An Absent Mind (13 page)

Saul

Day 2—Where Am I?

W
hen I woke up this morning, my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I looked out the window. The Brodsky’s house wasn’t there anymore. They must have moved it in the middle of the night. I put my blue-checkered robe over my pajamas and headed into the kitchen like I always do, but it wasn’t there, either. In its place was some kind of lounge with couches and chairs. I guess if they could move a house, they could certainly move a kitchen!

I hollered for Monique, but she didn’t answer. So I started searching for her. The house just didn’t seem the same. For one thing, I never would have let Monique paint the hallways pink. That’s for sure. It’s enough that I let her get away with it in the bedroom.

Some lady came over to me, put her hand on my arm, and asked me if I was okay.

“Hell no!” I said. “How can I be okay when someone moved the kitchen and repainted the hallway?”

She smiled at me. Kind of the same smile Friedman always doled out, but she was much prettier than Friedman. She took my hand and started leading me back toward my bedroom. I yanked it away, almost knocking her to the floor in the process. I picked up steam as I came to the end of the corridor and rushed into an open elevator. But we don’t have an elevator in the house. I pushed the lowest button, and a few moments later, when the doors opened, I was in a big room with fancy furniture and a glass wall that looked out onto a garden. I must have walked into the wrong house!

I went over to a woman sitting at a desk by the front door and apologized for barging in. She, too, gave me the Friedman smile.

Then something snapped in my head, and I realized I had no idea where I was, but it wasn’t at home with Monique. And wherever I was, I was all alone. I sank down to the cold marble floor and began to cry.

Monique

Day 2—What’s Happening?

I
didn’t sleep the whole night. I kept reaching out for Saul. Finally, I got myself out of bed, took a hot shower, and headed down the hill to see him.

The autumn air was cold, but I decided to walk instead of taking a taxi. Part of me wanted to get there as soon as possible, but another part, frankly, never wanted to get there at all.

The first set of glass doors opened, and I waited as they closed behind me. For a moment, it felt like I, too, was imprisoned, stuck between the two doors, trapped, just like Saul upstairs. I pushed the black button on the wall, and the second set of doors opened. I inhaled a deep breath of air and made my way through the lobby to the elevator.

When I got upstairs, I went down the hall to Saul’s room. He wasn’t there. I panicked. Horrible thoughts filled my mind. Had he escaped? Was he dead? What would I tell the children? How could I live knowing I would never see him again?

I heard voices behind me, one of them familiar.

“What are you doing here?” Saul asked. “I told you I don’t want the room done until after lunch.”

I turned and smiled, holding my arms out. Then he told me he had no intention of sleeping with me, that I was just a cheap whore. Besides, he said, Monique would be home any minute.

The nurse patted his arm, saying, “Mr. Reimer, this is your wife.”

He said, “Of course,” and then kissed me on the cheek before walking into his room.

The nurse told me I could take him to the dining room for breakfast, that it was okay as long as the residents could eat by themselves, or with a caregiver.
Mon Dieu
, I have gone from a wife to a mother over many years, and now from a wife and mother to a caregiver in only two days!

She said once the residents deteriorated to the point where it wasn’t possible to eat in the dining room anymore, they would have to eat in the third-floor lounge, where there was more supervision and where the staff could help feed them. And when things got worse, they would have to have their meals in their rooms. I can barely cope with today, let alone allowing myself to imagine Saul ending up worse than those crazies we saw last night.

There were only a few people in the dining room. One elderly lady sat at a table by a large window that overlooked the quiet residential street, chewing the same piece of food over and over again, while her private nurse waited to give her the next spoonful. Another woman wandered between the tables until one of the servers took hold of her arm and guided her back to her seat.

I chose a table in the corner by a fake palm tree. Saul pulled my chair out and waited until I sat down before doing so himself. He seemed not to notice that he was in this new milieu. He asked me about the kids, wanting to know whether Joey’s business was doing okay yet and whether Florence would be stopping by to see him. I can’t figure all this out. It’s like sometimes he’s here and sometimes he’s not, like in that television program
The Twilight Zone
.

The dining room was much like a typical Sheraton hotel. For a moment, it was as if Saul and I were having breakfast on one of our trips. Except there was no newspaper in front of Saul’s face. We used to travel a lot, until he became more and more reluctant to leave home. I didn’t know it then, but I know now that not wanting to leave familiar surroundings is an early sign of Alzheimer’s. I wonder if he would be any better off today if I had recognized it back then.

