An Absent Mind (11 page)

Joey

Am I Screwed?

Y
esterday, I went to my doctor, who told me that there are genes you inherit that can tell if you are predisposed to Alzheimer’s. I’d never heard of that. I asked if there was a test, and he said yes, but they don’t do it in Quebec, because if the results are bad, a person might think of doing something untoward. I assume he meant suicide.

Well, I’m not going to hang around and wait. I’ll go down to the States and get tested if I have to. I can handle whatever the results may be, but I can’t handle the uncertainty of not knowing whether there is a time bomb ticking in my body that is already eating away at my brain.

I watch my old man, a tough prick if there ever was one—cold, indifferent, distant, not much of a father, frankly—turning into a lapdog. You know, they say that what goes around comes around. In his case, he must be paying for how he treated not only me but Mother, as well. She was the quintessential doormat, and now she rules the roost. In a way, I figure she must secretly be enjoying the power she wields. She tells him what do wear, what to eat, when to go to sleep, and he can’t so much as utter a peep about it—and if he does, my guess is that she blows him off and does what she wants anyway. Frankly, given what she’s been through all these years, I’m not sure I blame her. Ah, revenge is sweet!

I’m pissed off that he may have passed on the bad genes to me. I mean, I know that part’s not his fault, but I kind of feel that not only has he not been there for me but that as a last act he may have dealt me the early-death card. And maybe Florence has the bad genes, too, and may pass them on to her boys.

Saul

Custer’s Last Stand

T
hat’s what I’m acting out now, trying to keep up appearances, trying to fool the last Indians sneaking up on me. And it is becoming more than wearisome. In fact, it’s becoming practically impossible.

I’m not sure, but I think I told you about the blackboard, the one where I can see things, but sometimes I can’t say them like they’re written on the board. Well, now it’s even hard for me to read the blackboard, let alone tell you what it says. It’s sort of okay at this moment—a bit jumbled, but I can make out most of it.

Before, I could think rationally for good amounts of time and talk to you like I am now. Those hours of clarity are turning into minutes, and will eventually be seconds, and then just a dark, empty hole. The times of going until sundown in a fairly normal state are all but—I was going to say a fading memory, but then you would think, Well—duh—he’s crazy! But I am not crazy, just one of the millions of unlucky winners of a worldwide lottery that will eventually reduce me to ashes.

I say ashes because that is what I am requesting in the letter I am composing right now. But it is so hard to write anymore. Do you see those crumpled balls of white paper lying on the floor? They’re from my frustration at not being able to join the letters that once were the best letters anyone ever wrote. That’s what Mrs. Trautman told me in the seventh grade. In fact, she said I would probably be a … calligraf … something—damn, I am getting tired of not being able to find the words I want. And the more tired I get, the harder it is. The point I am trying to make is that as I put the words down on paper, they don’t always look like what I meant to write.

I already told you I have a will, and it’s down at Friedman’s office. The thing I’m writing today is a cod … ah … cod … codicil—yes, that’s the word! When I get a word, especially a big one like that, I feel like my mother should appear with a double-chocolate Howard Johnson’s ice-cream cone as a reward. There would be no worry of my gaining weight, because I don’t get that many words right, as you have probably guessed by now; besides, there’s not that much time left.

My mother is gone. It was really pathetic watching her waste away. Toward the end, her face looked like a spider colony from smoking those foul cigarettes.

I am asking Monique and the children not to have a funeral service. Just to take my body up to the crematorium. I don’t want anyone to open my casket. Just let them lower the box into the stove, or whatever it is, and get it over with. I don’t want them to hang around until the flames cut through the wood and start licking my body.

I am almost as good as gone right now. I sometimes pray God will speed things up. No Manoir Laurier, no Belfrage Hospital—just straight to the cemetery—like in that game where you go directly to jail without collecting your two hundred dollars.

I can count on the children to bury my ashes beside Mother, Father, and Miriam. It will probably be sad for them because they will see there are places for them, and, of course, for Monique.

I have a confession to make. I didn’t really tell you the whole truth about the funeral stuff. The fact is, I am worried that very few people will show up. I was never Mr. Popularity, and being kind of a hermit, I haven’t kept up with whatever friends I had, if indeed they were friends at all. I don’t want to embarrass my family. I can just see the chapel at Silverberg and Sons—empty except for a few souls scattered in the back rows. In the Jewish religion, the immediate family sits off to the side so they can weep in peace without everyone seeing them. I’m not sure they would need much Kleenex at my funeral.

I once heard Alzheimer’s called “the disease of many farewells,” so named because we slide further and further down the slippery slope to darkness, with no chance of recovery. But I have already given up on any chance of recovery.

For me, Alzheimer’s is just a slow dance with death. Soon I won’t know who I am or where I am. But Monique and the others will. I want to spare them the trouble of taking care of me or visiting me in an institution. And I want to spare myself the humiliation of being bathed, fed, and having my diaper changed—even though I may not know what is happening.

But today Monique told me everything would be all right, and that she would be there for me. And who knows, she said in an absent voice, maybe they’ll find a cure.

After she said that, I reluctantly found my way to my den and pulled that book out from under a stack of magazines. I had written myself a note and left it on my desk, telling me where the book was in case I forgot. I tossed it in the trash out back, and with it, my suicide plan. Now I’m in it for the long haul. But in my case, I guess the term
long
is relative.

