The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [30]
March 11. All day long Mom’s been playing songs from the sixties—over and over like a child. (She was 14 when the sixties began.) Over the past few years, for each of her birthdays, I’ve given her CDs to replace her scratched vinyl. I have also given her headphones, to no avail. I am now listening to a song I have heard approximately nine hundred times. Based on the number of repetitions, here is Mom’s Top Ten 60s Hit Parade (not including the Beatles, which is another list):
1. Love Is All Around—The Troggs
2. A World Without Love—Peter & Gordon
3. I Only Want to Be with You—Dusty Springfield
4. Don’t Throw Your Love Away—The Searchers
5. Silhouettes—Herman’s Hermits
6. Catch the Wind—Donovan
7. Paint It Black—Rolling Stones
8. Bad To Me—Billy J. Kramer & the Dakotas
9. Wishin’ and Hopin’—Dusty Springfield
10. As Tears Go By—Marianne Faithful
March 13. Even though Mom pleaded with me, hysterically, not to go, I went for another Tuesday matinée today. She eventually calmed down and gave her permission. Norval was there, smoking outside, when I arrived. I was really happy to see him, and he seemed happy to see me. We sat together, at his insistence, and I didn’t feel awkward at all, even though he’s miles above me in so many ways. He’s an incredible character—I still can’t believe what he did after the movie was over. As we were walking down Avenue du Parc and discussing the opening scene of Spellbound, he did something … how would I describe it? As unexpected as you can get. A few yards ahead of us, on the sidewalk, this woman’s dog … answers the call of nature. Right in the middle of the sidewalk. And the woman doesn’t pick up. She and dog just calmly move on. When we arrive at the scene a few seconds later, Norval stops, takes out a white handkerchief, stoops … and carefully wraps up a rather large turd. I thought he was going to run after the woman but no. He just continues on, calmly, not saying a word. I’m dumbstruck. So we’re now approaching the Banque Nationale where there’s this surly adolescent beggar, a permanent fixture who opens the door for people using the cash machine. As we pass by, he sticks out his cap and says to Norval in French, “Hey, I recognise you, I held the door for you a couple hours ago. Come on you cheap fucking dildo, I’m hungry!”
“Really?” says Norval. “Well, it’s your lucky day. Here you go, enjoy. Steaming fresh.”
“Ah! Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup!”
“Any time. And there’s more where that came from.”
March 14. Just reread that last entry. I was wondering if it was one of those you-had-to-be-there anecdotes so I told it to Mom this morning. She didn’t crack a smile. So I told it again, with a slightly different angle and emphasis, and she laughed, hard and long. But not as hard and long as I did when it had happened: a sustained belly laugh that left me hurting and gasping, the kind you get, if you’re lucky, when you’re young, and almost never when you’re old.
March 20. Mom’s been up and down—good days and bad, good seconds and bad. Her mind is like a malfunctioning TV—sometimes the colours are off, the picture blizzardous, the horizontal or vertical slipping. Sometimes, after a good shake, things come in loud and clear—or dead-silent and blank.
March 21. Spring equinox. Dr. Vorta wasn’t at the lab this morning—he had a press conference about some award—so I asked Dr. Ravenscroft about a hormone therapy regimen, an estrogen plus progestin combination, which seems to be all the rage for post-menopausal women. He said that brain scans hint it improves blood flow to parts of the brain important for learning and memory. And that longitudinal studies