by Beth Graham
SARAH
You never say that to me.
BERNICE
That’s because you’re just right, my dear.
IRIS
My mom, the peacemaker.
And that was that. Only it wasn’t.
BERNICE
Iris, could you please pass the salt?
IRIS
My mother’s confession had been swept neatly under the carpet, except there is no carpet in my mother’s kitchen, so, it kind of melted into the walls and floated around in the atmosphere—this horrible truth. . .
Later, when we were clearing the plates, I noticed a slip of paper. She’d written out her recipe. My mom never follows recipes, not when it comes to casseroles. At the bottom she’d written “turn off oven after removing casserole.” One never regrets writing things down.
BERNICE
Toodle-oo, my little bambinos.
IRIS
At the end of the night we said our goodbyes.
Peter, the gregarious one, was the first to go.
PETER
Bye.
IRIS
(as PETER leaves) He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Then Sarah.
SARAH
Bye, Mom. We’ll make an appointment. We’ll get this figured out once and for all.
IRIS
We?
BERNICE
Iris.
(to SARAH) Thanks, honey.
SARAH
I’ll bring Heaven in tomorrow to have a visit. You won’t believe how much she’s changed.
IRIS
It’s only been a week.
SARAH
I know. It’s amazing how quickly they develop.
BERNICE
You turn your head for a moment and when you look back—boom—all grown up. I can’t wait to see her. (kissing SARAH) Mwah. Mwah.
SARAH
Bye, Iris.
IRIS
See ya.
SARAH leaves.
Mom?
BERNICE
Hm?
IRIS
You okay?
BERNICE
Uh-huh. Oh, wait. Almost forgot.
BERNICE gives IRIS a container of tuna casserole.
Thought you might want some leftovers.
IRIS
Leftovers? Oh shit!
IRIS takes away the salt and pepper shakers, then takes out the container from her fridge. She opens the lid. It’s mouldy.
Yech. Ugh, it looks like a squirrel. It’s been months.
IRIS opens the garbage to throw it out but she can’t.
Months. Is that all it took?
She pops the lid back on and sets the container on the counter.
Put a lid on it and get to it later. Later.
BERNICE
(still standing with the container) Iris?
IRIS quickly takes out the salt and pepper shakers, sets them down again, and returns to the scene with her mom.
IRIS
(taking the container from BERNICE) Thanks.
BERNICE
Your favourite.
IRIS
Yep. . . That was some big news you told us tonight.
BERNICE
It’s not the end of the world.
IRIS
I never said it was. Are you sure you’re okay?
BERNICE
Would I lie to you?
IRIS
Yes.
BERNICE
Only when necessary.
IRIS
Right.
BERNICE
You worry too much.
IRIS
You seem fine.
BERNICE
I am fine.
IRIS
Mom.
BERNICE
For the most part.
IRIS
If you need anything. . .
BERNICE
I know where to find you. I’ve got your address written down, in case I forget.
IRIS
Ha. Still got your hilarious sense of humour.
BERNICE
Still got it. I wrote that down somewhere too.
IRIS
First family meeting without Dad. He was always the one who called them.
BERNICE
I don’t think he’d mind that we had one without him.
IRIS
No. I wish he was here, that’s all.
BERNICE
So do I. . . well. . . I do and I don’t.
IRIS
You don’t?
BERNICE
I’m glad he’s not here for the whole (twirls her finger at her temple) thing.
IRIS
He would have helped you.
BERNICE
Lucky for him he doesn’t have to.
IRIS
He would have looked after you.
BERNICE
Banish the thought.
IRIS
He would have.
BERNICE
It didn’t turn out that way.
IRIS
No, it didn’t.
BERNICE
The universe decided against it.
IRIS
I’d like to kick the universe in the head.
BERNICE
You’re telling me. The thing is, it would kick back harder. The universe has a lot more weight behind it.
IRIS
I can stay tonight, if you want me to. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.
BERNICE
You have work.
IRIS
I’m a temp. Most of the people I work with don’t know my name. They wouldn’t even notice if I didn’t show up.
BERNICE
Don’t let this interrupt your life.
IRIS
Too late. It already has.
BERNICE
Like the Italians. (kissing her cheeks) Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.
IRIS
Three?
BERNICE
Thought I’d mix it up.
IRIS
. . .
BERNICE
That’s that.
IRIS
Yes, that is indeed that.
BERNICE
Good night.
IRIS
Good night.
Only it wasn’t.
The door closed. We were separated by a few inches of wood, but I stood in a distant galaxy.
