by K.N. Lee
The wall lining the staircase was littered with picture frames. This was my mother’s project, something she took pride in that I now thanked her for. She was the embodiment of what one would call a shutterbug; snapping pictures at every event, no matter how unimportant others thought they were. I stopped and stared at a picture of her and my father laughing. Her head lay on his shoulder and her arms were wrapped tightly around him. Hanging in a faded gold frame, it was the first picture put on that wall and was still my favorite. They were much younger then and were illuminated with a brilliant light that I loved to imagine originated from their inner happiness.
I found myself lost in concentration, matching her features to my own, picking apart her face as I always did when I stopped at this picture. Her eyes were my eyes; light brown, almost hazel, and when the sun hit them, it highlighted the subtle hints of green. We shared the same honey brown skin, though hers was clear and even, while mine was now blotchy and dry; a side effect of the medication. If she were still here, she would freak out to see how just how little effort I'd given to taking care of myself. I continued to go over my features in my head, matching their faces to mine. I had my father’s thin nose and lips, combined with my mother’s pout and a mixture of both of their smiles. (You could see it when I had a reason to smile, which was something that hadn’t happened in a long time.)
As I made it to the kitchen, I was greeted by the red light blinking on the answering machine. The notification gave no pause for thrill or concern, because it was the same person every day. She left the same message asking me to call her. She was my last living relative, being the only child of two only children; my maternal grandmother, who believed she had a way to heal me that no doctor would ever dream of, because it would put him “right out of business.” She was old, wise, stubborn in her ways, and held on tightly to what my mother called ‘dark magic’. Whenever my mother referred to her practices as such, my grandmother simply waved her off. She wasn’t the type to force anyone into accepting her beliefs. She’d always said that if a person didn’t truly believe in its power, it would chew them up and spit them out. She was however, livid with my mother for forcing her views onto me. She wanted me to come to my own conclusions about magic just as she had given my mother the freedom to do.
It was often that I overheard the discussions they had about me and how important it was that I knew where I came from. My grandmother referred to me as ‘a natural’ and my mother hissed ugly curses at her every time she did. This was always followed by my grandmother kissing me on the forehead and floating out the door wearing a carefree smile; while my mother stormed up the stairs to her bedroom, slamming the door as if she was a schoolgirl who had just been punished for breaking curfew. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy their confrontations, I mean what girl wouldn’t enjoy seeing their mom basically being sent to her room. It was pure entertainment!
I wished I could believe in my grandmother's ‘dark magic’, and her ‘cure’. From time to time, I let myself drift into fantasies that it could be real. I‘d be able to go back to living my life, the life I loved, and the life that was taken away. I pictured the friends I had alienated to prevent tainting their lives with my pain. I thought of the sports and activities that once filled my life and how strong I was, but now to even try and perform one tenth of the physical activity that I once enjoyed, would probably cause my sickly body to shatter.
I heard my mother’s voice clearly, “That woman and her superstitious ways. You will not take part in any of that. It isn’t natural!” My mother would never approve of my grandmother’s alternative healing methods. She tried her hardest to keep us apart in fear that I would somehow fall for her words and follow her way of thinking. I never understood why this would be so horrible. Was she afraid that I would be closer to my grandmother than I was to her? What was the big deal? What harm could possible come from building that relationship?
After years of these and many questions like them going unanswered I stopped asking. Any effort to try and sneak behind my mother’s back to visit my grandmother was useless. No matter how duplicitous I could be my mother always knew, though it was much easier to trick my father. Maybe she was using a little ‘black magic’ of her own. She would never admit if she were.
After a while, I stopped sneaking to see my grandmother. Partially because of my mother’s judgmental tone, and partially because my schedule had become so jammed with social events after I started junior year in high school, but mostly because I started to feel strange whenever I was around her. It was like there was something buried inside of me that I could only feel when I was with her. Whatever it was, it had been stirring, waking, and sometimes felt as if it were clawing to get out. With each visit, the feeling only intensified. She never said anything about it, and I never mentioned it, but she seemed to be aware of what was happening with me. I forced myself to ignore it. Stifled, the feeling went away, and I never thought about it again.
I put off the message and headed to the counter where a total of eight pills waited in the daily compartment of my weekly pillbox. I frowned at the idea of forcing them down my throat, because I had never acquired a tolerance for them. One pill always led to the next. Each one fixed one issue and caused another. I argued with my mother that I’d be better off without them, and she told me I had no idea what I was talking about. I longed for my mothers’ warm arms around me and her soft voice whispering in my ear that it would all be okay. It felt like only days ago she had been here with me, helping me through it all. I shook the thought from my mind, got a glass of water, and swallowed each pill down as quickly as I could while ignoring the pain as each one punctured a new hole in my throat, leaving its bitter signature on the way down.
