Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand

by Suzka Collins

  * It was 9:18 in the morning.

  The room was tightly packed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The pot on the counter had just finished rapidly perking itself into a frenzy and stopped. God I loved Sovina. The first thing she did every morning was start making the coffee. Strong European coffee. On working days and even on her free days before she left the house, she never missed making coffee. Today Sovina was working.

  "Upsy-daisy, Mrs. Violet.” With one arm behind her back and the other on her right arm, Sovina lifted Violet’s back and helped her turn in place. Violet would then scoot her butt from side to side until she successfully reached the edge of the mattress. When she finished her scoot and her legs hung freely, Sovina would bend down and slip on Mrs. Violet's house slippers; the pink ones with the dotted rubber bottoms.

  "Ready to start your day Mrs. Violet?" Every word from Sovina poured out like sweetened milk. Violet stretched out her arms to Sovina and held on until her wobble rested securely on the rubber handles of her walker. Once her bones were centered for travel, Violet pushed her walker quickly out-of-the-gate and shuffled to the bathroom just a few yards away. Violet knew Sovina was close behind and that she would help her on the toilet.

  “Slow down Mrs. Violet. I can hardly keep up with you. You move like the Gods took twenty years off your legs in the middle of the night.”

  Sovina followed. It was something she did most every morning. At the sink she ran warm water over a washcloth and placed it on the corner of the counter. Sometimes while waiting, Violet would dampen her restless cold hands with the warm cloth.

  Sovina waited and looked into the mirror. She pulled back the loose strands of her hair behind her ear while Violet sat concentrating and squeezing her cheeks in prayer. Violet was always careful when she sat on the toilet. She was worried about splashing outside the porcelain bowl, dripping on her panties, so she used all her brains and thought very hard. Sovina stood close by and occasionally touched the chenille covered bones of Violet's shoulder for encouragement.

  My legs would drag my bones up the steps and into my mother's room, before I would meet my coffee, Sovina took care of my mother's morning urinations. We grew to be close friends Sovina and I. My mother’s dementia was a two+ woman job.

  “Hey Sovina.” I walked into the room warmly robed, my eyes tucked behind sunglasses and barely open; my hair still tangled in sleep. Traffic reports from the radio slid across the counter and fell on the carpet muffling its sound. The room was god-awful bright. The light burnt my eyes through a tiny slit in my squint. My glasses only muffled the pain.

  “Morning Suzka. Your coffee just finished perking.” Sovina had placed my favorite cup next to the pot on the counter.

  “Hey mom, how are you doing this morning?” - words that followed me from behind my intentions.

  When my mother heard my voice on this particular morning, her face changed. She quickly opened her eyes wide. They stuck in place like on a silly girl in her teens an inch away from getting caught crawling back into her bedroom window before anyone noticed she was missing in the night.

  "Morning Mom." I said it louder.

  She looked at me for a moment and spoke quietly… Good morning.

  Outside the opened window, two young birds argued as they were rearranging the twigs in their nest. My legs kept moving without any orders and took me into the room's bathroom. Once there, I picked up an elongated tray setting on the toilet's tank. The girl resembling a disheveled version of myself in the bathroom's mirror tried to get my attention but I gave her little notice.

  The tray was lined and arranged like an artist’s palette with colors, powders and creams. The little woman yards away sitting like the grasshopper in her wheelchair, was my canvas. No woman, no painter, no canvas should start the day, any day, without color.

  As I brought the tray closer to my mother, I noticed a few items missing; a few items were always missing. They were most likely snatched in the night, taken shortly after one of my mother’s under-the-radar bathroom visits. There was no use asking the little lady. She had no credible clues and had no idea the measure of her own criminal activities. Luckily, she was a terrible thief. She always hid her stash (sometimes a tube of lipstick or blush) in the same retrievable place – the freezer, under the nut rolls.

  “Did you see where the…?” I asked.