BERNICE tidies the kitchen.
I imagined her on the other side of the door falling to her knees, tearing at her hair and railing at the gods, or the creator, or the light of the universe, or the perpetual energy—whatever or whomever might be responsible for the way things turn out.
But she would never lose her cool like that. Poised. Even behind closed doors.
BERNICE has stopped tidying. She stands staring into the sink, or bracing herself on the table or the countertop, with her head down or with her back to the audience, in a private moment.
She was probably climbing the stairs to her bedroom or cleaning up the last of the dishes. Keeping busy. Sailing along serenely on top of dark, turbulent waters.
She’s so good at shrugging things off.
BERNICE
(to herself) It’s not the end of the world, Bernice.
BERNICE exits.
IRIS
Ce n’est pas la fin du monde.
But it kind of was the beginning of the end. It was.
IRIS puts the salt and pepper shakers away.
When I was young and learning French in school, my mom wrote the French words for things on p
ieces of paper and taped them up around my room. La fenêtre posted on the window. Le lit on the bed. Plafond. (points to the ceiling) Everywhere I looked, a little piece of paper taped to something. That was so long ago. I’ve forgotten most of it. Gone with lack of use. On the drive home, I looked around and tried to recall the French words for things. Voiture. Arbre. La femme. Le. . . shih tzu? Is this what it was like to struggle to remember? No. Forgetting the French word for sidewalk isn’t the same as forgetting how to find your way home from the grocery store. Imagine walking down a path that gets darker and darker, knowing that you’ll never find your way back.
IRIS puts the container from BERNICE in the fridge. The mouldy container remains out on the counter.
When I got home, after that family meeting, I put the leftover casserole Mom had given me in the fridge and forgot all about it.
She picks up the onion.
L’oignon. Notice how I have not cut into it yet. It’s because I’m going to pop this in the freezer for a bit. Ancient family secret.
IRIS puts the onion in the freezer and picks up the sour cream.
Crème sur.
She spoons it into the bowl.
You have to use goop to make goop.
IRIS picks up the can of soup, dumps it in, and stirs.
More goop. Crème de champignons. A common casserole ingredient and the perfect partner for sour cream. Some things belong together and others don’t. For instance, you’d never blend sour cream and ice cream. They have the same last name but they just don’t mix. Like me and Sarah. . .
The phone rings.
Another phone call. The day after the family meeting.
IRIS picks up the phone.
Iris speaking.
SARAH
We could all have it. You and I and Peter. Our chances are really high. Fifty percent.
IRIS
Uh-huh.
SARAH
That’s one out of every two.
IRIS
I know what fifty percent means.
SARAH
At least one of us has got it. And what if it’s me? Then Heaven could have it too. It’s in our genes.
IRIS
That’s a theory.
SARAH
But it’s scientifically proven.
IRIS
You can say that about everything.
SARAH
It’s a fact.
IRIS
No, it’s not a fact; it’s a guess. That’s what medical scientists do. They guess.
SARAH
The proof is in our family. Grandma passed it on to Mom. Mom is going to pass it on to us. That’s how it works.
IRIS
According to you, Mom doesn’t have it.
SARAH
But if she does.
IRIS
What about the second opinion? Remember, you insisted on getting one.
SARAH
I made the appointment. We’re going to see a geriatrician next week.
IRIS
Wait until then to see if your theory is correct. Cross that bridge when you come to it.
SARAH
I can’t help thinking that this is going to happen to me. First Mom and then me. We’re all going to end up like Grandma, completely nuts.
IRIS
That’s the worst-case scenario. Best-case scenario—nobody has it.
SARAH
Mom still might.
IRIS
She might not. You said so yourself at the family meeting.
I don’t know why I was being so positive. Sometimes that’s the tack you have to take when the other person is getting dangerously close to a black hole. You don’t want to get sucked in together.
SARAH
Iris?
IRIS
One of you has to stay on the outside and offer the hand.
SARAH
Iris? Are you still there?
IRIS
Yes.
SARAH
Remember when Grandma would get scared because she didn’t know who we were. She’d get all turned around and frustrated.
IRIS
I remember.
SARAH
I don’t want to wind up like that.
IRIS
Sarah, nobody does.
SARAH
I don’t want Mom to either.
IRIS
Nobody does.
SARAH
It’s a possibility.
IRIS
Maybe they’ll find a cure. There’s lots of research being done.
SARAH
I’m freaked out.
IRIS
I can tell.
