An Absent Mind(37)

Joey said, “Mom, he knows you’re here.”

Mother nodded, and said, “Yes, I’m sure he does.”

And I believe he did. He has those moments where you just know he’s back with you. This was definitely one of them.

Twenty minutes later, Joey looked at his watch and cleared his throat. Mother and I were familiar with the signal. It was time to go. I helped her up. She bent over Father and gave him a kiss on his forehead, followed by a kiss on his lips, and a long hug. Then she took Joey’s arm, and we left Father’s room.





Monique





Day 668—My Saul


Joey, Florence, and I went down to visit Saul today. Maybe I’m just getting used to seeing him like that, shriveled, hands closed, like he’s holding one of Dugin’s balls, his face contorting now and then. So when I first saw him today, it was not any different from any other day.

Then he looked at me. I mean really looked at me. It was as if we were connecting once again, just like when we first met. I don’t believe it lasted for more than a minute, if that, but it was truly magic.

I don’t remember if he said anything besides when he called me chou-fleur. That stunned me. Other than nonsensical chatter, he hasn’t uttered a word in over a year. It was as if he felt this might be the last time we would ever see each other. And, you know, I think it was so powerful for both of us, that even if it were the last time, what a wonderful way for me to remember him.

Dr. Tremblay said that Alzheimer’s patients sometimes open their eyes like they’re trying to communicate, wanting to say good-bye, just before they pass away. I always thought that was hogwash. If they can’t think, how could they do that? Yet I am convinced that’s what happened today. And that’s going to both comfort me and cause me anguish as I try to sleep tonight.





Saul





Day 668—I Saw Her


JuSt … hEr as Pretti…CHoo fLeuR





Joey





Day 669—Too Soon


Around seven this morning, I took Mom some tea and dry toast. I placed the tray on the dresser by her bed. She was lying on her side, facing the wall. I said, “Mom, time for breakfast.” No reply. I said again, “Mom, your breakfast is here.” Nothing. So I shook her a little, not wanting to startle her. She rolled over, away from me just a bit, but enough to alarm me. I took her by the shoulders and tried to move her into a sitting position, but she was limp. I felt her face. It was cold. I don’t know how to take someone’s pulse, but it was clear to me that she was gone.

Before bedtime, she had complained about having the worst headache of her life. I gave her two Tylenol and stayed with her until she fell asleep. I looked in on her around midnight and could hear her moving in the darkness, so it must have happened between then and seven. Anyway, I called 911, and the medics were here within minutes. I watched as the younger one felt for a pulse. After a moment, he looked up at me and shook his head.

To be honest with you, I didn’t know what I would feel when Mom died. We were never that close. But it really hit me when the guy looked up at me. I watched her lying there alone in that big bed, no one to hold her, no one to protect her. I guess it’s too late for all that.

Do you remember I told you before that I would stay with her for up to a month and then reassess the situation if she wasn’t better? Well, I meant it then, but as the time went by, I realized for the first time how much she loved me, and how just opening myself up a little to her, exposing myself a bit, just taking a chance—how much better it made me feel.

I actually realized it a few days after she got back from the hospital. I had made her a sandwich for lunch and called her into the kitchen. She shuffled in from the living room in her worn pink slippers, which she must have had since before my bar mitzvah. Her body wavered from side to side. I reached out and took her arm, guiding her to the chair by the window.

She looked up at me and said, “Joey, you have been out of my life for too long.”

I knew she was right, and it wasn’t proximity she was referring to. It was an emotional distance that had stretched further and further as time went on—until now. Sadly, with that epiphany less than a couple of weeks old, she’s gone.

And now I feel like I’m rootless. Florence has Bernie and the kids. Even Dad has the staff at the home, although whether he even knows that is another story. But when I leave here today and go back to the apartment, I’ll basically be an orphan. I have no real attachments to my sister or her family. I can’t even remember the last time I went over when it was just us being together and not a family meeting about Dad. Sure, I’ve got some friends, but no one who would go to the mat for me, and as for girlfriends—maybe I should have kept Maria or even Gabrielle. But that all doesn’t matter now. They’re gone from my life, and there are no replacements on the horizon.

So here I am. Alone. No mother. No father. No one.





Florence





Day 669—Shock


I usually don’t drink, but last night Bernie and I celebrated our wedding anniversary at the local bistro with a bottle of champagne. So this morning when the phone rang, I just let it go to voice mail. Less than a minute later, it rang again. Daniel must have been up, playing one of his video games, and he answered. I heard him yell for me, so I fumbled for the phone, dragging the cord toward me.