Free An Absent Mind by Eric Rill

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
    I t 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