A spindly waitress in a gray uniform brought over two plates heaped with scrambled eggs and placed them in front of us.

I said, “My husband absolutely detests scrambled eggs and will never eat them. Can he have something else?”

As she rattled off the other choices, I looked over at Saul, who had a vacant smile on his face, and was shoveling the last of the eggs into his mouth. I hardly know this man anymore, I thought.

Saul

Day 2—Good Food

Went to a new food place with Monique. Really good. We’re going back next time.

Saul

Day 33—The Police

T
o the best of my recollection, I have never called 911—until today. But when it comes to murder—my own murder—I had no choice. There is some kind of conspiracy to keep me here against my will and assassinate me. It’s the same group who were responsible for John Lennon’s death and the attempt on Ronald Reagan’s life. They’ve now moved north into Canada, and I am their first intended victim. I suspected something when they began following me every time I left the house. They never spoke directly to me. They didn’t have to. I knew they were after me.

I just got off the phone with Sergeant Lacolle. The others I spoke to before him asked for my address and phone number and said they would send a car, but no one ever showed up. So finally, I asked for a supervisor and got this Lacolle guy. He seemed to be familiar with my case. I asked him when the police were going to come for me, and if I should hide until they arrived. As I said that, I looked around the room and told the sergeant there was no real closet, just a shallow thing stuck on the wall. I asked if I should hide in the bathroom. He said that really wasn’t necessary.

I asked him how many police cars there would be.

He said, “At least two.”

I said, “That’s good, because there are probably a lot of bad guys.”

He asked me if I would be okay until then. I told him it was hard to tell, because if those same guys who were holding me here against my will got through the barricade I had set up against the door, there was no telling what they might do. He said his officers were on their way and should be here in a moment.

I told him I heard loud banging on my door. He said that must be his men and that I should remove the barricade and let them in.

I said, “What if it’s not your men?”

He said he was sure. And he was a policeman—not only a policeman—but a sergeant.

So I laid the receiver on the table and moved the bureau away from the door.

Sergeant Lacolle is a liar.

Monique

Day 185—Music

S
aul was sitting in his favorite chair, dressed in a polo shirt and cardigan sweater, gazing out the window—watching nothing. He looked up and smiled when he heard the door bang against the wall as it opened. I pulled out a container of yogurt from my bag and asked him if he wanted any. “No, never,” he said. So I put it in the small fridge by the bathroom and took a seat in the brown leather chair opposite him.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked.

“How are you feeling today?” he repeated.

“Did you have a good sleep?” I asked.

“Sleep,” he said.

And that’s how it went for the few minutes we spent together, until one of the orderlies came in to remind me that they were having a sing-along in the lounge. I asked Saul if he wanted to go downstairs and spend some time with the other residents. He stood up without answering. I took him by the arm and guided him toward the elevator.

The lounge was full when we arrived. There were tables covered in red plastic lined up neatly across the room. Most of the residents were in wheelchairs, many of them slouching forward, their eyes closed. I guess they were the zombies from the third floor.

We took a seat on a bench in the back. A young woman, maybe twenty-five years old, with straight blond hair down to her waist, was singing and playing an acoustic guitar that was hanging from her neck on a bright yellow cord. Saul seemed more interested in checking out the others in the room than in watching her.

In a way, I’m glad we waited this long to bring him here, because he would be mortified if he knew he was in a room with people who were so far gone. He is one of the sanest here. No, that’s not the word I mean. He is one of those who are not yet in the final stages of the disease. Sometimes, when I think of that, I feel blessed that I will have him around longer. But then I look around at some of the others and realize that he will end up just like them. And then I think, What will it be like for him? And what will it be like for me?

The young woman handed out tambourines to a few of the residents and began singing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” She stopped in front of a man who held one of the tambourines in his hand. He was just staring at it. She took it from him and started banging on it. The man smiled as she handed it back to him, and she watched as he hit the tambourine against the table. Then he began to sing the words out loud, a huge grin on his face, like a child who had done something he was proud of. The woman moved on, cajoling many of those in the room to join her as she played one song after another.

The man beside me seemed comatose until she sang in French. Then his eyes opened and his head bobbed from side to side. When she started singing in English again, he went back to wherever he had been.

As she approached Saul, he stood up, ever the gentleman, even in his state. She began to sing “Shine on Harvest Moon.” Saul put his arm around her shoulder and started harmonizing. He had been a member of a barbershop quartet for years, and that was his favorite song. Saul may be—what’s that expression?—down on the canvas—but don’t count him out yet.