Free Island Girl by Lynda Simmons Page B

cared for , or anything else in the Alzheimer’s handbook. I want to take care of myself. When I can no longer do that, I want out. End of story.”
    When we reached Channel Avenue, a blast from the ferry had me turning around, heading back to the house. My clients would be at the dock. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t remember who was coming anymore. With luck, I’d remember when I saw them.
    Mark was still beside me when I reached my gate. “So you’re saying that any day now I could come over and find your body on the floor.”
    “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not like I’m going to off myself tomorrow. The neurologist changed my medication and I think it’s working, slowing things down a little. As long as that’s happening, I’ll be around. But once the illness starts progressing again, then I’m out of here.”
    I opened the gate, but he took hold of my shoulders again, turned me to face him, and this time, I couldn’t shake him off. “Ruby, you have to give me time. You have to let me try and change your mind.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I love you. I always have.”
    I pushed at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “I’m not ridiculous, I’m pathetic. There’s a subtle but important difference. And I can’t let you go without trying to help. It’s not in me and you know it.”
    He was right. I did know that about him. He was the man who ran legal aid clinics, volunteered at food banks, and held free ESL classes on his lunch hour. Mark was a helper, a do-gooder, a man who believed in the greater good and never could leave well enough alone.
    “I should never have contacted you.”
    “But you did, knowing full well that I’d fight you. Which means you don’t really want to die. You want someone to stop you, and here I am.”
    He looked so happy, like he actually believed what he was saying. Like I should believe what he was saying. Proving once again that there is no saving some people from themselves.
    I patted his hands and gently removed them from my shoulders. Turned away and was relieved that I did indeed recognize my clients when I saw them.
    “See those two women coming toward us?” I said to him. “The one on the left is Betty Jane Parker and the other is her daughter Chloe. I’ve been doing Betty’s hair every Friday for thirty years. She likes lots of back-combing and lots of hairspray. I’m the only one who can do her hair the way she likes it, only she doesn’t know that anymore because she has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know who I am or where she is or why she’s here. See how she’s clinging to her daughter’s arm? See how her daughter is talking to her, showing her the flowers and the birdies and the cat that has come out to greet them? She wasn’t always like this. Betty was a teacher with a wicked sense of humor, the kind that comes from insight and wisdom and cuts straight to the core of the matter. She’s traveled extensively and was passionate about children and learning. It was a privilege to know her. And now her daughter points out the birdies to her.”
    “Looks to me like she’s enjoying them.”
    “Enjoying them? Mark, she’s not even seeing them because she’s not there anymore. Her body is just a shell going through the motions, and that is what I am determined to avoid. I do not want anyone to take me for a walk and show me the flowers, the cats, or the goddamn birdies. I just want to go while I’m still me. Is that so hard to understand?”
    “Suicide is a sin, Ruby.”
    “So is inflicting suffering and torture.”
    Betty and Chloe continued toward us. Chloe waved and pointed, but Betty kept her eyes on the ground, her feet shuffling forward, no idea where she was going or why. An hour from now her hair would be shampooed and back-combed, and she’d be on her way home for another week. And my heart broke for her.
    “I won’t give up,” Mark said softly. “I’m determined to change your mind.”
    “Then you’re going to need a miracle,” I