An Absent Mind(21)

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.





Florence





Symptoms


The 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


Today 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.