“His mother has Alzheimer’s,” I said. “We’re driving to St. Louis to move her into memory care. She called him by his dead father’s name three weeks ago. She didn’t know who he was.”
Elmer nodded slowly. Like that explained everything.
“First time she didn’t know me,” he said, “was a Tuesday. In March. Five years ago. She came out of the bathroom and looked at me sitting in my chair and screamed. Thought I was a burglar. Grabbed a lamp.”
“Oh, Elmer.”
“Fifty years of marriage,” he said. “And she hit me in the shoulder with a lamp.” He laughed. “Good arm on her. Always did.”
He took a sip of his terrible coffee.
“I went out to my truck and sat there for three hours,” he said. “Just sat there. Couldn’t go back in. Couldn’t look at her. Same as your husband, I guess. Kept thinking, if she doesn’t know me, then who am I? If I’m not Jeannie’s Elmer, then what am I?”
