The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [75]
“I’m just going to get under the covers. Why don’t you sit down?”
Noel looked around for a chair. When he realised there wasn’t one, he sat down at the foot of the bed, tentatively, placing a very tiny portion of his rear end on the edge of the frame.
Samira smiled, then looked deep into his eyes, a habit of hers. “You’ve been looking after her all by yourself, haven’t you. For how long? Months, years? Which explains why … which explains why you look so terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I meant why you look so … tired. It must be incredibly hard on you. Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Of course I am. Well, maybe not always … sometimes it’s hard to get my eight hours.”
“Eight? You look like you’ve been getting two.”
“No no, I’m fine, really, sleep like a top. It’s just that JJ and I have been really busy the last few days. And when you get close to something, you get excited, and sometimes adrenalin keeps you up all night. I’m fine, really. I don’t need much sleep.” I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
“You should take care of yourself too, you know. Not just your mother. Give yourself a break.”
Noel nodded. “You sound like the Bath Lady.”
“The who?”
“The … the day nurse who comes in. Sancha.”
“Well, you should listen to her. You have to take time out for yourself, you know.”
There’s no time out, Noel thought, even when I’m in bed. Either my brain is still in the lab or my mother is burning a light into my eyes. “I try.”
A lowboy beside the bed caught Samira’s attention, a fine piece but spotted and scarred. She reached over and traced a line in the dust on its walnut surface. “Don’t you have any relatives who can help out?”
“Not in Montreal. But my uncle in New York has promised to help.”
“How exactly?”
“Well, he … he didn’t really say.”
“Can’t you hire somebody?”
“We have the Bath Lady, who comes in twice a week. We can’t afford anyone else.”
“But … Norval said you were rich. And this house, it’s a palace. Or was.”
“We used to be … comfortable.”
“What happened?”
Noel heaved a long sigh. He had never been able to tell anyone— including his relatives and best friend—what had really happened, the gory details. It would’ve been a filial betrayal.
“You don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business.”
He looked deep into her eyes, boldly, for the first time ever. She stared right back. He barely knew her, but it didn’t matter. “What happened? Everything just seemed to … unravel, fall to pieces, when Mom took early retirement. Not right away. But after a few weeks of idleness—recuperating, I should say—she started acting a bit … strange. Out of character.”
“What do you mean? Like forgetting things?”
Noel paused. “She began giving all her money away. Or most of it. Writing out cheques to childhood friends, distant acquaintances, dubious charities … even beggars on the street. Not to mention every canvasser that phoned or knocked on the door. She fell for the usual telemarketing scams, about winning a Tahitian holiday or helping to free some political prisoner in Chad … It was very uncharacteristic of her. She used to have a radar for that kind of thing.”
“And that was when she began to have her … memory problems?”
“Right.”
“Couldn’t you have tried to get her into a part-time … help centre or whatever they’re called? Something subsidised?”
Noel nodded, relieved to be able to skip some of the details. “Adult day-care. I did. A place called Sun Valley Assisted Living. I planned to drive her there and back every day. The first time she was waiting for me on the porch with all her luggage. Like she was going to stay there for the rest of her life. What she couldn’t fit into her suitcases, she’d stuffed into plastic bags and pillowcases. ‘Please don’t make me go there,’ she said to me, so softly I could barely hear her. ‘Couldn’t I stay here with you, dear? Just a bit longer? I’ll try to be better.’”
“Oh my God. So what’d you do?”
“I grabbed her bags, took them back upstairs, told her she could stay with me forever.”
Except for JJ’s snoring, the house was still until dawn. In her troubled state, Samira decided