Monique

The Cruise

S
aul and I love the ocean. We have probably been on more than twenty cruises over the years. So I figured that if there was anywhere for us to spend what would most certainly be our last holiday together before he goes to Manoir Laurier, it should be on the water.

Bernie and Florence said they had to take care of their kids, and Joey said he was still trying to get his business up and running. That left Saul and me to go alone, not something that made me happy. I was afraid that he would have one of his tantrums—or even worse.

After the episode with my friend Danielle and her granddaughter, which I shared with you, you’re probably thinking, why on earth would she take him on a cruise, of all things? Well, it probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I thought that this was about Saul. Some final pleasure, if it wasn’t too late already. And if I could do that for him, then it would all be worth it.

I chose the
Constellation Mariner
because we had sailed on it three or four times, and Saul might not feel as lost as he would on a ship he had never sailed on. I decided to hire a male nurse who had been recommended to me, as it was becoming more difficult to help Saul get around. And frankly, because I yearned for some adult conversation and company.

When the young man came to our door for his interview I knew right away that he was the one. He had olive brown skin which contrasted with his crisp white shirt, and a pleasant face with deep-set chestnut eyes. It turned out that he was from Lebanon and had been trained as an anesthesiologist over there. He couldn’t get certified in Quebec without going back to school for three years, something he couldn’t afford to do. It’s sad when someone else’s problems become our good fortune, but better that than the other way around, I suppose. Saul and I had enough misery already.

The trip from Montreal to Miami was easy. Amin wheeled Saul through the airport and onto the plane, then strapped him into the seat beside me. At the other end, a porter was waiting with another wheelchair and got us to a limo I had arranged, and we were off to Port Everglades, in Fort Lauderdale.

As we turned the corner after the security checkpoint, the ship came into view. I could see the look on Saul’s face, like that of a child who was seeing his first towering vessel. He pressed his face against the window and his eyes widened. Then he turned toward me and smiled. I wondered if he somehow knew this was going to be his last vacation.

Our cabin was one of the larger suites, located on deck ten. I chose that one because it had an oversize balcony, big enough to maneuver the wheelchair
Constellation
provided. Although Saul used a wheelchair at home only occasionally, I thought with the motion of the sea and the long corridors, it would be easier. Amin was in an adjoining room, so that I wouldn’t have to go out into the hallway in the middle of the night if I needed him.

The first evening, I decided that Amin should roll Saul to the dining room on deck five, as it would be easier to leave him in the wheelchair than to move him into one of the chairs at the table by the window.

Saul had his own plan. He said he wanted to sit in one of the chairs. I made the mistake of telling him he should stay where he was. Next thing I knew, he bellowed and then swept his long arm over the table, leaving only a few plates and two water glasses standing, and a big mess on the taupe carpet. My face turned scarlet. I was petrified to turn around, wondering how many diners had witnessed his tantrum. It’s one thing when your friends know about his condition, or when you won’t see people again, but I had nine more nights to suffer through and excuses to make. I could feel the heat of hundreds of eyes boring into my back as I watched Amin and the waiters quickly clean up the mess.

We managed to get through dinner without another incident. Saul sat in a dining room chair between Amin and me, and we both helped him with his food. I drank a little too much and now know how dizzy Saul must feel every night.

Saul said he wanted to walk back to the suite, and I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him. It took almost half an hour, as he kept stopping and talking to both real and imaginary people. I was sure by now that everyone on the ship had either seen or heard about the crazy man and his entourage.

There was another incident I want to share with you. One day—I think it was about halfway into the cruise—we were sitting alone on the deck outside the Globe Lounge at teatime. Amin had secured the wheels on Saul’s wheelchair and left us alone so he could get some well-deserved time off. I placed a straw in the ice tea and put the glass within Saul’s reach. He picked it up, put the straw in his mouth, and took a big sip. Then he put the glass back on the table, but he didn’t release his hand. Seconds later, he picked up the glass and drank again. This went on until the tea was drained. Then he stared at the empty glass for a moment and proceeded to pick it up and try to drink again. He did this over and over.

I told him there was nothing left and that he should put the glass down. He just looked through me. I told him again. He turned to me and smiled as he smashed the glass against the table. Then he picked up a large shard and sliced it across his arm, drawing a red river of blood.

I must have shrieked loudly enough to wake up all the sea life below. Two waiters raced outside. One grabbed the piece of glass from Saul’s hand, cutting himself in the process; the other one rushed back into the lounge, heading toward a telephone by the bar.

Moments later, Amin came flying through the door, followed by a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. He took Saul’s arm and wiped it with a napkin. Then Amin examined it and used the napkin as a tourniquet. He told the nurse that Saul had missed the artery but said they should move him down to the infirmary on deck three to get him stitched up.

Thank God the rest of the trip was normal—well, as normal as could be expected under the circumstances. But, you know, all in all—for Saul’s sake—I’m glad we went. And to be fair, there were some good moments—really good ones. Like when we were at the captain’s cocktail party and the band was playing a song Saul knew. He harmonized in a very quiet voice, forgetting most of the words, but with a glint in his eyes and just a slight hint of a wink and a smile as he turned to look at me. Or when we were watching a few couples dance to the band after dinner one night. He was in his wheelchair, but he looked over at me and in a clear voice asked me to dance. Before I could even figure out how to respond, his gaze slipped back to the floor, and he retreated into his own world. But just for that moment, a brief one at that, it was like it used to be when we cruised together. And moments like that made it all worth it.