It’d been two years spent in this monotonous morning routine, and one year since I’d been doing it alone. It was one of the few things that felt dependable. Standing in the large open concept kitchen, everything was always where it was expected it to be. I made sure to keep it that way; one of the few things my mother was adamant about. Her kitchen had to be in top condition. Everything was assigned a designated place and position. ‘Labels forward Alexa, always forward!’ There was a time when the thought of coming anywhere near this room was dreaded. Not wanting to hear her scrutiny when a cup didn’t make it back to its rightful cabinet, or if a fork landed in the section of the utensil drawer that was meant for spoons. Sometimes just for fun, I would move things around so that I could time her and see how long it would take until she had put them all back in order. Once the room I avoided against all odds, this was where I spent most of my time now. It was where I felt the safest and the closest to her.
Something about the room made my mom feel more at ease, this was her sanctuary. Every morning she made sure there was hot breakfast for my father and I, never forgetting to remind us that cold cereal was no way to start the day. I stopped at the refrigerator door, remembering the smell of her pancakes. The ones with the secret ingredient she never got to tell me about. She promised to give it to me, along with all of her other special recipes, on my 21st birthday. It would have been the start of a new tradition, something for me to pass on to my children. My heart ached as I realized I would never be able to taste them again. I tried to remember it. I tried to focus on the flavor in my mouth, the smell was strong, but the taste was spoiled by the pills I’d just taken. I gave up and went on with my routine.
I retrieved the bowl of fruit I’d cut up before I went to bed the night before, and a bottle of orange juice, grabbed a fork from the drawer and started to eat while still standing at the counter. I couldn’t sit at the table anymore. It flooded my head with memories of all the meals I had there with them. The laughter that erupted as my dad told me embarrassing details about my mom when they were younger. I remembered trying to hide the blood that rushed to my cheeks as they attempted to have the drug talk and even worse when they brought up the boy talk. I hadn’t built up enough courage to sit there, but I could never get rid
of it. So, I stared at it from a distance, making sure to never make contact with it. Even after a year, the resistance to it had not faltered.
The round mahogany table, with its four matching chairs, taunted me in what became a childish voice in my head. The designs carved into their legs and on the center of the table were similar to the ones in the banister. The dust that settled on its top was thick enough to be mistaken for a tablecloth. I could barely make out the color of the wood under the gray film. I hadn’t touched it at all since that night. My grandmother’s worried eyes, I could see them. She was there with me, I’m not sure how she knew, but, she was there before the police even showed up. I was grateful for her presence, for her arms wrapped around me and her shoulder to cry on.
I treaded heavily over to the phone and watched the blinking light on the answering machine. It would be her. No one else called me anymore. At first it felt like they were giving me space, the distance I had asked for, but eventually like most thing that go unseen, I had been forgotten, except for her. She called every day and her voice on that machine had also become a part of my daily routine.
As I pressed the playback button I popped a chunk of cantaloupe in my mouth and damn near choked when I heard the voice.
2
“Hey girl, it’s me…Jazz. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but hell, you are still my sister and I miss you…call me.” The sound of my once best friend’s voice echoed throughout the room as I pictured how she looked nearly a year ago when I last saw her. Her real name was, Jasmine, but she refused to be called that, declaring it to be too oppressive. I never understood that, but I accepted it anyway, not that she would have given me any other choice. I asked her once why she didn’t just change it, and she said she wouldn’t because she was named after her grandmother and didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings.
I could see her caramel skin, her almond shaped eyes, and the bouncy brown curls that surrounded her face. Her lips were full, almost overwhelming and smiling, like they always were. We had been friends since kindergarten; glued together at the hip. My mother loved it; she considered her a second daughter. We did just about everything together, except sports. She was more of a stereotypical girl and I was a natural born tomboy. She came to every event and every game to show her support and cheer me on, just as I did at every one of her fashion shows, because that’s what friends do for each other.
She was an amazing designer, and even though she begged me to be in her shows, I never would. My body would not do justice to her wonderful designs. I thought of the dress she created for me for our senior prom. The one I never got to wear. It still hung in the back of my closet untouched. She had given it to me as a surprise only days before I got the news that flipped my world upside down. The pain had hit me so hard and without so much as a notification of what was to come. I missed the last few weeks of senior year. I graduated, but I never got to walk across the stage.
I remember the doctor’s eyes, as he told me that I had Advanced Multiple Sclerosis. It was a disease that was now attacking my nervous system and causing me unbearable pain. After weeks of testing and physical therapy, I was put on medication. The doctor said it was an extreme case. I overheard him telling my mother, that at the rate of my progression, I only had months left before I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. He had never seen a case appear so suddenly and in such an advanced stage as mine. He wanted to enter me into a case study which my mother refused.
He was unable to explain how the disease had gone undiscovered, or the fast rate of the deceleration of my motor skills. There were no warning signs; no flashing red lights telling me to proceed with caution. I was at a track meet, the last one of my high school career. I took off running ahead of everyone else, on top of the world. My mother was in the crowd screaming with Jazz by her side cheering me on. My dad was filming from the top of the bleachers because he said it gave him a better shot. I was a few steps away from the finish when a final rush of adrenaline pumped through my veins. I was ecstatic, I was in the zone and I was winning. Seconds after I broke through the yellow tape, I hit the ground. My body writhing in pain, the adrenaline burned off and left behind a flame that seared through my muscles. In an instant I gone from running the fastest I had ever run, to facing the idea of never being able to walk again.
