An Absent Mind (10 page)

Florence

Symptoms

T
he telltale signs are all over the place.

Last Sunday, Father and I were on our way back from the park, when he started heading in the wrong direction. I asked him where he was going.

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered over his shoulder.

I steered him back toward the intersection, but as soon as he saw the redbrick school building, he muttered something about being late for class. He made a beeline for the entrance. I didn’t try to stop him, assuming the doors would be locked. But the janitor or someone must have left them open, and he rushed in. Once inside, he raced up the stairs and marched into a classroom.

He stopped in his tracks, eyeing the empty desks neatly lined up in rows that stretched to the back of the room. I couldn’t get him to budge from the space he had commandeered. His eyes moved slowly and deliberately, stopping in front of each desk. He mouthed words that were neither intelligible nor of sufficient volume for me to make them out. Then he walked to the back of the room and tried to squeeze his large frame between the seat and the underside of a desk— probably a difficult task in his day, and an impossible one now. Suddenly, he lost his balance and stumbled backward in what seemed like slow motion. When his body finally settled onto the hardwood floor, he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. He held that pose until I reached down and took hold of his arm, guiding him slowly to his feet.

After we left, he began telling me about the good old days at school. He talked animatedly about his different teachers and some of the kids in his classes. It was a normal conversation, like nothing had ever happened.

When we got home, Mother was in the den, waiting. I asked Father to share some of the stories with her. He looked at me like I was crazy and asked me what I was talking about.

Yesterday, I took him to see Dr. Swidler for a checkup. Actually, it was Mother who suggested it. Knowing that it’s only a matter of time before he moves into Manoir Laurier, she wanted to make sure he didn’t have any problems with his teeth, on top of everything else. The waiting room was full, but there was one empty seat between two Westmount dowagers. I motioned for him to sit between them, but he, ever the gentleman, insisted that I sit down. Normally, I would have argued the point, but frankly, I was afraid of engaging him in any conversation that could lead to his becoming belligerent. So I sat down, and he stood, hovering in front of me.

Celine Dion’s voice blasted through the speakers in the ceiling, and the sounds of drilling emanated from behind the door. The women on either side of me were practically spitting in my face as they tried to talk to each other above the Muzak, the drilling, and the nearby conversations.

The cacophony must have gotten to Father. He slammed his hands over his ears and made grunting sounds, his body rocking back and forth. I jumped up, but before I could get my balance, he shoved me back in my seat and rushed through the door to where Dr. Swidler was working on a patient. I pulled myself up and went after him. By the time I got there, he was standing beside a sink, banging his fist against the wall, shouting, “I can’t stand this anymore! I can’t stand this anymore!”

Monique

Happy Birthday

T
oday is Saul’s seventy-fifth birthday, a milestone, but not what I was expecting whenever I thought about how we would celebrate—before his illness, that is. It’s funny how things happen. I don’t count the years numerically anymore; instead, I go by how long it’s been since Saul was diagnosed. So this is the end of year four, going on year five.

Florence and Bernie brought the kids, something they hadn’t done in a while, not after Saul yelled at Daniel so loudly a few months ago that the poor boy wailed in terror for a good five minutes. It’s sad that they will probably remember Saul only the way he is now.

Joey was there, as was Arthur Winslow, Saul’s childhood friend. I had baked a carrot cake with the cream cheese icing Saul loves so much. Obviously, I wasn’t going to decorate it with seventy-five candles, so I put on three, one for yesterday, one for today, and one for tomorrow.

I had made a collage of Saul’s life, including pictures from his childhood that he had kept, pictures of us during our marriage, and both of us with the kids—and with the grandchildren, of course. Although I must admit he was never much of a grandfather, even before he was sick. It was always an effort even to get him to go to their birthday parties. If I put up a fuss, he usually went, but not with a big smile on his face—until he got there. Then he would take the presents that I’d bought—I always bought one for each of them, so one wouldn’t feel left out—and make a big deal about giving them to the grandchildren.

Today, I put up some red and blue streamers between the two lamps by the sofa and a plastic happy birthday tablecloth on the dining room table. Because we were only eight people, I didn’t bother with a caterer, but I made brisket with sweet potatoes, another of Saul’s favorite dishes.

We all sat around in front of the fireplace. The weather was quite mild for February, but I lit a fire anyway. Saul likes to watch it, and it usually keeps him still.

Bernie, Florence, and the children were the first to arrive. Florence bent over to kiss her father and then pushed Daniel and Howard in Saul’s direction so they could do the same. I was waiting for the fireworks to start, but Saul bent over so they could reach his cheek, and both of them gave him a quick kiss before retreating. Arthur was the next to arrive, and finally, a half hour later, the king himself, Joey.

Everyone brought a present. I told them not to spend a lot. There wasn’t much that Saul could use at this point. Florence brought a bright paisley tie. Why would she do that? I wondered. Arthur brought him a DVD. Joey gave Saul a brush for Dugin. Speaking of Dugin—and I’d rather not, to be honest—he stayed right by Saul’s side the whole time.

Bernie took the collage over to the fireplace and put it on the table. We took turns showing Saul the pictures. His eyes sparkled just like in the old days. He put his finger on a photograph of us holding hands in front of the Eiffel Tower, and a big smile came over his face. “Beautiful,” he said, “Simply beautiful.”

Florence asked him if he knew what birthday it was.

