The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [85]
After a brain-deadening day at the library, Noel thought he’d entered the wrong house, a neighbour’s perhaps.
“To help her orient herself,” Samira explained in the kitchen. She and JJ were wearing red-bordered name tags. “Even I had trouble with your old clock, with the Roman numerals. And as for her tiny wristwatch, well, not only do you need a magnifying glass to see it, but it has to be wound every day.”
“She never wore it anyway,” said Noel, examining the reality board.
“Because she could never find it, or couldn’t read it?”
“Both, I guess.” Noel looked to his left. On the English-oak table, between stacks of photographs, were bags of groceries and a case of wine. And above the case, pinned to the wall with four green pushpins, was an ink-jet list:
MEMORY FUEL
B12
Fish; Spinach; Poultry
FOLATE
Leafy Greens;
Dry Beans; Peas; Chickpeas
Tomatoes; Oranges; Beets; Soybeans
Fish; Eggs
VITAMIN E
Leafy Greens;
Sweet Potatoes; Avocados
Whole Grain
ANTIOXIDANTS
Blueberries; Pomegranates
Broccoli; Brussels sprouts; Carrots
Cocoa powder
OMEGA-3 OILS
Oily fish (such as sardine and tuna)
Walnuts; Flaxseed; Canola
“See the last item on the list?” asked JJ. “Do you know where it comes from?”
“Canola? Yeah, it’s a rapeseed oil, low in erucic acid.”
“It comes from ‘Canada oil—low acid.’ We invented it!”
Noel knew this too, but pretended not to. “Really?” he said, while continuing to absorb the various changes and additions. “So … where’d all this stuff come from?”
“While the cat’s away,” said a grinning JJ, “the mice will play.”
“But … who paid for it all?”
“A mystery donor.”
“Come on. Was it you?”
JJ shook his head.
“Who, then?”
“A credit card.”
“I scissored my mom’s credit cards.”
“It wasn’t your mom’s.”
“Whose, then?”
“We can’t tell you. When Norval authorised us to use his AmEx, he asked us to shut up about it.”
“I was wondering,” Samira quickly interjected, “if you could put the important numbers in speed dial, and then we’ll put them up on the reality board. And fill out these name badges when people come to visit her. Your mom’s been working really hard today, by the way. I’ve been cracking the whip. Hope you don’t mind.”
Noel was getting confused. Information overload. Norval paid? “What … kind of things? What’s she been doing?”
“Let’s see. I asked her to set the table, water the plants, iron two blouses, sort out the laundry … among other things. JJ’s been helping her.”
“You did the laundry? But we have someone who does that. The Bath Lady.”
“Oh, we were thinking of letting her go. You don’t really need her anymore. You can’t afford her anyway.”
“No, you can’t let her go. She … doesn’t cost all that much, really. Her services are … subsidised.”
Samira paused. “I’ve arranged your mom’s clothing by colour and in a sequence—it’ll make decision-making easier. She’s not changing her clothes … enough.”
“Sorry, I …”
“It’s not your fault, Noel. It’s the Bath Lady’s. And in your mom’s bathroom I’ve arranged her things so they’re easier to use. And I’ve posted a bathing schedule on her calendar of daily activities.”
“Wow, this is … amazing. How did you …”
“I got some advice from Dr. Rhéaume and Dr. Ravenscroft. And took out some library books.”
“That was my idea,” said JJ.
Noel nodded. “Look, all this is great, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it … but I’m not sure my mom is at the stage where … I mean, I think she’s getting better and I plan on making things even more … better. I’m working on … JJ and I are working on … things.”
“I understand that,” said Samira, “and if anything can be found to help her,