SARAH
Aren’t you?
IRIS
Imagine how Mom must feel.
SARAH
. . . I’ll let you know how her test turns out.
IRIS
In my gut I already knew; I knew, I knew, but I said:
Yeah, great, let me know. Talk to you later.
SARAH
Definitely. We will definitely talk later.
IRIS
You know when someone panics and you have no choice but to be the still point of their turning world? That’s how it is with my sister. She panics and I remain as still as I possibly can. I hear myself saying lame stuff like, “You never know, there might be a cure.” But what if I was the one who panicked? Would Sarah suddenly become still? Would the sun lose its gravitational pull, sending the planets hurtling through space? On this particular day, I decided not to test out my theory. Things were better this way. Controlled.
After that phone call with Sarah, I poured myself a glass of wine. Vin—that’s wine in French. I might as well pour myself a glass of vin right now. This occasion calls for alcohol.
She pours herself a glass of wine and stares at the covered clock.
She peeks under the tea towel to see the time.
Wow. I should not have done that. Un moment, s’il vous plaît.
She takes a giant chug of her wine.
Alzheimer’s may be linked to our genes, or the environment, or a virus, any number of things. Or maybe—maybe it’s brought on by heartbreak. Now there’s a theory. What if my father’s death is the cause of my mother’s forgetfulness? Maybe remembering is just too painful. They were married for thirty-five years. His newspaper; her crossword. His well-pressed shirts; her lipstick.
I wish my dad was here. The world made more sense when he was in it.
IRIS grips the countertop.
Sometimes, the world spins so fast I feel like I’m going to fly right off. Makes me dizzy just thinking about it.
(straightening up) But you gotta keep on keepin’ on. So, that’s we did—we kept on. The world kept on spinning, time kept on ticking, and the phone kept on ringing.
The phone rings.
(answering) Iris speaking.
SARAH
You at home?
IRIS
Yeah, I’m here.
SARAH
I just dropped Heaven off with Mike. I’m gonna pop by. We need to talk.
IRIS
My sister has this nasty habit of popping by—invading is more like it.
SARAH enters.
SARAH
She’s got it.
IRIS
Sarah had taken our mother to a specialist, as promised.
SARAH
Doctor Azballs confirmed it.
IRIS
Assballs?
SARAH
Azzzzballs, you idiot.
IRIS
And you thought Funditis was a bad name. What’s his first name, Harry?
SARAH
Iris, this is ser
ious.
IRIS
Sorry.
SARAH
Mom scored pretty high on the test. She had to draw a clock. She got the numbers all mixed up. A clock.
IRIS
Not a good sign.
SARAH
I’ve stopped eating hamburgers.
IRIS
What?
SARAH
There’s a link between hamburger meat and Alzheimer’s. You see, a cow dies, then the farmer grinds them up and makes cattle feed out of them. They’re feeding cows to cows.
IRIS
Gross.
SARAH
It gets grosser.
IRIS
Great.
SARAH
Cows eat each other and it makes them crazy. You’ve heard of mad cow disease, right?
IRIS
Yep.
SARAH
Well, they can’t test every single cow for the disease, so tainted meat gets through all the time. They wrap it up, slap a price tag on it, and sell it to us. We toss it on the barbecue and eat the tainted meat. Boom—we’re infected with the human form of mad cow disease—Alzheimer’s.
IRIS
I’m thinking that’s a little far-fetched.
SARAH
Nobody has Alzheimer’s in India.
IRIS
What?
SARAH
Because the cow is sacred in India. They don’t eat the cow, they don’t get the Alzheimer’s.
IRIS
Where are you getting this information?
SARAH
Cut hamburgers out of your diet now. They’re banned from my house. Banned.
IRIS
But I like hamburgers.
SARAH
You better stop liking them if you know what’s good for you.
IRIS
What about barbecues?
SARAH
Absolutely no burgers! There can be traces of meat from as many as one hundred cows in a single hamburger. Your chances of eating infected meat are extremely high.
IRIS
I knew I wasn’t going to hear the end of this unless—
Sarah, I solemnly swear that I will never eat another hamburger again in my life.
SARAH
Good.
IRIS
And I won’t. At least, not in front of Sarah. Choose your battles.
SARAH
I bet you a million dollars I get it. And when I do, what’s going to happen to Heaven?
IRIS
By the time you get it, Heaven will be your age.
SARAH
Oh my god, she’ll have to go through all this. I don’t want her to have to do that.
IRIS
It’s life. She can deal.
