Sunday, September 21, 2003
first drafts
Remember?
Claire’s mom has a hook for a hand, and an eye patch for a left eye. Her smile is like what they show children at the dentist’s office to scare them into flossing. Her front teeth are chipped and her others are Cheetoh-colored crisps barely holding onto her gums. I shake her hook, she smiles bigger.
“Claire has told me so much about you.” She can’t remember before the accident. I remember when her hair was down to the middle of her back, now it’s a barely there piece of black fuzz. Her legs always shiny from just being waxed, now they rest immobile in her wheelchair. She uses her good hand to move closer to me. “So tell me, Ned, how are you?”
“Mom, it’s Nadine.” Every since the accident she can’t remember my real name, she always just calls me Ned. I elbow Claire, I don’t mind humoring her barely-there-mother. At least I have all my limbs intact.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Reese. You look lovely as usual.” She can’t remember what she looks like either. Claire removed all the mirrors in her mother’s room, she can’t see her frizz hair and her curled toes. I brush my hair behind my ear with my finger. Whenever I’m visiting with her, I can feel myself more. I feel the cold metal of the fork in my hand at dinner. I touch my hair, tugging at each red curl. I wiggle my toes in my sneakers, and count each one. I don’t want to end up like Mrs. Denise Reese.
Her husband was visiting her at work that day. She came out looking like a freak show and he went straight to Heaven. I can’t believe her luck, but I think her husband was luckier. I place my hand on Claire’s knee and massage it throw her skirt. She looks at me and I smile back. There’s something comforting knowing that things really can’t get much worse.
Denise quit the surgeries. There was just no point anymore. Claire couldn’t afford the hospital cost, and she refused my checks. “She doesn’t know what happened. Let’s not antagonize the situation,” she would say. “At least, I still have you.”
“So, when is the baby due?” Denise asks. I touch my stomach, my ex-boyfriend’s baby. I walked out on Claire and ended up spending the night at his apartment. I remember stomping out of his apartment and crying in the lobby. He still doesn’t know and I don’t think he will.
“In March, late March.” Claire reaches over and touches my stomach, too. She’s waiting for a kick, something to tell her that it won’t be like her mother. She wants a whole child, not a deformed mess. She can barely look at her mother anymore. That’s why she put her in a home. Some place where people could watch her and she wouldn’t feel obligated to her. Where she wouldn’t have to look at her, ever again, if she really didn’t feel like it. Today, she decided to bring her home.
Denise nods and her frizz moves a little to the right. I reach over and fix it for her. She has it the same way each time I see her. She smiles at me again, and I can feel the Cheetoh crumbs about ready to fall out. I keep wanting to hold a bowl under her chin to catch them, just in case. I don’t want her mother to lose anymore of her body than she has already.
Claire looks at her watch. I squish my toes again in my sneakers and stroke my stomach. I feel like it’s time to go. Sometimes I wish it was her mother going instead of us all the time. We hired a nurse for the weekend to watch after her, if I spend too much time looking at her I begin to forget what I look like. I begin to think that maybe we all look the same. We are all a Denise, at least, just in the inside. Our lungs crumbling and our muscles barely hanging onto our bones. My stomach starts to grumble and I nudge Claire.
“Mom, Miss Becky is here for you. We’ll be back to tuck you in later.” We both scramble to get out of the door. This is always how it goes. It starts out with me being the caring one, the nice one. Then I remember what Denise looks like and that slow gravely frog voice she croaks to us in, and it makes me wish that she had died, too. I would have missed her, but as it is, she’s pretty much dead to us now. We can barely stand to look at her eyes. We shift them around the room – clock, lamp, knee, hair and hands. Anything for us to pass the time we think is necessary to spend with her.
We’re standing on Claire’s front porch by the red fence and the empty dog house, Barney, it reads. She reaches out for what I think is a hug, but touches my stomach instead. “Please, don’t be like mother,” she whispers to my belly button. I nod, and stroke her hair.
