The visitor, a slimy creature, who was muscular and pockmarked crawled into Dementialand leaving a spittle-like trail behind. His eyes were sunken and red. His lipless mouth slobbering in excitement was lined with serrated sharp teeth that were evenly spaced in his gums.
He crawled around under my mother's bed enjoying the moment as if he was a parading tribute to everything macabre and terrifying. Like the scoundrel he was, he cursed the moment in gratefulness, in prayer, giving thanks to confused gods and mockingly laughed at the sainted patrons who came to help.
When he finished posturing himself, he tightened his claws and tore into my mother splitting her in two. He ripped out her spirit and dragged her into the murky depths, through the sagas and shanties where the descendants of some of the worst sinners lived.
This creature was not kind to his frail host and there simply was not enough room inside of my mother's tiny frame to battle it out with such a gruesome demon.
Moaning, then mumbling and finally screaming, Violet gripped the guardrail on her bed. Her hands clenched tightly around the metal. Blue bulbous veins of knotting blood mapped highways on her skin that stretched themselves as far as they could. She banged her head against the rail again and again and again with such force she could not be held back. Her face squished. Her lips pushed forward pulling the loose skin forward like a balloon deflating its air. Her eyes were hidden behind tightly closed lids. Wordless anger.
The gypsies and the saints could not help her. They were overpowered. Skeeter was nowhere in sight. He was reviving old memory trinkets, gifts he would give to Violet later that night. The ballooned heads with the painted smiles could only watch. A devil who got tired of hell came into my mother for play, menacing with her for the sport, the merriment of the moment.
Violet was forced to host this demon. He took her everywhere and nowhere. She desperately screamed for a way back, a way out, yelling for God to help.
She clamped her hands tighter to the bed rail with the sweaty strength of a prizefighter, banging her head repeatedly against the bed's rail. There was no way I was able to open her grip. Sovina held my mother's head back but Violet's agitation and strength grew. The force inside this tiny woman overpowered us. A woman with a body so small it was like a pigeon. How was this possible?
I wrapped towels around the guardrail and duct taped them in place, hoping to prevent any physical injury that my mother would do to herself. Sovina and I had no choice but to wait out the storm, to wait for the demon to leave. Calling the hospital, the hospital calling the doctor, the doctor calling Walgreens, Walgreens delivering more pills that brought more demons was not an option.
After a time, the gypsies' colors returned to their forms and the Michaels and Christophers retreated back to their places of statue. The whole room spun slower and slower. Two airheads lost some air and fainted behind the couch.
'R' give me an 'R'. Violet fell into a damp deep sleep. The maven demon would have to wait until she woke up before he could begin tormenting her again. Demon work is exhausting. He slithered back into his plastic cylinder with its childproof cap and talked of his accomplishments with the other rival mediators. He felt pride in himself as though he was the last one standing in a bloody street massacre. Louder and louder he laughed and married himself to the other disdainful arrogant killers in the world. Killers who stood on the dead caucuses of their blindsided prey, their undermanned, unarmed, unequal opponents – victims of the demon’s sport.
I'm sorry, there is no 'R'.
* Throughout the night, I heard her call out, talking to Pavel, Andrew, Gustie, Philomena and Adeline, visitors from the Mary Queen of Heaven cemetery. Very quietly I tiptoed to her bed. She was asleep, lying with her hands curled up into fists of fear. The moonlight returned and covered her, casting a rim of radiance on her strands of hair. I kissed her cheek and whispered, “It’s ok mom, everyone is here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
33.
THANKSGIVING It was a cool fall day. I looked at my mother trying to make out if she knew anything – what a day it was, what was missing on this day than from the years past. There wasn’t the traditional smell of turkey basting in its juices, marinating the ripe air that was hardened by our family fighting. Fighting always preceded the guests’ arrival – relative guests that would later come armed with their own overcooked opinions for battle. Yet, she looked at me as if she knew I had something different planned for the day. This Thanksgiving we would have lunch at Crystal’s, a Bohemian restaurant, a forgotten favorite.