  “Well that’s a pretty silly question to ask me.” My intended inquiry was suspiciously cut in half, chopping off the question part. Violet continued in her defense. “I never saw anything. Go next door and talk to the neighbors. They’re the people you should be talking to. That’s what I think. Oh Lord Jesus, if only people would be sensible and not turn to crime. I’m just lucky I caught the last bus.”

  I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.

  Violet was most anxious sitting in her chair. Disoriented, her hands cupped into each other as if they were holding on to a captured lightning bug from the night's play. Her head worked hard on forgetting the feelings left over from her amorous dream.

  Sovina brought me my coffee.

  My mother quickly snapped herself into the moment in front of her. Her voice returned to its home in her throat. "Hello... Good morning... I'm here..." she said.

  "What do you mean? Of course you’re here, mom. Where else would you be?” My mother kept a careful watch on her words. She pursed her lips tightly and wiggled a bit in her chair.

  I placed the tray with the colors and brushes on her lap. She looked down at the assortment carefully scanning each unrecognized item. It was part of our morning ritual - a ritual that is repeated every day in Dementialand.

  "Why... is this all for me?"

  "Yea, everything on this tray, these colorful cosmetics are all for you mom." In another world, another time, I would have taken a drag from a cigarette before beginning this process. All great artists standing before a blank canvas used tobacco to ignite creative inspiration. But that was almost ten years ago. I broke up with smoking.

  "So how was your night? Did you have good dreams?" I asked. Violet controlled her face tightly in thought. Why did she say that? Why would she ever say that? She never cared about my dreams before. She must know, but how? How did she ever know? Violet screamed at her eyes, their lids and her eyebrows. Don't move. Don't look up. Stay perfectly still. She kept her head sternly casual. Violet had to be sure not to look into this woman’s eyes holding the tray of cosmetics for fear that she, this makeup painter, this funny faced strange woman in front of her who suspiciously moved into her home, might uncover her night’s secret; crossing the border, her fall and her handsome admirer, Skeeter.

  A sip of my coffee steamed my face. "Yes. It's going to be a good day, today. Let’s start with the lipstick. Do you want lipstick? Of course you do. We need to give this day a fighting chance and arm ourselves with… lipstick.”

  Her head stirred around the words like she was cooking a stew. "Yes, yes, lip-stig. Give me the lip-stig."

  "Blush too?" I showed her the container. "Powder?"

  "Yes. Give me the powder."

  The canvas of my mother's skin was thin. The structure in her face stood out like an abandoned building. Mom stretched her neck and pushed her head’s face out as far as it would go to meet the brush's bristles half way. Anxious powders jumped off the brush and fell to my mother's cheeks while others hung onto the hairs of the brush waiting for my direction. I spread the dust gently high into her bones.

  Next to the blush's powder on the tray was a tube of red lipstick. My choice. I loved lipstick and always wore the color red. It was part of who I painted myself to be.

  Before the cylinder cover left the tube, my mother squeezed her furrowed lips together and pushed them in position waiting for the polish to be applied. I pressed the creamed color against her lips and smeared it into the creases in an attempt to fill in the faded lip’s outline. As I stepped back to check my work, she pressed the surface of her lips together to stamp in the color. Some things a wom
an does instinctively and never forgets.

  "Now, the earrings Mom. Pick the pair of earrings you want to wear today."

  Four pair of earrings lay on the mirrored tray. "Pick any pair you like."

  She looked at the earrings carefully and touched each one with her index finger. This was a slow and careful process. "I will take this one." It was always the same. She would pick the large round clip-ons with black and gold chips in a geometric design.

  "There. Now you look simply beautiful. You are ready for all the surprises life has in store for you today.

  wearing Nothing can go wrong when a woman is earrings and lipstick."

  "You know mom, it’s the Miss America

  tonight. Big night for gowns and glitter.” Violet never

  missed attending the pageants in her living room for as

  long as I can remember.

  “Wha?” Translated meant What in God’s earth are

  you talking about?

  Pageant "The Miss America Pageant… it’s on TV tonight.” “Ohhhh.” It was a sheepish response with no

  understanding.

