An Absent Mind(6)

Today, everyone was there to give Joey support as he told Saul that he shouldn’t drive anymore. Joey told us it was going to be like taking a man’s penis away. Sometimes, for an educated young man, he has a foul mouth.

This is going to make our lives more difficult, because I never learned to drive. I think Saul’s driving is okay, maybe a little slow, certainly better than the kids who speed around Mount Royal in their fancy cars. But Joey said it was too dangerous, and the others agreed.

Saul didn’t take it well. I could see him fuming under his stiff smile. A few minutes after they left, he collapsed onto the sofa by the window and started sobbing—the first time I ever actually saw him break down. Once, after Florence was born, I heard him crying through the bathroom door. Those were tears of happiness.

I walked over to the sofa and sat down beside him. He took my hand and held it to his wet face. I started to weep. He asked what was wrong. I told him it hurt me that he was so sad. Suddenly, his tears stopped. He threw my arm off his chest and left the room.

I never know what to expect anymore. But I guess that’s a minor problem compared to what he’s going through. I can’t even imagine the anguish he must be feeling, knowing he will morph into someone I no longer know, and someone who does not know me. But I will be by his side, giving him whatever support I can—that’s the least I can do after so many years of marriage.





Saul





Day of Reckoning


The road wound endlessly through the flower-covered grounds of Roxboro Hospital. I thought Monique had tricked me. She told me we were going to see Dr. Tremblay, who is considered the guru for Alzheimer’s in Canada, and maybe the world. She said Dr. Horowitz is not an expert, and so only someone like Dr. Tremblay would really know. I was worried, not so much about maybe having Alzheimer’s, but that she was going to have me committed. You see, Roxboro is a mental hospital. She assured me that Dr. Tremblay’s office was not part of the hospital; rather, he just rented office space there. I figured maybe this was a conspiracy being perpetrated by Monique to get me out of the way so she could marry that guy who sings those romantic songs on television.

I had been to Roxboro only once, many years ago, and that was to visit one of my former associates from Legrand et Fils, the paper company I managed. His name was Jean-Paul something or other. A nice guy, but nuts! I figured that out my first day on the job, when he started chanting like he was a French-Canadian rabbi or something. Grand-Luc Legrand, the owner, so called not because of a stout girth, but, rather, as a tribute to his incredible height, didn’t figure it out for a few years, or maybe he didn’t want to know. But when Jean-Paul set fire to a huge pile of paper in front of him and the floor supervisor, practically blowing up the building, even he had to acknowledge it. Jean-Paul was committed the next day.

Roxboro is typical of the mental hospitals you see in the movies—gray, dank, and scary—not somewhere I would like to spend any meaningful time, that’s for sure. I would make quite a scene if they tried to get me committed there. That you can count on.

But it turned out Monique was telling me the truth. The office was in a small house by the back entrance of the hospital, probably a caretaker’s house years ago. I knew she was right when I spotted the brass plaque with Dr. Tremblay’s name on it on the front door. We waited in the empty anteroom until he bounded up the stairs, introduced himself, and led the way down to a large room in the basement.

Dr. Tremblay pointed to a chair in front of his desk, and I sat down beside Monique. He began asking her questions—like if I misplaced things. Well, of course I misplace things; everyone does. And that’s all she had to tell him. But no, she pulled out a wad of paper and told him a whole bunch of things—most of which I am sure were lies.

He asked Monique if I sometimes got lost. She told him how I had left the house to get a newspaper and was gone for hours. And how Westmount security called her to come and get me down at the station near City Hall, or whatever they call it now. I jumped in and reminded her that they were the banana police. The doctor didn’t know what banana police are, so I figured maybe he had a problem.

Monique explained that they are Westmount security officers who drive these yellow jeeps and aren’t really police, but give parking tickets and call the real police if there is a serious problem. He nodded like he really knew that, but I doubt it.

Then she told him about the incident with my trousers. I don’t know what happened, but I watched myself jump up from my seat and grab her by the shoulders. He was on our side of his big desk before you could say “yikes”—that’s what I used to say when I was a kid: “yikes.”

Next thing I knew, I was back in my seat, and the doctor was between Monique and me, leaning against the desk and continuing his interrogation. He asked Monique if I had lost interest in the things I used to love to do. She said I used to love the outdoors, tennis, and golf, but now all I do is stay in the den and watch television. Now that may be true, but at my age, what does she want me to do, take up bungee jumping?

The doctor smiled at me as he returned to his desk. I guess that was to reassure me or something. Then he started asking me all kinds of foolish questions. Like what floor we were on. I told him we were in the basement, but you would think he would have known that. Then he asked me who the president of the United States was. That one, I didn’t know, but I told him there are probably some Americans who wouldn’t get that one, either. He smiled. Then he asked me what the day and date were. I knew it was Monday because Monique hadn’t gone to her volunteer thing yesterday, but the date? “No,” I mumbled, “I don’t know the date.”