The sky was as muted and grey as tap water. Violet hadn't ventured out of her room for what seemed to be months. But I convinced myself this would be a good outing for us all.
"Mom, Sovina and I were thinking about going out today and eating lunch at Crystal’s. Do you want to come along? Stephan is going to meet us there. You want to come?" I always gave her the feeling that she had a choice.
She laughed with delightful approval, without a clue why.
* The lobby at Crystal’s was filled with a sea of heads colorfully covered in patterned babushkas, rain bonnets, lacquered bouffants and matted toupees that held on more to a lonely promise than improving appearances. The heads were attached to the loyal patrons of the infamous west side Bohemian restaurant.
The man-heads appeared to be less aggressive in this setting, unlike their counter parts. Their job was to squeeze their way to the front counter in order to get a numbered plastic card from the hostess. The card would confirm their place in order.
Their wives were the true warriors. They were predatory creatures that prowled around the packed lobby like hungry coyotes looking for a place to sit. Crystal’s was a popular restaurant among all the locals with ties to central Europe. The wait was always long; seating was scarce.
These women warriors walked through the crowd looking at the cards held by other seated patrons. The lowest number would be leaving their chair first. Like coyotes, they were quick in their hunt. They would snatch the warm seat from a rising patron before the stamped form of their butt left its vinyl covering.
I wheeled my mother into the lobby and without second thought I desperately sought out the hostess. Hopefully it would be Elenka. She knew my mother for years. I tried to maintain a level of composure in my search but began to question my decision. I kept myself emotionally detached and intact fearing that if I didn't, all hell would break loose. There was a chance this crowd could take her to places in her head that would turn this afternoon lunch into a holocaust. This part of the process had to run smoothly.
“44” Ah yes, Elenka! I stretched my neck into the air as far as it would go and balanced my full weight on all my toes. Elenka, Elenka, Can you see me? I have Violet here with me. I am her daughter from California. Remember Violet? Thoughts that screamed out into the room were noticed.
Elenka saw me. She remembered. She waved above the crowd, directing us to move forward, ahead of the 44, to the dining room area.
"Why. hello Mrs. Violet. I haven't seen you for a long time.” She leaned over and kissed my mother on both cheeks. “We missed you. I have a special table just for you. Follow me.”
Behind me were mumbling complaints. “Hey, we were here first? …I couldn’t hear. When did they call 40? …They can’t just butt in like that. Who’d they think they are? …I saw them come in. They’re cheaters.“
I turned around and said to the crowd in a sincere attempt to prevent a mob scene, “Number 24, she said 24. See...” and flashed some bogus card in the air covering the numbers with my fingers. I didn’t want to get mugged in the bathroom or in the parking lot on out way out. Tough crowd.
We followed the hostess. “Your brother Stephan arrived just five minutes ago and is saving a place for you at the table by the fireplace." My mother always remembered the presence of Stephan.
The dining area was tight. There were about fifty closely placed tables with linen tablecloths under white butcher blocked paper used for the gravy’s over
spill. Four or maybe five heavy wood breakfronts showcased sparkling crystal glassware behind beveled glass making the room feel very European. All the windows were large and covered with lace curtains that distorted the buses, cabbies and dirtied salted cars on the other side. Snow that survived numerous falls piled itself on the curb's fringes looking grey and hardened in stubbornness.
All the servers dressed the same, short red skirts with embroidered flower appliqués, tight black corseted vests and puffed sleeved blouses. Red, yellow and gold moved quickly between the tables. The servers spoke with heavy accents. Jumbled words and dialects from two continents were mixed in the warm porcelain bowls with dimpled dumplings waiting to be soaked in gravy. Airborne trays balanced the Schnitzels, the Goulash and the Spaetzles
I looked at my mother. She was not part of any conversation at the table and did not show the least bit of interest in anything around her. She had hardly talked in the past month. