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Authors: Jeffrey Moore
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chain and giant clip-on earrings, sitting on the chair across from his mother. She had a clipboard on her lap and a body that flirted with immenseness. Oh no, not another salesperson. How the hell did she get in?
The woman introduced herself, her voice infecting Noel’s brain with bending otter-brown rectangles, which opened and closed like an accordion. Instead of returning her greeting, he turned on the stereo, slipped a silver disc into a tray: Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy . He then walked to the kitchen, set the food and flowers on the counter, opened the fridge and took out a jalapeño pepper.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he returned. “I was a bit distracted, Miss …”
“Mrs. Holtzberger. From Home Care.”
Weathering a tear-gas attack of perfume, Noel introduced himself. “I’m Noel, Mrs. Burun’s son.” He took a large bite out of the pepper, halving it, before shaking her hand. “How did you get in, Mrs. Holtzberger, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well, I … your mother opened the door.”
“Right.”
The woman eyed the remains of the vegetable. “I’ve come to interview your mother to see if she qualifies.”
“Qualifies?”
“For assistance. For a day nurse. Two or three days a week to help your mom.”
“Right.” It was he himself who had filled out the application, six months before. To replace a nurse they couldn’t afford.
“I’m also here to check up on various reports that have been forwarded to our department—”
Noel tried to fight through the sound of Mrs. Holtzberger’s rectangles, as well as the image of her snow-and-rose complexion and stop-sign-red lipstick that went well beyond the boundaries of her mouth. What was she saying? Complaints from the neighbours? They’re chronic complainers. Yes, I know she’s been wandering but that’s all in the past. Yes, she has one now, she has a Medic Alert bracelet … I know she’s not wearing it now. We’ll find it, it’s here somewhere. The house is a mess? A bit of an exaggeration, that. But she doesn’t want to live anywhere else. She wants to live at home, with me. Plus she’s getting better, she really is. Yes, I understand perfectly …
“So if you don’t mind I’ll just begin the MMSE?”
Noel stooped to turn off Scriabin’s muted trombones. “She’s had several examinations already, Mrs. Holtzberger. In fact, her doctor is a world-famous neurologist. Émile Vorta—you may have heard of him.”
“It won’t take long. Nothing to worry about. Is that all right, Mrs. Burun? And may I call you Stella?”
Mrs. Burun’s lips were pursed tightly, as if she were on the brink of helpless laughter. She was recalling that time in Spain—was it Spain?—when Noel had tricked her into laughing for a photograph by doing a demented ballet leap. What’s it called? When you cross your legs back and forth …
“Perhaps you’d like to leave us for a few minutes, Mr. Burun?”
“No, I’ll … stay if you don’t mind.” Noel walked toward the front window.
“Very well. Mrs. Burun, my first question is this: What is the year? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”
Was it Spain or … that other country? Mrs. Burun saw dark weathered bricks in a zigzag pattern, and long arcades. Turin? “ Entrechat ,” she murmured, smiling.
“I’m sorry? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”
Mrs. Burun gazed straight ahead. Who is this woman? She appears to be waiting for me to say something …
“The year, Stella. Do you know what year it is?”
“The year? Oh, dear me. I would say … nineteen … we’re in the nineties but I …”
Mrs. Holtzberger wrote something down with a stubby pencil. “And what is the season?”
“Fall?”
Looking out the window, Noel sighed deeply. Through the frosted pane, black trees against the banking clouds swam before his eyes.
“What is the month?”
“October?”
“And the date?”
“Sunday?”
“Where are we? What country?”
“I
The woman introduced herself, her voice infecting Noel’s brain with bending otter-brown rectangles, which opened and closed like an accordion. Instead of returning her greeting, he turned on the stereo, slipped a silver disc into a tray: Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy . He then walked to the kitchen, set the food and flowers on the counter, opened the fridge and took out a jalapeño pepper.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he returned. “I was a bit distracted, Miss …”
“Mrs. Holtzberger. From Home Care.”
Weathering a tear-gas attack of perfume, Noel introduced himself. “I’m Noel, Mrs. Burun’s son.” He took a large bite out of the pepper, halving it, before shaking her hand. “How did you get in, Mrs. Holtzberger, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well, I … your mother opened the door.”
“Right.”
The woman eyed the remains of the vegetable. “I’ve come to interview your mother to see if she qualifies.”
“Qualifies?”
“For assistance. For a day nurse. Two or three days a week to help your mom.”
“Right.” It was he himself who had filled out the application, six months before. To replace a nurse they couldn’t afford.
“I’m also here to check up on various reports that have been forwarded to our department—”
Noel tried to fight through the sound of Mrs. Holtzberger’s rectangles, as well as the image of her snow-and-rose complexion and stop-sign-red lipstick that went well beyond the boundaries of her mouth. What was she saying? Complaints from the neighbours? They’re chronic complainers. Yes, I know she’s been wandering but that’s all in the past. Yes, she has one now, she has a Medic Alert bracelet … I know she’s not wearing it now. We’ll find it, it’s here somewhere. The house is a mess? A bit of an exaggeration, that. But she doesn’t want to live anywhere else. She wants to live at home, with me. Plus she’s getting better, she really is. Yes, I understand perfectly …
“So if you don’t mind I’ll just begin the MMSE?”
Noel stooped to turn off Scriabin’s muted trombones. “She’s had several examinations already, Mrs. Holtzberger. In fact, her doctor is a world-famous neurologist. Émile Vorta—you may have heard of him.”
“It won’t take long. Nothing to worry about. Is that all right, Mrs. Burun? And may I call you Stella?”
Mrs. Burun’s lips were pursed tightly, as if she were on the brink of helpless laughter. She was recalling that time in Spain—was it Spain?—when Noel had tricked her into laughing for a photograph by doing a demented ballet leap. What’s it called? When you cross your legs back and forth …
“Perhaps you’d like to leave us for a few minutes, Mr. Burun?”
“No, I’ll … stay if you don’t mind.” Noel walked toward the front window.
“Very well. Mrs. Burun, my first question is this: What is the year? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”
Was it Spain or … that other country? Mrs. Burun saw dark weathered bricks in a zigzag pattern, and long arcades. Turin? “ Entrechat ,” she murmured, smiling.
“I’m sorry? Mrs. Burun? Can you tell me what year it is?”
Mrs. Burun gazed straight ahead. Who is this woman? She appears to be waiting for me to say something …
“The year, Stella. Do you know what year it is?”
“The year? Oh, dear me. I would say … nineteen … we’re in the nineties but I …”
Mrs. Holtzberger wrote something down with a stubby pencil. “And what is the season?”
“Fall?”
Looking out the window, Noel sighed deeply. Through the frosted pane, black trees against the banking clouds swam before his eyes.
“What is the month?”
“October?”
“And the date?”
“Sunday?”
“Where are we? What country?”
“I
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