Eric
Rill was born in Montreal and graduated from Cornell University with a Bachelor
of Arts, and from UCLA with an MBA. He held several executive positions in the
hospitality industry, including president of a global hotel group. His hobbies
include trekking, scuba diving, and collecting antique carpets. Eric has two sons and divides his time
between his residence in Panama and international travel. You can reach him at
his website at: www.ericrill.com
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Blurb:
A
riveting new novel from Eric Rill, author of Pinnacle of Deceit and The
Innocent Traitor, is about a race against time. The ticking time bomb is Saul
Reimer’s sanity. His Alzheimer’s is going to be the catalyst that will either
bring his family together or tear it apart.
Excerpt:
Saul: The Façade
It’s
been almost two years since they told me how sick and useless I was. I am able
to keep it more or less together most days. And I stress days, because by
dinnertime my mind is exhausted. I never knew you could have an exhausted mind,
but I do now. The sheer weight of having to pretend I am normal all day for my
friends, or the store clerks, feels like a boulder around my neck. What happens
toward sundown is like when you hear the snap, crackle, and pop when the
transistors in your old television go bad. Everything numbs and becomes foggy.
Sights, sounds, and smells meld into a ball and explode toward the sky. It’s as
if I’m not the same person I was when I got up.
As
of now anyway, I can see everything I want to say as clear as ice. It’s right
there on a blackboard in front of me, spelled out perfectly. But then to
actually say what’s written on the blackboard isn’t always a piece of cake.
Sometimes it’s easy, like it is right now. I know what I’m saying to you is
coherent and that my vocabulary is correct—but that could suddenly change and
become difficult, sometimes impossible.
In
the morning, I can be happy—well, maybe not happy, but not feeling sorry for
myself. It’s different by lunch—if I remember to eat, and I generally do
because it’s on my list, although I have been known to leave my pad somewhere
and not be able to find it; if that happens, Monique usually reminds me. At
least I think she does. Regardless, by lunchtime things generally start to go
downhill.
Today,
while I was sitting in my easy chair, she bent down to kiss me and brought her
hand quickly to her mouth.
“Whew,”
she said, or something like that. “You didn’t brush your teeth. Why did you
check it off?”
I
didn’t bother answering, not because she was interrupting my soap opera—I
really wasn’t focusing anyway—but because I didn’t know the answer. Maybe I
didn’t check the toothbrush to see if it was wet or dry, like I’ve been doing.
Then she scolded me, like it was my fault. First they tell you you’re sick
because you can’t remember anything and then they give you hell for not
remembering.
The
doorbell rang, and Monique disappeared for a minute, reappearing with Arthur
Winslow in tow. I was standing there with the telephone receiver in my hand.
Monique took it from me and put it back in the cradle.
Arthur
was in high school with me and was actually the one who squealed to the
principal that I was the one who decked Ian Coulter. Coulter, even though one
of the great anti-Semites of all time, lived by a code of honor and wouldn’t have turned me in, but
Arthur did, and I understand why. You see, Arthur was the goody-goody of the
class. He would have turned in his own mother if she had done something wrong.
But other than squealing on me, he was a true and trusted friend.
Arthur
lives down the street—at least I think he still does—and faithfully drops in to
see me. Sometimes I think he has nothing else to do. I can’t tell if he has
missed any days visiting, or, if so, how many, but that doesn’t matter now.
What I do know is he cares, and I hope he keeps coming, even if I don’t
recognize him one day.
I
already know that there will come a time when I won’t know him, or people like
Bernie. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if I don’t recognize Bernie—in fact, that
could be the Lord’s gift to me, something to make up for what lies ahead. What
does bother me—in fact, scares the hell out of me—is not recognizing the kids.
As inconceivable as that seems, they say it will happen as sure as night
follows day. Who, you may ask, are they?
I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother would always quote the almighty they. I would ask her, “Who are they, Granny?” She would always answer,
“You know, they.” I think maybe she
had Alzheimer’s!
Where to Buy: Amazon
