studying, but were renovating houses. Sandra was a stay-at-home mother until Eva started school, at which time she then went back to university and got her law degree, focusing on civil rights. By then you had written A Christmas Murder, which a year later would go on to become a bestseller and open up the world for you. Sandra got a job at a law firm, and then all these years later you got Alzheimer’s and had a big fight with her.

Sandra is concerned, of course, because you spent yesterday moping around in your office, but you told her you weren’t moping, but working on next year’s book that your editor has just sent the notes for. Of course there were no notes—but you did call your editor this morning and she made the mistake of saying Nice to hear from you, Jerry. I trust you are well? which was like trusting politicians to have your best interests at heart. So you laid it out for her. Not like the journal, mind you—just the CliffsNotes. Actually, Mandy, no, you weren’t all right—you were five days into becoming somebody else, and your current project was a madness journal. She was very upset when you told her, and you were upset too, and why not? It’s something worth being upset about.

That would explain all the mistakes in the manuscript, Mandy said, and you pretended that didn’t hit a nerve. I should’ve known. . . . I should have.

Instead you just thought I’d become a horrible writer, you told her, and you laughed to let her know it was a joke, and she laughed too, but it wasn’t very funny.

Day five and Sandra is mad at you. The truth is if you were counting the days she had ever been mad at you, you’d be up somewhere around five thousand by now (that’s a joke, Jerry—I hope you’re laughing!). The truth is you never fight. Never, ever! Of course you argue a little, but what couple doesn’t?

So here’s the thing—you just can’t face a support group. Meeting all these folks who are going to forget you at the same rate you forget them—the rate of forgetting twice as fast in reality, like two trains speeding in opposite directions. You’re actually scared that any new fact is going to push out an old one to make room. What if you meet these people and forget your family? This is Blair—now who is Sandra again?

You didn’t explain it like that to Sandra because she wouldn’t get it even though she gets you. Nobody gets it, unless they’re like you, but it’s not as if you can just go and find a bunch of people who . . .

Ha—looks like you may have to apologize to Sandra after all! But whether you go along is another matter. You’ve never been a social person at the best of times, and this is not the best of times. Hell, it’s not even the worst—that’s on its way. This is somewhere near the beginning. A certain kind of limbo with a touch of hope and a touch of madness, all balanced just so.

You’re still trying to get used to the idea of what’s happening. You have another appointment later in the week, not with Doctor Goodstory, but with a counselor who is going to give you an idea of what to expect. They’ll no doubt tell you about the seven stages of grief—wait, no, it’s seven deadly sins, seven dwarfs, seven reindeer—grief only has five stages. Denial, Anger, Blitzen, Dopey, and Bargaining. The last few days you’ve mostly been in shock, to tell you the truth. You still can’t believe any of this is happening. Shock, plus some good old-fashioned anger. And . . . some pretty strong gin and tonics. If nothing else, mixing the G&Ts is one skill you have to hang on to, Future Jerry. That’s probably why you fought with Sandra. Not the G&Ts, but the rest of it, the nitty-gritty-shitty as your grandfather used to say, back when . . .

Ah, hell. Back when he was navigating his way into Batshit County.

Your grandfather was old school—he took the sickness and twisted it into something cruel and bitter. He’d mutter things like how women shouldn’t be allowed to work and those who did were stealing all the men’s jobs, or how “the gays” were the reason for earthquakes and floods in this world. Alzheimer’s gave him the freedom to become an uncensored version of himself. He would pat the nurses on the ass in the nursing home and ask them to fix him a sandwich. He seemed like the kind of guy to pour himself a neat glass of scotch, sit in a leather chair, adjust his tie, and blow out his brains with a pistol rather than die slowly, but ultimately he rode the Alzheimer’s train too long, passing the station where that option had been available to him.

The same option is available to you.

Sandra doesn’t know about the gun. You knew she would never approve. You bought it for research. Writers are always saying write what you know, and now you know what to expect when you pull a trigger. You know the sound that will tear into your eardrums if you’re not wearing ear protection. You know the weight and the feel, and the smell. You fired it at a range years ago, and since then it’s been under a floorboard under the desk, waiting in the dark maybe just for this very thing. You bought it illegally from Hans. You remember Hans? You’ll get the update on him later when I tell you about Henry, but if a guy covered in tattoos comes to see you saying you owe him money, that’ll be Hans. You don’t really owe him money, but it’d be such a Hans thing to try. You’ll know that if you remember him.

Eva still hasn’t been told about the Big A. She was over again this morning. She’s taking a couple of days off work, and Sandra is taking a few weeks off for me, and today they spent their time talking nonstop about the wedding. Dancing, cakes, flowers, dresses, bridesmaids—that’s the future. But for you it may now all be in the past. Eva is marrying a guy called Rick. You like him. You fired up the barbecue when Eva was over and the three of you had a nice lunch together and you’re glad you didn’t tell her. Soon, though.