The Prayer Maker
by Mark Alan Waldron
Copyright 2015 Mark Alan Waldron
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The Prayer Maker
Tick. 8:13. Who would put such a large, loud clock in the room of a dying woman? The questioning starts up again, the compression... and the only answer, my only release, is my prayer:
Lord, I am here.
Tick. We did think about adding 'still' to make it: “Lord, I am still here”, but we didn't like the surprise the 'still' might imply. Thought it might tempt fate. And a 'still' might make it sound like I'm bragging about my determination. Hah, right! As if anything were up to me! Even worse: the 'still' version might come across as kind of a nagging reminder: like the voice of an exasperated client that God has left on hold. Well… well, just leave it simple for now at least: “Lord, I am here”, a simple truth, the simple truth of my life, such as it is, and a simple statement of gratitude.
Tick. 8:14. Such a big, loud clock. Such a big, loud, analogue clock there amputating inches of my life with its whirrs and ticks. And the calendar: plain white, with no pictures. A government calendar with just the names of the months above and the dates in boxes, and all crossed off: the days I've lost.
I don't know where I would be, if I didn't still have my memories:
By the grace of God: Monet and Turner
By the grace of God: Monet and Turner
Public health care, that's what you get: a plain clock, and a blank calendar, all government issue. Still...
Tick. 8:15. Wait. What was that? A noise from the hall: that's the front door again. Not so loud this time: pushed, not thumped... ugh, what?
It's not you, Emily, you're in the kitchen putting away the shopping. It’s not difficult to hear you, as always, rustling plastic, slamming cans of my baby food onto the counter and then onto shelves, rattling the fridge bits, pushing chairs away, dragging chairs back, clinking, tumbling ice into one of my glasses, SSSS, SSSS: the violent sighs of your pop…
But that was definitely the front door being opened and pressed shut. That was a deliberate click.
There's a twist in the shadows on the hall wall outside my room and suddenly, as if from nowhere, a man walks past my door... a man just walks past my bedroom door! Quietly, on tip-toe. Oh my God, there's a man in here!
Dear Lord...
A single eye appears around the door frame he just snuk past. He must have taken a step back to check out what he missed in his haste: me. The eye stares, squints, waits. Watches me watching him. Scans the room, he must see all the machines, monitors, pipes, tubes. He steps into the doorway, walks into the room with a swagger, cocky now, sure I am no threat to him. I am no threat to him. I just lie here in silence, that's what I do. He's a diminutive man, wiry, unshaven, greasy tan hair, grimy jeans and jeans jacket done up to the top. He flicks his hand at my face, waves, and when I don't move or even blink, he leers at me showing me his teeth, teeth like broken beer bottles.
He stinks of malt vinegar and damp ashtrays.
Lord, help me, helllllp!
He turns his back to me, pads back to the hall and pauses, leans out of the room, carefully again, just an eye at first, the way he checked on me in here. All I can do is watch him. He must be after Emily! Try to scream. Is it Emily? It might be Amelia. Amy-Lee? People mumble their name once, and just assume you've got it... shout Emily.
Nothing comes out, nothing. Why am I so dumb? Despite my fear, my panic, my breathing remains even, regulated by that machine, my body flat, a limp lump. Why doesn't this penetrate my thick head… Why? Why am I locked inside of this stupid, useless body? Why me, huh? The questioning starts again, the compression…
Lord, I am here.
The man slips into the hall without a sound, he’s in the apartment now, inside us. Feels like my first bed bath when you stripped me down, arranged me for your convenience, and, because I couldn't say anything or do anything, you thought: she's not really here, didn't you? You opened me while I lay incapable, screaming with every fiber of my being for you to preserve my modesty, honor my privacy. Dirty or clean it was mine, but you didn't hear me. Remember the song you sang the first time as you turned me over, la-la-la, one way, la-la-la, the other. Leaving me exposed while you answered your phone... discussed Days of Our Lives with your mother. The first time was the worst, after that I learned how to withdraw and how to disassociate. That's what I must do now! No matter what I hear, no-matter what that man does to you, Emily, I must separate, turn my eye inside.
Lord, I am here, and not there,
By the grace of God: Monet and Turner,
By the grace of God: Monet and Turner
Tick. 8:27. The tap’s running, she’s washing something, how the water splashes a little, grapes, nectarines? She must be facing the sink, so he'll be coming up behind her, taking his time, enjoying his anticipation, drooling over the curve of her neck, visualizing her breasts...
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