"I think it's time for you to leave." Her face turned red. "Not yet, Charlie. It's not time yet. Don't send me away."
"You're making it harder for me. You keep pretending I can do things and understand things that are far beyond me now.
You're pushing me. Just like my mother..." "That's not true!"
"Everything you do says it. The way you pick up and clean up after me,
the way you leave books around that you think will get me interested in reading again,
the way you talk to me about the news to get me thinking.
You say it doesn't matter, but everything you do shows how much it matters. Always the schoolteacher.
I don't want to go to concerts or museums or foreign films or do anything that's going to make me struggle to think about life or about myself."
"Charlie—" "Just leave me alone. I'm not myself. I'm falling apart, and I don't want you here."
That made her cry. This afternoon she packed her bags and left. The apartment feels quiet and empty now.
October 25 — Deterioration progressing. I've given up using the typewriter. Coordination is too bad.
From now on I'll have to write out these reports in longhand.
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