An Absent Mind (8 page)

Monique

How Sad for Him, How Sad for Me

S
aul was sitting in front of the television, a blank look on his face. He seemed so sad, so empty. And he has every right to be that way. What does he have to look forward to? What quality of life? What happiness? It takes him forever to get dressed. His taste buds are diminishing. The doctor said he’s all but lost his sense of smell.
Mon Dieu
, that’s half the enjoyment of eating. And I always seem to be cutting up his food when we go out. I know he can sort of do it most of the time, but I am tired of being embarrassed in public. Mind you, having people watch me cut his meat isn’t exactly a pleasure, either.

He certainly can’t enjoy wearing clothes like he used to. He doesn’t seem to be able to focus on a book anymore, and his patience when it comes to playing cards or games is almost nonexistent. As far as I’m concerned, he has no quality of life. And he is really getting depressed. I do everything I can to distract him from all the desolation he must be going through, but it’s a losing battle.

Maybe he’d be better off dead, and maybe I’d be better off, too.

I know you are probably saying to yourself, What a shrew she is! Her poor husband is ill, dying a slow, wretched death, and she’s there pitying herself. That may be how it appears, but it’s not the case. I wish people could understand what I go through every day. They all feel sorry for Saul. What about me?

I feel like I’m almost invisible. People hardly ever ask how I’m doing, and when they do, it’s seems like they are asking because they feel they have to, but they really couldn’t care less. No one gives me any support. I’m not going to go to one of those caretaker support groups. First of all, I can’t see how a bunch of people stuck in the same boat are going to be able to help one another. And I’m not going to have some social worker lecture me. Besides, as I’ve told you before, I can’t leave Saul alone.

Florence does come by, and Joey breezes in and out, usually for ten minutes. And Saul has a couple of friends like Arthur Winslow who visit on a regular basis. But I am the one stuck alone here every day, wandering the house with him at night, being the object of his physical abuse, carrying wet naps in my purse to wipe his drool. My God, what’s next?

Do you know that I’m on Valium to control my anxiety? That my stomach is on fire all day, and that I’m practically addicted to Tagamet? That I now carry nitroglycerin in my purse for my heart condition?

I wish I could just tell someone all that—someone who cares and would understand. I’ve tried with Florence, but although she listens and offers some comfort, I know it’s her father she’s concerned about. And forget Joey, that would be a waste of time. Dr. Tremblay said I should feel free to call him if I were experiencing any difficulty, but when I called him, he just said he would send over a refill for my Valium prescription. Saul may be the one with Alzheimer’s, but I’m the one suffering a long and miserable life.

Saul

I’m Not Gone Yet

I
know it’s sunset for me, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is what’s her name, yeah, Monique. She seems to think I’m all but a goner with a miserable life. Actually, when she’s not around to bully me, I’m fairly content. Well,
content
may not be the right word, but it’s close enough. I mean, I kind of enjoy watching television, even if I miss a lot of what’s going on. It’s a miracle if I can concentrate until the end of a program. Although, for the most part, I can in the morning, but it gets almost impossible as the day goes on, especially with those damn commercials. Sometimes I feel like they stick them in there just to see if I can remember what was going on in the show—sort of a test to see how far gone I am. But I’m still here, although maybe not driving in the fast lane.

I still sort of enjoy my food, but one look at my belly would tell you that. I would really like it if we ate at some of my favorite restaurants, but Monique rarely takes me out anymore. My best guess is that she hates cutting my food in front of people. I would really like it if I could do it myself, but it would take hours, and probably most of the meal would end up on the floor. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.

She’s always asking me if I’m depressed. I didn’t think I was, but when she keeps insinuating—wow, another big word—that I am, I figure she must be right.

It’s like when my father used to tell me what a nothing I was. I didn’t want to make a liar of him, so that’s what I became—a nothing—at least till I moved out of his house. But when I move out of this house, I really will be a nothing!

So, am I depressed? Yes, I’m depressed. Who wouldn’t be? But I’ll be frank with you. The reason I’m depressed is not because of the disease, but because of her. I know what the disease is, what it means, and how it will end. But I am not there yet, and she just doesn’t get that.

Monique

Now What?

W
hen I came into the kitchen this afternoon, the kettle was in the refrigerator and a bunch of rags sat in the bottom of the dishwasher. I looked out the open window. Saul was in the garden, walking around the flower bed. I could hear him mumbling to himself, “I have to get home, I have to get home.”

I went outside and asked him what he was doing. He didn’t look up and didn’t stop pacing. So I put myself in front of him. He pushed me aside and kept going.

I said, “Saul, you are home.”

He looked over his shoulder and asked who I was. I told him I was his wife, Monique. He laughed.

A few minutes later, Florence stopped by on her way back from the office. Frankly, I don’t know why she still works. She and Bernie don’t need the money, given that his clothing business has done so well. She’s going to end up a bigger wreck than I am, what with the work, the kids, Bernie, and now her father. I worry about her.

