Free An Absent Mind by Eric Rill Page B

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
    S aul 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.

Saul

    Miriam
    S he was really quite pretty and smart. A bit on the skinny side, maybe a bit more than a bit. I like that—“a bit more than a bit.” I’ll have to remember that one. Fat chance of that!
    Anyway, what else can I tell you about Miriam? Let’s see—a great musician. She played the flute, clarinet, and