An Absent Mind (9 page)

Florence

Bernie’s Visit

I
t seems a lifetime ago that I first met Bernie. He certainly was more boisterous back then, but he’s mellowed over the years. Even then, he was kind and compassionate deep down, although it was almost as if he didn’t want anyone to know it.

He went over to see Father today without me or the kids. Just the two of them. That took a lot of guts, given how Father feels about him. What no one knows, except Father, Bernie, and me—not even Mother—is that I became pregnant while we were in college. We found out two weeks after our engagement. The wedding was to be the following year, after graduation. A big affair at the Windsor Hotel. Something Mother insisted on, even though Father could barely afford it.

I told Father, figuring he would be more understanding than Mother. Was I wrong! He was more upset than I have ever seen him. He insisted on my having an abortion. “What would my friends think of a good Jewish girl getting knocked up?” he screamed. “What would they think of your little princess having an abortion?” I retorted.

Once he realized I wasn’t going to end the pregnancy, he reluctantly helped us concoct a story in which we had decided to move the wedding up because I would be working right after graduation. That was after he had given the hotel a deposit, but before he had to pay the band a third of their fee in advance.

Naturally, he didn’t blame me—I was the innocent victim. Bernie, however, became persona non grata. And it has remained like that to this day. Bernie learned to live with it and still went out of his way to be kind to Father. But believe me, there was no reciprocation. The sad irony of it all is that I had a miscarriage two months later, and it took me almost ten more years to get pregnant with our first son, Howard.

So today, with Father slipping, but still having some semblance of comprehension, Bernie decided to sit down with him and try to make peace.

The way Bernie tells it, the visit didn’t start off very well, even though he went over in the morning, when Father is generally more lucid. Father accused him of raping me, being a pimp, and other niceties, which even though I’m no prude, I can’t repeat here. Bernie said he waited him out, letting him vent.

When Father finished, he slouched back in his chair. Bernie started to speak, but Father raised his hand to stop him. Then he stood up and went over to Bernie, motioning for him to get up. He put his arms out and hugged Bernie and said he was glad he had come, that Bernie was a good father and a good husband, and how sorry he was for his attitude all these years. Then Father returned to his seat, propped his feet up on the ottoman, and asked Bernie how the kids were. And that was it. A few seconds later, he got up and turned on the television, as if Bernie wasn’t in the room. But Bernie said he didn’t care, that it was one of the best days of his life.

Saul

My Last Place on Earth

I
t’s all unraveling.

Last night, I found myself somewhere on Monkland Avenue. I had no idea how I got there. I looked in a store window and saw my reflection. It took me a bit to figure it all out—like that the person in the window was a man, and that the man was me.

I didn’t know what to do. I glanced down at the bracelet on my wrist and everything—well, not everything, but the gist of it all came back to me. I am Saul Reimer, formerly a healthy, intelligent man, married to the same woman for many years, and the father of two children he loves more than anything in the world.

The key word is
formerly
, as I am sure you’ve already figured out. Because today—and I have no idea what day it is, other than it is really cold and I wish I had a jacket on—I am nothing, not a real man, that’s for sure. I mean, how can you be a real man when you don’t even know where you are half the time, and when you do know, more often than not, you can’t grasp the concept of your surroundings?

I felt in my pocket for my wallet, but it wasn’t there. All I had was my bank card. I spotted an ATM machine at the corner. But when I got there, I couldn’t figure out how to work it. A woman walked up from behind. I gestured for her to go in front of me. She smiled and said she was in no rush. I looked at the machine, with all the words flashing across the screen. My hands were getting slimy, and beads of that wet stuff covered my forehead. Why couldn’t she just go first?

Then suddenly, it all made sense. I followed the directions, but it took me a few tries to get the card into the machine with the strip the right way. I looked behind me again. The woman was fidgeting with her purse strap. Then the machine asked me for a personal identification number. The good news is, I knew I had one. The bad news is, I had no idea what it was. My brain is like a shortwave radio, mostly static that occasionally finds the station, but even then the sound isn’t always clear.

In a way, it will be a blessing when my mind is totally gone, when I am a vegetable, slouched in a wheelchair. Like many Alzheimer’s patients on Montreal’s West Side, I’ll probably make a pit stop at Manoir Laurier. Then, when Manoir Laurier can’t cope with me, or we can’t afford it anymore, they’ll ship me off to Belfrage Hospital, my final stop on this beloved earth. I’ll be there, incontinent, drooling, and incoherent—that is, if I can even manage to get a word through my blistered lips. And when it’s all over—when my heart finally gives out, or I contract pneumonia, and my family says, “Let Saul go; he deserves some peace”—when that happens, they’ll take me down to the autopsy room, cut my skull open, and find the tangles and plaques on my brain. Then they will be able to say with 100 percent certainty that Saul Reimer had Alzheimer’s.