Saul was pacing even faster now. Florence wanted to go outside and stop him. I said, “What for? Maybe he’ll get tired and sleep a little tonight.” He dozes off a lot during the day and keeps waking up at night. And sometimes he’ll get out of bed and just wander around the house. I can’t let him go by himself, so I follow him. Last night, he was up for over an hour, searching for his father. I tried to explain that his father was dead, but that didn’t go over too well. He screamed, “I’m going to find him, and when I do, I’m going to give him a licking!”

I know the doctor said not to argue with him or correct him, because he probably won’t remember what I say anyway. But sometimes I get so frustrated that I want to tear my hair out.

I made a pot of coffee, took some macaroons out of the ceramic jar in the pantry, and put them on the table. Florence kept staring out the window. I could see the tears welling up in her tired eyes. I used to watch him, too, but now I figure there’s nowhere he can go, so why drive myself crazy?

I told Florence about an incident last week with her father. He was screaming at the top of his lungs from the basement that there was an intruder in the house and I should call the police. I wasn’t sure what to do. I grabbed a kitchen knife and tiptoed over to the back stairs. All I could hear was him still yelling for me to call for help. I slowly made my way down the stairs. Saul was standing by the pool table, pointing. “There he is, there he is,” he kept saying.

“I don’t see anyone,
mon cher
,” I said, my hand still gripping the knife tightly in my fist.

He gestured toward the mirror in front of him. “Why don’t you call them?” he begged, “before he attacks us.”

I took his arm, turned him around, and led him back upstairs.

Saul

My Mother

“I can’t find it,” I screamed for the zillionth time. “Damn it! I can’t find it!”

Monique rushed into the room and asked me what I was looking for. My forehead scrunched up, and I slammed my fist into the wall.

“What?” she asked again. This time, her voice was only a whisper in the distance.

The wall suddenly took on different shades of yellow and orange, dancing in front of me like a well-orchestrated symphony. The notes zoomed in and out, faster and faster. Then, just as swiftly as they appeared, they vanished. Now the wall was once again its same old bland color. My head felt like a truck had rolled over it and reversed for good measure.

“What were you looking for,
mon cher
?” Monique asked softly, as she drew me to her bosom.

“I don’t know,” I replied. And I didn’t. I had a vague recollection that I had been searching for something, but it was only a distant thought. This wasn’t the first time I had blanked, and according to Dr. Tremblay, it wouldn’t be the last.

It’s ironic that I had often blanked—even when God wasn’t yet robbing me of my memory—when I was trying to reconstruct some of my childhood recollections.

Sure, I remembered splashing in the ocean off Cape Cod. Going to the lobster pound and staring into the dark blue tank that housed what seemed like thousands of giant lobsters, which were fighting and clawing to get nowhere but to my paper plate, alongside the fries and creamy coleslaw. And, of course, there was the merry-go-round at the amusement park, and the ever-present cotton candy on my chin. But those were the times spent with my aunt and uncle and cousins from Ontario.

My father was usually too busy to go with us, and my mother was often a no-show, depending on her social schedule, or perhaps I should say her “socialite” schedule. My mother’s calling on this earth was not to see, but to be seen. She loved being seen by the photographers from the Montreal
Gazette
, especially the ones from the social page, and mingling with the fancy folks who lived off the rarefied oxygen that was pumped only into upper Westmount. And not only was she was good at it; she was the best.

No one could ingratiate herself like Hannah. She was like a salamander, slithering up the hill from our apartment in Snowdon, which was then the Jewish ghetto. She was one of the few who didn’t need a special visa to get in, either. Her wardrobe spoke rich, her vocabulary spoke rich, and, to her credit, her sense of style spoke rich. But we weren’t rich. Like I told you before, my father was an accountant, but not to the rich. In fact, he hated the rich. Probably because he wasn’t and never would be. But my mother dragged him along on most of her outings, his body draped in the same tuxedo that she had bought him for one of his birthdays, instead of the fishing rod he asked for.

My mother was so good at what she did that she once had a woman over for tea who was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country. They lived in a mansion up on the hill. Mother all but redecorated the living room for the event. It looked like a movie set. I, of course, was instructed to disappear. But my sister, after much primping and a visit to the hairdresser at the tender age of twelve, was ordered to join the command performance, albeit for five minutes and no more, at which point she was expected to curtsy her way back to reality.

Sometimes I think Mother would have been happier in one of those loveless marriages where everyone gets what they want. She was certainly pretty enough to be a model. And I’m sure there were rich men, even if they were ugly, or old, or both, who would have liked a trophy wife. She probably wouldn’t have had to have sex that often. My guess is that she didn’t do too much of that with my father anyway, so at least she would have had the status that she so desperately wanted. My sister and I would not have been born, of course, which might not have been good for my sister. But then, she died too early—much too early.