An Absent Mind(15)

Saul





Corroboration of My Death Sentence


Monique isn’t angry with me today. In fact, she took me for sushi in the basement of Westmount Square, a tall, boxy group of three black buildings—or maybe four. She pulled out my chair. I hate it when she does that, so I pushed it back in and accidentally knocked over the soy sauce thing. She scooped it off the table and put it on an empty table beside us. We both stood there—she with her hands on her hips, looking at me; me staring through her.

We finally sat down, but not before I pulled her chair out. She smiled and then asked me if I wanted soup or salad to start.

I said, “Soup or salad.”

She asked, “Which one, soup or salad?”

I replied, “Damn it, I said soup.”

She said, “Maybe you should have the salad; you may spill the soup.”

A young Oriental girl brought the salad. I winked at her and held out my hand. She seemed a bit startled.

Monique grabbed my arm and yanked it away, apologizing to her at the same time. Something about my having the big A disease. The girl offered a faint smile and left the ordering and writing things in front of us. Monique said she would do it for us. I told her I could do it for myself and was going to order for her, too.

She touched my arm, and I shrugged her off. I picked up the writing thing and asked her what she wanted. She told me. I searched the menu for a long time but couldn’t find it.

“They don’t have it,” I finally said. “Pick something else.”

She said, “They have it; I’ll check it off.”

She picked up her writing thing and made a quick check. I scrunched my eyes together, opened them wide, and put my own checks on the menu. Then I waved it in front of me to get the young girl’s attention. She reached over the table from Monique’s side and plucked it out of my hand.

In what seemed like just moments later, she put two plates in front of me.

“I didn’t order this,” I said.

She wanted to know what I’d ordered.

“I don’t remember,” I said, my eyes tearing, “but not this.”

She looked at Monique and nodded.

Monique said, “Why don’t you eat it anyway, dear; it looks delicious?”

I replied, “I will not,” and pushed back my chair and folded my arms across my chest.

Monique asked for the bill. Then, while we waited, she told me she’d gotten me something, and pulled a small box out of her purse. It was a silver bracelet. The front said Medic Alert. The back had a toll-free 800 number, the words Memory Impaired—Allergic to Penicillin—Call Immediately, and my new moniker, 344689. She slung it over my wrist and locked it into place, branding me like they do cattle. That made it official. Saul Reimer, number 344689, has Alzheimer’s.





Florence





He’s Still a Human Being


Mother and I have just come back from seeing Dr. Tremblay to discuss Father’s results. Dr. Tremblay said he was already into the middle stage, which he told us is normal, considering it’s been three years since he was diagnosed. That was no surprise. But nonetheless, the way he has been acting lately has frightened me. What were occasional behaviors are now normal. And what was the norm is now only occasional.

I look at him the same way. But I notice that Joey, and to some extent Mother, treat him like the disease that has taken over his existence. He may have lost a lot and be unable to function like we do, but he isn’t a vegetable and shouldn’t be treated like one.

The other day, he wanted to wear his favorite paisley tie, one that Mother has always felt was gaudy. Now that Father is basically powerless to resist, Mother told him he couldn’t wear it. I mean, what’s the big deal? She said he wouldn’t know the difference, and she wanted him to look good when she took him for lunch at Westmount Square. But I could see the sparkle leave his eyes as she reached over his broad shoulders to tie a knot on the boring brown tie.

What about his pride and self-esteem? He still has that left, but he won’t for long if they continue to paint him as if he’s already gone, as some sort of contaminated subhuman being. I believe, and I have told them both, that we should do whatever we think he wants, not what we want, so that the remaining time he has living at home can be as comfortable as possible for him. Dr. Tremblay said there is no use in correcting him when he makes a mistake. All that will do is upset him, and he won’t remember anyway.

Now, more than ever, he needs to feel our love and caring—even if Joey has to fake it. He was good at faking it when he needed money from Father, so it really shouldn’t be too difficult for him. I think Mother, although they have quarreled since I can remember, really does love Father, or at least cares for him. So even if it means biting her tongue and letting him do what he wants, why shouldn’t she?

He may not be able to function normally, but he isn’t just Saul Reimer, a middle-stage Alzheimer’s victim, whose worth is the sum total of the results of all the tests he has taken. He is my father, a man, and a human being.





Saul





Quicksand


Last night, I had a dream.

I am walking down an endless highway. One of those two-lane roads that goes on forever. The pavement changes to some kind of Jell-O, but I continue walking through it as if it were still the real road. Suddenly, the Jell-O starts to attack me. I try to move my feet. They’re stuck. I start to sink in slow motion, until the gooey liquid is up to my neck.