'Of Clocks and Faces', by Ken Pisani
The doctor who asks me to draw a clock is unfamiliar to me. Should I know her? Have I been here before? I don’t think she’s my regular doctor, but I can’t in this moment recall who my regular doctor is or what she (or he) looks like. This doctor has spoken mostly to my adult daughter, Robin, both of them referring to me in the third person as if I wasn’t here.
“Has she been forgetful? Missed appointments, lost items, misplaced things?”
“I’ve found things in the pantry that don’t belong there,” Robin says. “And in the refrigerator. She says the vacuum doesn’t work, but it works fine.”
“No it doesn’t,” I object.
“It doesn’t work great, Mom. But it works. You couldn’t find the ON button.”
“It used to be big, and on the machine. Now it’s on the handle? Why is it on the handle?”
“At least she remembers how things used to be,” Robin says, patting my hand and smiling at me as if I were an addled child. When all I am is addled.
“Any falls?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
I’ve fallen once or twice. How would Robin know? Of course, I didn’t tell her. If the doctor had asked me directly, I might have admitted it, but she didn’t so I don’t. I should know her name. I’m sure the doctor told me her name.
“Just a few more questions . . .”
I’ve already identified a circus full of animals. (Can I help it if a camel looks like a horse?) Drawn a cube (poorly) and picked out the volcano (on the second try). Connected dots between letters and numbers, told them what year it is. Judging by the look they shared, it isn’t 2009 anymore. It doesn’t matter; all the good years are behind me.
“This is so humiliating. I used to have a photographic memory, and now I can’t remember the word you told me earlier to remember, when you ask? Canoe?”
“It is canoe,” the doctor tells me. “That’s good.”
“Well, hooray for me.”
“It has nothing to do with how smart you are, or even your age,” the doctor says. “Many factors come into play. There’s definitely been some cognitive loss. We should get out ahead of it, and get you the help you need in the meantime.”
“Is it Alzheimer’s, or just old-school dementia?”
“I can’t make a proper diagnosis at this time.”
“Doesn’t really matter. The good news is, I can go back to eating fried food and pie. Maybe I’ll take up smoking. And I’m not drawing your stupid clock,” I say, standing. “I know what time it is. It’s time to go.”
Back at home, I can no longer remember the word I was supposed to remember. But who could, hours later? If you stopped a stranger in the street and asked them “Quick, what day is it?” could they even answer? Can everyone draw a proper clock? Clocks don’t even have faces any more. Mine at home has numbers that flap, and my watch doesn’t even have hands. They’re called hands, right? Why do some words not sound right when I know they’re right?
It's quiet around the dinner table, just me, Robin and a man around her age. I think it’s Robin’s husband. Why don’t I recognize him? Why can’t I remember his name?
“Want some more broccoli?” he asks.
That twang. It’s Don from Oklahoma. He and Robin share a look. This is some kind of test. No one wants more broccoli, I used to say. A running joke.
“No one wants more broccoli,” I tell them, and they laugh, sharing another, happier look.
But someday I won’t remember the running joke. I’ll say No thank you, or worse, take more broccoli. Do we forget our likes and dislikes? Should that be on the doctor’s memory test, “How do you feel about broccoli?” I wouldn’t eat broccoli if you dipped it in chocolate. Will I forget that, the things I hate? Will I also forget the things I once loved?
I live in Portland. I used to play the cello. I have a daughter named Robin and a sister named Joy. I repeat these things mentally, hoping that by sheer repetition I won’t lose them. The photos on the wall help. Robin’s college graduation, my sister, Joy, at her wedding, me at the Portland Phil taking a bow. My ski trophy. I won an amateur downhill, but can’t remember what year.
“More mash?” Don asks, passing the bowl, no test this time.
I know I love mashed potatoes, and present my dish for Don to scoop some for me.
“Thank you, Don from Oklahoma.”
I didn’t mean to call him that. Another look shared, and then we’re all laughing.
“I’m sorry!” Robin gasps. “We’re not laughing at you . . .”
“You’re laughing near me,” I say, and everyone laughs harder.
After dinner, we sit in the living room over coffee and cake. It’s leftover birthday cake, icing hard from being in the freezer. Whose birthday? I can’t remember, and there aren’t enough letters left on the icing to tell me. There’s a concert on the TV, from Vienna. PBS logo in the corner, subtitles on. Vivaldi, I think. So easy for the cello, they might as well be playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
“This is my cake,” I guess. “I had a birthday. This is my house. We’re in Portland. I know I shouldn’t say these things out loud . . . but I’ve been thinking about them all evening, putting together clues like some muddle-brained detective. Columbo, if he was really as stupid as he pretended to be. Is that his name, Columbo?”
“That’s his name,” Don says, and Robin seems about to cry.
“What I’m getting at is, I know something’s wrong. I used to be amazing. I was a concert cellist and champion skier. I was smart and funny, had a photographic memory and great tits.”
“You had great tits, Mom!” Robin agrees, laughing, and wipes her eyes.
“We don’t talk about mama this way back home, so I’m gonna sit out a bit.”
“Good call, honey,” Robin says, patting his leg affectionately.
“The tits haven’t been great in a long time . . .”
“Who wants more coffee?” he says, and Don from Oklahoma is gone to the kitchen.
“And now the rest is going. Maybe if I hadn’t been so damn amazing, it would be easier to watch it all fall away, to slowly diminish. Like the baseball player who can’t hit the ball any more would feel worse about it than the man who never hit a baseball.”
Robin moves next to me on the sofa and takes my hand. She doesn’t say anything. What could she say? I stare at her face, trying to memorize it against the day I might not recognize it any better than the one on the clock.
Ken Pisani is a novelist, playwright, screenwriter and member of the Writers Guild of America West. His debut novel, AMP’D, published by St. Martin’s Press, was a Los Angeles Times bestseller and finalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. Ken has also contributed fiction and nonfiction to The Saturday Evening Post, The Louisville Review, Salon, Publishers Weekly, Huffington Post, Literary Hub, Carve, Wallstrait, and elsewhere, as well as the anthology "More Tonto Short Stories," published in the U.S. and U.K. He’s currently working on a new novel and a variety of film and TV projects.
Photography by George Becker