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?
When 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.
Florence
Bernie’s Visit
It seems a lifetime ago that I first met Bernie. He certainly was more boisterous back then, but he’s mellowed over the years. Even then, he was kind and compassionate deep down, although it was almost as if he didn’t want anyone to know it.
He went over to see Father today without me or the kids. Just the two of them. That took a lot of guts, given how Father feels about him. What no one knows, except Father, Bernie, and me—not even Mother—is that I became pregnant while we were in college. We found out two weeks after our engagement. The wedding was to be the following year, after graduation. A big affair at the Windsor Hotel. Something Mother insisted on, even though Father could barely afford it.
I told Father, figuring he would be more understanding than Mother. Was I wrong! He was more upset than I have ever seen him. He insisted on my having an abortion. “What would my friends think of a good Jewish girl getting knocked up?” he screamed. “What would they think of your little princess having an abortion?” I retorted.
Once he realized I wasn’t going to end the pregnancy, he reluctantly helped us concoct a story in which we had decided to move the wedding up because I would be working right after graduation. That was after he had given the hotel a deposit, but before he had to pay the band a third of their fee in advance.
Naturally, he didn’t blame me—I was the innocent victim. Bernie, however, became persona non grata. And it has remained like that to this day. Bernie learned to live with it and still went out of his way to be kind to Father. But believe me, there was no reciprocation. The sad irony of it all is that I had a miscarriage two months later, and it took me almost ten more years to get pregnant with our first son, Howard.
So today, with Father slipping, but still having some semblance of comprehension, Bernie decided to sit down with him and try to make peace.
The way Bernie tells it, the visit didn’t start off very well, even though he went over in the morning, when Father is generally more lucid. Father accused him of raping me, being a pimp, and other niceties, which even though I’m no prude, I can’t repeat here. Bernie said he waited him out, letting him vent.
When Father finished, he slouched back in his chair. Bernie started to speak, but Father raised his hand to stop him. Then he stood up and went over to Bernie, motioning for him to get up. He put his arms out and hugged Bernie and said he was glad he had come, that Bernie was a good father and a good husband, and how sorry he was for his attitude all these years. Then Father returned to his seat, propped his feet up on the ottoman, and asked Bernie how the kids were. And that was it. A few seconds later, he got up and turned on the television, as if Bernie wasn’t in the room. But Bernie said he didn’t care, that it was one of the best days of his life.
Saul
My Last Place on Earth
It’s all unraveling.
Last night, I found myself somewhere on Monkland Avenue. I had no idea how I got there. I looked in a store window and saw my reflection. It took me a bit to figure it all out—like that the person in the window was a man, and that the man was me.
I didn’t know what to do. I glanced down at the bracelet on my wrist and everything—well, not everything, but the gist of it all came back to me. I am Saul Reimer, formerly a healthy, intelligent man, married to the same woman for many years, and the father of two children he loves more than anything in the world.
The key word is formerly, as I am sure you’ve already figured out. Because today—and I have no idea what day it is, other than it is really cold and I wish I had a jacket on—I am nothing, not a real man, that’s for sure. I mean, how can you be a real man when you don’t even know where you are half the time, and when you do know, more often than not, you can’t grasp the concept of your surroundings?
I felt in my pocket for my wallet, but it wasn’t there. All I had was my bank card. I spotted an ATM machine at the corner. But when I got there, I couldn’t figure out how to work it. A woman walked up from behind. I gestured for her to go in front of me. She smiled and said she was in no rush. I looked at the machine, with all the words flashing across the screen. My hands were getting slimy, and beads of that wet stuff covered my forehead. Why couldn’t she just go first?
Then suddenly, it all made sense. I followed the directions, but it took me a few tries to get the card into the machine with the strip the right way. I looked behind me again. The woman was fidgeting with her purse strap. Then the machine asked me for a personal identification number. The good news is, I knew I had one. The bad news is, I had no idea what it was. My brain is like a shortwave radio, mostly static that occasionally finds the station, but even then the sound isn’t always clear.
In a way, it will be a blessing when my mind is totally gone, when I am a vegetable, slouched in a wheelchair. Like many Alzheimer’s patients on Montreal’s West Side, I’ll probably make a pit stop at Manoir Laurier. Then, when Manoir Laurier can’t cope with me, or we can’t afford it anymore, they’ll ship me off to Belfrage Hospital, my final stop on this beloved earth. I’ll be there, incontinent, drooling, and incoherent—that is, if I can even manage to get a word through my blistered lips. And when it’s all over—when my heart finally gives out, or I contract pneumonia, and my family says, “Let Saul go; he deserves some peace”—when that happens, they’ll take me down to the autopsy room, cut my skull open, and find the tangles and plaques on my brain. Then they will be able to say with 100 percent certainty that Saul Reimer had Alzheimer’s.
Monique
I Have to Stay Calm
Saul slipped out of the house while I was making dinner last night. I guess I didn’t hear the chimes on the door because the radio was on. The police told me they’d found him all the way down on Monkland Avenue. They said he looked dazed, and at first they thought he was drunk, but when they saw the bracelet on his wrist, they called the 800 number and brought him home.
And then today—and it’s not the first time—I watched him do the same thing over and over and over. Here’s what he does: He takes the books off the shelves, one by one, until you can’t see the floor. Then he tries to arrange them in some sort of order, but he gives up in disgust and haphazardly shoves them back again. No sooner has he finished than he dumps them on the floor and starts trying to organize them once again. And he babbles like an absentminded professor while he’s doing it.
When he’s not rearranging the books, he’s in the kitchen, emptying the cupboards and filling them up again. And when he’s done with that, he dumps Dugin’s dog biscuits into a large plastic bag and carries them into the bedroom, where he hides them beside the dresser. Sometimes I wait a few minutes before retrieving them, but most of the time Dugin is trailing behind him and drags the bag to his cushion by the back door.
By the end of the day, I am so worn-out that I can hardly stand. It used to be I could escape during the week for at least a few hours when I did my volunteer work, but Saul’s been too far gone for me to be absent at all.
Dr. Tremblay told me I need my strength in order to be an effective caregiver. He said if I didn’t get someone to come to the house, or put Saul in an adult daycare center, I would fall apart and be no good to anyone. Well, there is no way I am going to have someone else take care of him in my house, that’s for sure. I mean, even if I wanted to—and I don’t—what would people think if I’m out playing mahjong or going to a movie while leaving Saul with hired help?
Last week, we visited the Schaffer Centre. A heavyset woman with stained yellow teeth but a sweet smile nonetheless welcomed us as if we were family. But I knew within minutes that I would never leave Saul there with those blubbering idiots. I don’t want you to think that I’m insensitive, but they were like robots—most of them couldn’t walk, and they all seemed to be living on another planet.
Saul is heading downhill in slow motion, but a month or two of even a few hours a day there would speed up the process immeasurably. And I’m not going to let that happen.
One of Saul’s last joys in life is sitting in that big chair of his in the living room and having Dugin fetch his chewed-up rubber ball. The woman made it very clear there was no chance of him bringing Dugin to the Centre, even on a leash.
I don’t think Saul could exist without that damn dog. It’s like they understand each other, even now. Saul laughs, and Dugin barks. Saul cries, and Dugin whimpers. They’re inseparable. I think if he had a choice between the dog and me, Dugin would win. And after going through days like today, I sometimes think I wouldn’t mind that.