The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [28]
XXXX. I asked Noel the days of the week and he was a complete idiot. Not those days! The other days! Yes, what your father called them. Well, whoever! Type them for me.
But now where did I put that blasted paper? Everything seems to
Ok here
Moanday. I.. dshhe
Tearsday. Did not
Wailsday. Cant seem to
Thumpsday
Frightday
Shatterday. Will never unerstan
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Chapter 7
Noel’s Diary (I)
A lily lasts a week or two,
A month or two for roses A rose gets smashed in bad weather.
But like a mother’s love,
The amaranth lasts forever.
— Noel Burun, age 8
December 8, 2000. After a day at the library, went over to Mom’s for a late dinner, a “European” dinner as she calls it. I set the table, lit two candles, poured a Riesling with a Gothic castle on its label while Mom brought out two plates of swordfish amandine, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots. This looks exquisite, I said. But after my first bite I realised the swordfish was cold, not far from frozen. I’ll just warm everything up in the micro, Mom said. Won’t be a tick. While glancing at a New York Times she had placed beside me (one more act of thoughtfulness in a constellation of such acts), I waited. And waited. I could hear clicking sounds in the kitchen. Everything OK, Mom? I shouted. Well, not really, she answered. I entered the kitchen. Mom, flustered, was fiddling with the dials on the dishwasher. I can never remember how these blasted things work, she said. I walked over to see what the problem was. I pulled down the dishwasher door and saw a strange sight: on the top tray were two plates of swordfish amandine, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots. Dripping wet. I opened my mouth in surprise, but quickly closed it. I stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do or say. What would be appropriate here? I took a deep breath. “These machines are a pain in the ass, aren’t they, Mom. I can never get the bloody things to work either. Why don’t you … sit back down, relax, read the paper, let me look after it?” Mom smiled lifelessly before walking back to the dining room. After draining the dishes, and then nuking them, I returned with two steaming-hot plates. I made jokes to distract her, childhood puns that had always cracked her up before, but not this time. This time she stared at me in silence, knife and fork squeezed in her hands. After toying with her food, and taking a sip or two of wine, she said she wasn’t hungry.
December 27. Mom and I were finishing off a turkey and the dregs of decade-old Drambuie when she started talking about a buyout on her teacher’s contract, an early retirement package, and why she was determined to take it. I hardly needed an explanation—after 25 years she’d been gutted by teacher’s burnout, and by mother’s burnout after 30 years of worrying about me. I asked her if she was still going to do her volunteer work and she said yes, she felt an affinity with the elderly, even more so now because she was one of them. You’re still young, I said, with