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,
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,
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