To the Well-Organized Mind

Chapter Twenty-One

[Fen]

"Remember the real me even when I have forgotten you."

"You can't explain what it's like to mourn someone who is still alive unless you've experienced it firsthand.." – Jessica Seay-Soto

"Dementia does not rob someone of their dignity. It's our reaction to them that does." – Teepa Snow

Even if I can't cure, I can still care.

-from Milovitch's collection of inspiring quotations

***

I find Nia reciting the names of things. She's in her room with a pile of items surrounding her: a nest of magpie trinkets. She doesn't know I'm watching yet, which is a rarity. So I hover in the background, her shadow.

She holds up a spoon. "Spoon." Then she does the same with a knife, fork, and cup. When she reaches a plate, she hesitates. "Disc. No, that's not it. Plate. Is anyone even going to know if I forget the names of this crap?" She sighs. "Today is Wednesday." She moves over to a bundle of clothing, naming the various articles. Then she stops. "Did I already say what day it was? Is it Wednesday?"

I'm a fool about a lot of things, but I know what this is. This is a last-ditch attempt to hold onto the slipping fragments of mind.

And I know that if I hadn't stumbled across the truth myself, I would never have been told about it. But suddenly a lot of little elements click into place: Nia's ferocity towards ferals and her apparent disregard for life or death; the focus on Tavelin's cure; Nia's loss of appetite when she couldn't remember how to use a spoon.

I'm divided: I want nothing more than to turn into vapor and dissipate before she can notice me in such a private moment. But I also wish I could offer her a strong shoulder of support like she did for so many of us in the Barrens at our weakest points.

In the end, I quietly slip away to the bathroom. I find myself staring into the foggy mirror, and I try to imagine what it would be like to look at myself without recognizing myself.

When the Old Man used to feel the sorrow of his age and accrued losses, I used to cook him tasty dishes or make whimsical origami creatures with all the accumulated paper in his house. When my mother wept into her pillow in an attempt to stifle the sound from me, I used to creep up next to her and slip my hand into hers. I don't think Nia would appreciate any such gestures.

But as I continue to stare at myself in the mirror, an idea comes to me. I only need to find the right materials, and in Asis, I just might be lucky enough to find them.

***

After scouring the empty houses for supplies, I understand anew why this place was dubbed Paradise. Unlike most places of the developed world, Asis is a rare gem that must've been isolated or protected enough that the roving bands of humans (and ferals) never looted or destroyed places in an attempt to survive—or thwart others' survival. From the time of the Cataclysm until now, it's as though the fence always existed and the only people within were focused on keeping a safe haven.

The empty houses are pristine, if dusty and a little critter-ridden, like a shrine to the families that used to live there. Most still have photos on the wall, portraying children's growth and the moment their time effectively stopped. There will never be any photos past the ages I see, and thinking too much about all this will lead nowhere good.

I was looking for a makeup compact or even a hand mirror. But when I enter one house, I immediately see a different item I could use instead. This house has a lovely suncatcher or windchime made out of mirrored glass and crystals. I could select a circle or an oval, but this is for Nia: even I know she'd prefer the rectangle with its sharp edges to second as a weapon.