Multiple Choice Read Online Free

Alzheimer’s started.
    (4)  She didn’t recognize her children, or her grandchildren, not anyone.
    (5)  She didn’t even recognize me.
    (6)  But she never forgot she was missing a breast.
    A)  None
    B)  1
    C)  2
    D)  4
    E)  5

60.
    (1)  I only saw my mother’s father three times in my life. It’s unclear how many children he had: more than twenty, fewer than thirty, according to my mother’s calculations.
    (2)  The first time I saw him, he came to our house at night, when we were about to go to bed. He introduced us to Verónica, his youngest daughter. She was four or five years old, younger than I was.
    (3)  “Say hi to your aunt Verito,” he said to me and my sister. And then: “I’ve got your birthdays written down. I never forget my grandchildren.”
    (4)  They left around midnight, driving away in a Renoleta. It was cold. My mother had to lend Verito one of my sister’s sweaters.
    (5)  “They’ll never give that sweater back,” my mother told my sister over breakfast, containing her rage, or maybe just resigned.
    (6)  The second time I saw him, some time later, was on my mother’s birthday.
    (7)  She was happy. I remember that absurd and true sentence:
He will always be my father.
    (8)  The last time I saw him was in a hospital. He shared a room with three other dying old men. My mom told me to go in and see him, to say good-bye.
    (9)  I looked at the old men; all of them looked alike. I tried to recognize my mother’s father, but I couldn’t. I stared at them for a while, and then I left.
    A)  None
    B)  3
    C)  4 and 5
    D)  7
    E)  8 and 9

61.
    (1)  While we’re making tea, Mariela tells me that when she was in school, there was a pregnant nun.
    (2)  I ask her when, where. “At Mater Dei. I was really little, in the fourth grade.”
    (3)  Mariela’s eyes are brown. For a second, I manage to picture her face when she was little.
    (4)  “They kept her hidden away, but we saw her once. They asked us to keep the secret.”
    (5)  I ask her if they kept the secret. “I don’t know about my friends,” she replies, “but I did.”
    (6)  “You’re the first person I’ve told,” she says.
    (7)  “Thirty years later?”
    (8)  “Yes, thirty,” she says.
    (9)  She looks down at her hands. I also look at her hands.
    (10)  She pinches or caresses a breadcrumb. She lights a cigarette.
    (11)  “No,” she says then. “Thirty-five.”
    A)  None
    B)  3
    C)  9
    D)  10
    E)  11

62.
    (1)  In Chile, no one says hi to each other in elevators. You get in and pretend you don’t see anyone, you pretend you’re blind. And if you say hello, people look at you strangely, sometimes they don’t even return the greeting. You share your fragility in silence, like a sacrifice.
    (2)  How hard would it be to say hello, you think, while the door opens on an in-between floor. There are already nine, ten people, and no one else can fit. Someone’s headphones are playing a song that you know and like.
    (3)  It would be easier to embrace the woman standing there in front of you. What you and she share is the effort to avoid touching each other.
    (4)  You remember getting punished once when you were little, maybe eight years old: you’d been caught in the girls’ bathroom swapping kisses with a little classmate. It wasn’t the first time you and she had kissed each other. It was a game, a kind of dare. A teacher saw you, scolded you, brought you to the principal’s office.
    (5)  Your punishment was to stand face-to-face, staring into each other’s eyes and holding both hands, in the middle of the playground for the