Monique

I Have to Stay Calm

S
aul slipped out of the house while I was making dinner last night. I guess I didn’t hear the chimes on the door because the radio was on. The police told me they’d found him all the way down on Monkland Avenue. They said he looked dazed, and at first they thought he was drunk, but when they saw the bracelet on his wrist, they called the 800 number and brought him home.

And then today—and it’s not the first time—I watched him do the same thing over and over and over. Here’s what he does: He takes the books off the shelves, one by one, until you can’t see the floor. Then he tries to arrange them in some sort of order, but he gives up in disgust and haphazardly shoves them back again. No sooner has he finished than he dumps them on the floor and starts trying to organize them once again. And he babbles like an absentminded professor while he’s doing it.

When he’s not rearranging the books, he’s in the kitchen, emptying the cupboards and filling them up again. And when he’s done with that, he dumps Dugin’s dog biscuits into a large plastic bag and carries them into the bedroom, where he hides them beside the dresser. Sometimes I wait a few minutes before retrieving them, but most of the time Dugin is trailing behind him and drags the bag to his cushion by the back door.

By the end of the day, I am so worn-out that I can hardly stand. It used to be I could escape during the week for at least a few hours when I did my volunteer work, but Saul’s been too far gone for me to be absent at all.

Dr. Tremblay told me I need my strength in order to be an effective caregiver. He said if I didn’t get someone to come to the house, or put Saul in an adult daycare center, I would fall apart and be no good to anyone. Well, there is no way I am going to have someone else take care of him in my house, that’s for sure. I mean, even if I wanted to—and I don’t—what would people think if I’m out playing mahjong or going to a movie while leaving Saul with hired help?

Last week, we visited the Schaffer Centre. A heavyset woman with stained yellow teeth but a sweet smile nonetheless welcomed us as if we were family. But I knew within minutes that I would never leave Saul there with those blubbering idiots. I don’t want you to think that I’m insensitive, but they were like robots—most of them couldn’t walk, and they all seemed to be living on another planet.

Saul is heading downhill in slow motion, but a month or two of even a few hours a day there would speed up the process immeasurably. And I’m not going to let that happen.

One of Saul’s last joys in life is sitting in that big chair of his in the living room and having Dugin fetch his chewed-up rubber ball. The woman made it very clear there was no chance of him bringing Dugin to the Centre, even on a leash.

I don’t think Saul could exist without that damn dog. It’s like they understand each other, even now. Saul laughs, and Dugin barks. Saul cries, and Dugin whimpers. They’re inseparable. I think if he had a choice between the dog and me, Dugin would win. And after going through days like today, I sometimes think I wouldn’t mind that.

Saul

Miriam

S
he was really quite pretty and smart. A bit on the skinny side, maybe a bit more than a bit. I like that—“a bit more than a bit.” I’ll have to remember that one. Fat chance of that!

Anyway, what else can I tell you about Miriam? Let’s see—a great musician. She played the flute, clarinet, and saxophone. And she played well, well enough to be first clarinetist of the school orchestra.

But she didn’t just have a serious side. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to flirt. Even when I would walk home with her, she would bat her long eyelashes at the guys waiting at the bus stop. I think she just wanted to be wanted. I don’t think she felt comfortable at home with her overbearing and nutty parents.

Did I tell you about how she would sometimes set up two dates on a Saturday night? I thought only guys did that—you know, one till ten o’clock, then sneaking out and meeting up with the next one at ten-thirty. And she was so extraordinary, she got away with it, even if they found out.

When Miriam got older, she looked up to me. But when we were young, it was Miriam who watched out for me. I can’t tell you how many times she would bang on my bedroom door, begging my father to stop hitting me. It didn’t do any good, but it made me feel better that someone was in my corner. Sometimes I think it hurt her more than me. If that were the case, it must have really hurt her, because I can tell you Larry’s belt was made out of the toughest leather ever manufactured!

Miriam graduated from McGill with honors in psychology. With her upbringing, she probably could have passed her exams without even taking the course. I mean, look at all the practical training she had. Hannah and Larry for parents, me for a brother.

Those years at university were wasted. She could have been out having fun, enjoying her life—or whatever she had left of it.

One Saturday afternoon, Miriam called me and asked me to get together with her downtown at Woolworth’s. She was going to buy an LP first, and then we’d meet at the snack bar. I hadn’t seen here in a while, so we had a lot of catching up to do.

We hung around while she drank her usual coffee with the tons of sugar she liked to dump into her cup, and while I went through two cherry Cokes. Miriam asked me if I wanted to go for a walk on Mount Royal. I was supposed to meet my new girlfriend, Cathy, so I passed. We agreed to get together that night, Cathy and I, Miriam and her new heartthrob—with Miriam there was always one hanging around.

A few blocks later, Miriam was struck by a streetcar. She never made it to the hospital. She was twenty-two. I still miss her.

I can remember the blue skirt and matching wool sweater set she wore that day, and her dark hair combed in a flip. And I can remember her black pumps. Yet today, I can’t even remember yesterday.