My mother refused the doctor’s diagnosis, quit her part-time position at the local daycare, and every day forced me to fight through it. I never hated her for it, even though I wanted to give up so many times. She pushed me, not for herself, but for me. She wanted me to be strong and prove to myself that I was worth fighting for. That was when the barrier was really put up between me and my grandmother. She called every day begging my mother to let her help and of course was refused. I often overheard my mother arguing with my father who argued against her, though not nearly as forcefully as he could have.
“It couldn’t hurt. Why not just try it? If it helps and takes away her pain, even a little bit, isn’t that worth trying?” My father tried to talk some sense into my mother, but she simply would not hear it. He would look at me with such guilt in his eyes. As if he blamed himself for what was happening to me, I guess that is how any parent would feel, as though their own genetics had damned their child.
My mother felt my father would betray her and refused to let my grandmother be with me without ‘proper supervision’, which meant my mother hovering over us whenever she came to visit, even if my father was there. She couldn't allow my grandmother sneaking behind her back to try and taint me, as if she were going to poison my soul. She wouldn’t even let me drink the store-bought tea she would bring for me, afraid she had found a way to slip something past the sealed cap!
I thought of my grandmother again. She hadn’t called today like she always did. Was something wrong? I picked up the phone clumsily, nearly dropping it and dialed her number. The phone rang; each ring longer than the one before it. She wasn’t home? She had no answering machine, so I couldn’t leave her a message. The phone just kept ringing. I slammed the receiver down in the cradle and tried not to worry as I stuffed the remainder of the fruit down my throat, and tossed the dishes in the sink. Any other day I would wash them and put them back in their designated spot the way my mother would have, but, I was too distracted to care. You may be wondering why I was so upset over one missed call, what is the big deal? After living inside of what was basically a controlled environment for so long, where everything is predictable, I was pretty much like a common test animal in a lab. Change one factor of their ecosystem and their little minds go ape shit.
Something inside me told me I needed to go and make sure that she was alright. I threw my clothes on hastily, oversized jeans and an orange t-shirt, (fashion icon over here) and moved as quickly as I could to get to my car in the garage. I tried to imagine that the phone had simply come unplugged, or she was out tending to her garden. I got to my car; the one my father had gotten me for my 16th birthday, a blue 2003 Chevy Malibu. Like the house and myself, it too had been poorly cared for. It was near the point where I would soon have to consider getting a new car, but it was hard to see the point in that since I rarely put it to use, and didn’t know how much longer I would be able to drive at all.
I drove the 20-minute trip in ten and was shocked that I hadn’t been pulled over; suburban police are usually on the lookout for early morning procrastinators speeding to get to work on time. I glanced around the front of my grandmother’s overly accessorized front yard as I pulled to a stop; my heart ached when I didn’t see her out there. I parked and once again forced my body to move as fast as it would toward her door. I told myself that I wouldn’t regret it later, but knew that I would. Denial only gets you so far.
Stiff legs carried me up the stairs to the door, passing the whimsical garden gnomes, plastic swans, and the wildflowers that traced the fence outlining her property. Her house stuck out like a sore thumb on the street, one that I’m sure her neighbors were just thrilled about! It looked more l
ike a cottage from a fairy tale than a suburban home. The wind blew, shaking the chimes that lined the porch. There was something dreamlike about this place that always led me to question the validity of my mother's concerns. I suddenly wished I had taken the time to figure out if there was anything to it.
As I pulled the spare key out of my bag, my fingers began to cramp; it had been too long since my body was pushed to move with any real level of speed. Call me tortoise! Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop until I made sure she was okay. My mind quickly created an image of me standing over an empty grave that I could only assume was hers. I would be alone. If she was gone, no one would be left for me.
“NANA!” I burst through the door, yelling her name so loudly that it felt like the force of the sound would shred the inside of my throat.
Each room was hastily scanned as I dashed through the small house looking for her; but she was not there. Panicked, I stared out the window facing her backyard; hoped she would be there, sitting on her porch swing sipping tea like she often did. The empty swing only reinforced the image of the grave and made it more resilient in my mind. I was alone. I fell to my knees ignoring the pain that shot through them as they smashed against the floor.
What did it matter now if I fell apart? She was no longer here. I was alone. For a moment I questioned my sanity, why did this cause me so much angst? So what, it was just one missed one call, one voicemail unheard. Did that mean she was gone? There was no logical explanation for the feeling, but inside I knew that I was losing her, if I hadn’t already. The tears began to build up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I made no attempt to stop them from spilling freely over the rim as I fell deeper into the abyss; the loneliness eating me up and swallowing me whole. Why hadn’t I taken the time to be with her? Why didn’t I try to be closer to her? Was I so worried about my mother condemning my actions that I allowed it to make me neglect the only person left in this world who meant anything to me?