¶ 10:51 PM
|
Remember?
Claire’s mom has a hook for a hand, and an eye patch for a left eye. Her smile is like what they show children at the dentist’s office to scare them into flossing. Her front teeth are chipped and her others are Cheetoh-colored crisps barely holding onto her gums. I shake her hook, she smiles bigger.
“Claire has told me so much about you.” She can’t remember before the accident. I remember when her hair was down to the middle of her back, now it’s a barely there piece of black fuzz. Her legs always shiny from just being waxed, now they rest immobile in her wheelchair. She uses her good hand to move closer to me. “So tell me, Ned, how are you?”
“Mom, it’s Nadine.” Every since the accident she can’t remember my real name, she always just calls me Ned. I elbow Claire, I don’t mind humoring her barely-there-mother. At least I have all my limbs intact.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Reese. You look lovely as usual.” She can’t remember what she looks like either. Claire removed all the mirrors in her mother’s room, she can’t see her frizz hair and her curled toes. I brush my hair behind my ear with my finger. Whenever I’m visiting with her, I can feel myself more. I feel the cold metal of the fork in my hand at dinner. I touch my hair, tugging at each red curl. I wiggle my toes in my sneakers, and count each one. I don’t want to end up like Mrs. Denise Reese.
Her husband was visiting her at work that day. She came out looking like a freak show and he went straight to Heaven. I can’t believe her luck, but I think her husband was luckier. I place my hand on Claire’s knee and massage it throw her skirt. She looks at me and I smile back. There’s something comforting knowing that things really can’t get much worse.
Denise quit the surgeries. There was just no point anymore. Claire couldn’t afford the hospital cost, and she refused my checks. “She doesn’t know what happened. Let’s not antagonize the situation,” she would say. “At least, I still have you.”
“So, when is the baby due?” Denise asks. I touch my stomach, my ex-boyfriend’s baby. I walked out on Claire and ended up spending the night at his apartment. I remember stomping out of his apartment and crying in the lobby. He still doesn’t know and I don’t think he will.
“In March, late March.” Claire reaches over and touches my stomach, too. She’s waiting for a kick, something to tell her that it won’t be like her mother. She wants a whole child, not a deformed mess. She can barely look at her mother anymore. That’s why she put her in a home. Some place where people could watch her and she wouldn’t feel obligated to her. Where she wouldn’t have to look at her, ever again, if she really didn’t feel like it. Today, she decided to bring her home.
Denise nods and her frizz moves a little to the right. I reach over and fix it for her. She has it the same way each time I see her. She smiles at me again, and I can feel the Cheetoh crumbs about ready to fall out. I keep wanting to hold a bowl under her chin to catch them, just in case. I don’t want her mother to lose anymore of her body than she has already.
Claire looks at her watch. I squish my toes again in my sneakers and stroke my stomach. I feel like it’s time to go. Sometimes I wish it was her mother going instead of us all the time. We hired a nurse for the weekend to watch after her, if I spend too much time looking at her I begin to forget what I look like. I begin to think that maybe we all look the same. We are all a Denise, at least, just in the inside. Our lungs crumbling and our muscles barely hanging onto our bones. My stomach starts to grumble and I nudge Claire.
“Mom, Miss Becky is here for you. We’ll be back to tuck you in later.” We both scramble to get out of the door. This is always how it goes. It starts out with me being the caring one, the nice one. Then I remember what Denise looks like and that slow gravely frog voice she croaks to us in, and it makes me wish that she had died, too. I would have missed her, but as it is, she’s pretty much dead to us now. We can barely stand to look at her eyes. We shift them around the room – clock, lamp, knee, hair and hands. Anything for us to pass the time we think is necessary to spend with her.
We’re standing on Claire’s front porch by the red fence and the empty dog house, Barney, it reads. She reaches out for what I think is a hug, but touches my stomach instead. “Please, don’t be like mother,” she whispers to my belly button. I nod, and stroke her hair.
¶ 10:51 PM
|