  “Let’s see. Why don’t we use the fancy clip on your

  hair this time, that one with the shiny rhinestones.” I

  picked a clip that was sitting on the crippled table. It was

  perfect.

  “You know what... of course. Wait a minute. Don’t

  move. I’ll be right back.”

  I ran downstairs. In a box on the pool table that held

  an assortment of misplaced trinkets was a crown. One of

  those old prom-type tiaras with backcombs that kept the

  crown from falling off a queen’s head. I grabbed it and

  pulled away the chains and other baubles that stuck to

  the jeweled piece. Then I noticed to the side of my

  vision, a vase filled with plastic flowers, daisies, dusty

  yellow daisies. I grabbed the bunched arrangement,

  shook the dust off in the air and ran back up the stairs. “Voila!” The final touch! Sovina finished brushing

  her hair, clipped it in place and added the crown. We

  presented her with the conventional arrangement of

  flowers, a bouquet of dusty daisies. “You are the crowned

  Queen of Dementialand.” She looked extraordinary. I

  heard her giggle some words but I couldn’t understand. She held the flowers in her arms that entire day and

  adjusted her crown once or twice as if she were waiting

  for Bert Parks to walk in and start singing, There She Is…

  * Miles away in time, Skeeter could not get Violet off his mind. He thought of her night and day. Something about her burnt into his chest. He fell beneath the surface of his mission. A silent animal filled with anguish, filled with joy consumed him. He replayed their first meeting in his head over and over again. His thoughts were of worshipping her.

  He finally called Violet and spoke in the tenderness reserved only for lovers.

  "Violet, Miss Violet this is Skeeter... the gentleman you met at the border yesterday. I hope I am not being intrusive but I wanted to check on your injury and see if you have recovered fully after your fall."

  "Skeeter? Skeeter from the...?" Violet looked around the room and then down at her ankle. She thought maybe he was part of a dream, a wonderful dream. The type of dream you play again in your head repeatedly when no one is looking and later thank the dream fairies for leaving it under your pillow.

  "How is your ankle, Miss Violet?"

  "Why... it's... It's fine. I'm fine. Where..." Violet looked down at her ankle. Puzzled. Trying so hard to put the pieces together. Her caller's voice was toying with her sense of order. She didn't like what was happening. Aside her confusion the handsome caller waited.

  "You must go away. My daughter will be coming back into the room soon."

  "She won't be able to hear me. I came to see you, only you."

  A mosquito buzzed around her head. She waved her hand in the air to stop its pest'ing. "Miss Violet, I would like to see you again, perhaps we can visit sometime today."

  "Today? ...Today?" Violet looked around the empty room to see if anyone overheard her thinking. She went back into her head and answered her persistent pursuer.

  "Are you crazy? I can’t meet with you and how did you find me anyway? Where did you come from? You have to go away. Leave right now." Her head voice wasted no time in responding.

  "I am so sorry if I make you nervous. I assure you my intentions are truly honest and loving."

  "I am sure they are but I have a life here. With a family... I… I think I have children too… I think I have girl children.” All her thoughts were bumping into each other. “Oh, don't confuse me. You're... “

  "I am not here to confuse you. Quite the contrary.”

  "You're making no sense. Just go away... and don't take anything with you when you leave. Everything here is mine." Violet wasn't sure what she was saying. Words fell out of her mouth with no mind and no malice.

  "I will only go away if you promise to meet with me. Perhaps later this afternoon."

  "You must go away... someone is going to catch you... oh my God, I can’t be caught talking to you. Stop talking to me and go away please."

  "Not until you promise."

  29.

  ELLIE AND HER FATHER

  Mrs. Violet was sitting in a wheelchair, sipping through a straw her butter-pecan Ensure. The balloons of Cookie, Kitty, Dora and Belle were at her side, carefully overseeing the concerns of the little lady and looking out for possible danger or harm that might come to her. Violet’s eyes fixed on a strange man standing in front of her. She stared at him as she twisted her drinking straw, trying to remember if he was a man she should know; someone who perhaps was hidden in her memory's blind spot. This man for sure was not her visiting admirer, Skeeter.

