Days later I saw him take money out of the safe and walk out in his good coat.
I followed him.
He went to a private neurological clinic.
I heard the doctor say from the hallway, “His condition is deteriorating faster than we expected.”
“How long?” asked Henri.
“The more serious decline will begin in three to five years.”
“And after that?”
“You might not recognize your children.”
“And maybe you too.”
They were talking about me.
The doctor mentioned the predicted years: early memory loss, difficulty recognizing faces, advanced stages.
They were the same years that were written on the paintings.
Henry painted me ahead of time – preserving who I was before I forgot.
I went in.
“So I’m the woman on the walls?”
He looked broken.
“I didn’t want you to know that.”
He knew five years ago: early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.
I remembered those final moments – when I forgot why I had entered a room, when I struggled with a familiar recipe, when I couldn’t remember the name of a grandchild.
“You were preparing for the day I forgot you,” I said.
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