Saul said, “Eight.”

“No father,” Florence said, “I mean how old are you today?”

Saul closed his eyes for a few seconds but said nothing.

Florence said, “Seventy, seventy-five, eighty, one hundred?”

Saul answered, “The first one.”

Florence corrected him. “No, Father, seventy-five. Isn’t that great?”

Saul’s face tensed and he said again, insistently, “The first one.”

I motioned for her to stop before he got agitated, then asked everyone to go to the table. Joey helped Saul out of his easy chair and led him to the seat of honor. We all sat around chatting, mostly about Saul before he got sick. Occasionally, he would jump in, sometimes with appropriate remarks, sometimes with ones completely off base. But, regardless, he was calm and smiling.

After lunch, I lit the candles on the cake, and Joey carried it to the table. I asked Saul to blow them out. He did—two of the three anyway.

Florence put a birthday hat on Saul’s head and gave him a party horn. He started to blow the horn, and in between he started laughing, as if he knew something no one else did. It was really quite cute. He was having so much fun, laughing and laughing. After a few minutes, he became quiet, but he stayed seated at the table.

The whole day couldn’t have gone better. Everyone left by four. Saul took a nap while I cleaned up. I saved the candles. There won’t be many more birthdays.

Saul

A Bit Lewd

I
’m not myself today. Now, that even gives me a tickle. I mean, how can you be yourself when you’re morphing into a monster? And by at least one account, I am not only a monster but also a pervert.

Monique told me that today through her running mascara. If she’s going to be on a constant crying jag, why doesn’t she give up the damn mascara? I mentioned that to her, and all I got was a tongue job. No, I don’t mean what you think I mean, but in a way it’s all related.

First of all, by tongue job, I mean she kind of stuck her tongue out at me like we did in Miss Novak’s grade-three class. You were probably thinking some sex thing, when some of them do the tricks. But like I already told you, Monique doesn’t do the tricks.

She said I went into the kitchen last night as naked as God. I guess I’m going to find out if he’s wearing clothes soon enough—and frankly, I think I’m ready. Anyway, Monique said I was playing with my thing, and that she told me to stop, but I wouldn’t. She said it was repulsive.

I asked her if I’d had an explosion. That really upset her. But I figured it would have been a pity to go through all that and not have an explosion. I can’t remember the last time I had one of them with Monique, but given my state, that’s probably not news to you. And maybe, just maybe, now that she knows I won’t remember much, she tried a couple of those tricks, or at least one of them—you know the one I mean. But I doubt it. I don’t think Monique ever had much fun with me when it came to sex. It was always a reward for good behavior. Some reward—a
zaftig
woman with cellulite and stretch marks lying face up on the bed under the bright light, with her eyes squeezed shut, as if awaiting her executioner—not exactly Linda Lovelace in heat!

Monique

Humiliation

S
aul is really going downhill. I shiver whenever I think of taking him out in public and tremble when I think of being alone with him.

Last week, I drove him downtown for lunch. One of my old friends, Danielle Lafontaine, was walking by with her nine-year-old granddaughter. She saw us sitting out on the sidewalk terrace and stopped to say
bonjour
. We hadn’t talked in a long time, and I wasn’t sure how much she knew about Saul’s condition, but the hesitant smile and quick kiss on his cheek answered the question.

Saul looked up at her and over at the little girl and started spewing the “F” word. Danielle grabbed her granddaughter’s hand and rushed away.

That wasn’t the first time he’d sworn like that in public, and Dr. Tremblay told me it probably wouldn’t be the last. But I can’t exactly hang a sign around his neck saying Alzheimer’s patient, so what am I supposed to do?

If it were just that, I could probably handle it. What really scares me is being alone with him. There are things I haven’t shared with you, the children, or anyone else. They were too humiliating. But I have to tell someone.

A few days ago, he walked into the kitchen naked and began to masturbate. I told him in a firm voice that his behavior was unacceptable. He called me Gisele and told me he was going to give it to me. Suddenly, he turned me around and raised my dress. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. He ripped my apron and then my dress, and we both tumbled to the floor. Then a few moments later, he pushed himself up on his knees, stood up, and left the room as if nothing had happened.

The next day, he started wandering around the house, calling my name. I told him I was there. He glanced at me with a blank look and asked me if I had seen Monique.

I said, “I am Monique.”

He continued walking through the house, calling for me. I followed him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. I had already installed special latches on the cabinets, security locks on the windows, and hung chimes on the outside doors so I would know if he left the house, but I was still afraid he would find a way to hurt himself.

When he got to our bedroom, he turned around and slapped me in the face, pushed me to the floor, jumped on top of me, and started punching my stomach. Moments later, as I lay on the carpet covered in my own vomit, he knelt beside me, stroked my hair, and asked me why I was crying.

Dr. Tremblay had told me that Saul might get violent, but I wasn’t expecting this. I know I am supposed to be sympathetic, but that’s getting harder and harder. I am about to go off the deep end.

The next morning, I called Joey and Florence. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them what had happened that night or any other night, nor will I ever. I just said things were getting worse and muttered my way through the conversations without mentioning any of the horrific details. We all agreed it was time. In fact, both children had told me months ago that it was time. So I called Manoir Laurier to find out if they still had rooms available. When I’d visited there two months ago, I’d found it more like a senior citizen’s home than a place where awful people like me abandon their spouses. That made me feel somewhat better.