  Ellie came to the house for a visit. She brought sweet smelling violets, a viola alba plant and a box of almond horn cookies from a local bakery… and she brought her father. Ellie's father was about my mother’s age. His wife died four years ago. Although I told my mother about Ellie and her father coming to visit, she acted surprised when they walked into the room. She watched his head curiously move around the room from one balloon to another. There were twelve that day; ‘airheads’ that floated with authority above all visiting guests.

  The old man’s eyes widened like a schoolboy at a circus. There was Dora, Elmo, Tweety-Bird, a couple of Mermaids and God only knows how many butterflies. He gave each ballooned airhead a proper amount of attention. But when he got to Dora and followed her ribbon down to the arm of Violet’s wheelchair, something snapped inside his head and returned him to the old man he was.

  The fatherly man bent over and extended his hand to Violet. That hand hung in the air like a buzzard flying around in a desert looking for a place to dine. I gave my mother a little nudge on her shoulder to do the polite thing and extend her hand for the shaking but under her breath she indicated, she wouldn't and she didn't. Eventually he pulled his arm back.

  Ellie broke the ice. "Violet, this is my father. He wanted to meet you. He is visiting with my family for a couple of weeks."

  "You are so pretty. My daughter never told me you were such an attractive lady."

  My mother bit down on the straw and tightened her plated teeth into her gums and said nothing.

  "How wonderful to finally meet you. My daughter told me so many wonderful things about you."

  Violet turned her head slightly and sunk back into the chair. Under her arm, she covertly maneuvered the handles of her purse with a tight grip. I hadn't a clue what she was thinking. She adored Ellie and her father seemed nice enough, a tall man about the height of my father with white hair boxed to his head. His trousers were high. His back was bowed. Not sure if that was an impairment or an intentional gesture to get closer to my mother who was considerably lower in height.

  We moved the seat-a
ble furniture around in a circle. An ottoman was in the center where a tray with goodies and fancy napkins leaned slightly to one side.

  "Here... Sit right here." I pulled out a chair for the bowed man. "Take this seat." The chair was the furthest and safest distance away from my mother.

  "Would you like some coffee? And Ellie, why don't you sit next to my mom over there." I loved Ellie’s visits. She always brought over a bit of positive light when she visited. It was packaged in her laugh.

  Earlier I placed cups and saucers on the counter - the fancy china. Mom had seven different china sets. I selected the set that best suited our visiting guests. The cups had an ornate flower pattern with green deco trim around the lip. Its twin saucer wore the same circle. But the best part was the inside of the cup. It looked as if each cup was delicately painted in liquid pearls, the same paint God used to brush the insides of abalone shells. Ellie’s father looked abalone’ian.

  My mother straightened her back and stretched her neck as far as it would go. Something took over her with utmost priority. Her vision tunneled its way to the counter. The dementias had already robbed her of the peripheral parts of her room. But now her eyes were more directed and focused as if looking through a toilet paper roll.

  She looked to the china pieces sitting on the counter and moved her lips in counting each cup and saucer as if the count would be needed to match the number at the end of the visit. I could see her eyes trying to memorize each piece. She would have to be right this time. She knew that if she was to forget what was stolen then nothing was ever stolen in the first place. And ‘they’ would have gotten away with it.

  I sternly looked at her and telepathically sent her a message as loud as I could. Pick up my words mommy dearest. Pick up my words… He's not gonna take one of your frigin’ china cups. I can see what you‘re doing. You’re not fooling anybody. She paid me no attention.

  Violet was exceptionally alert. She followed our conversation and every joke. Her eyes were wide and bright and moved from Ellie to her father to Sovina and myself.

  It was somewhat surreal staying in that very moment. My mother was not my mother and I was not her middle child but someone who made her laugh often and argued with her less than anyone else. Sovina might have argued but her tone was so gentle and soft even if she did one would ever notice.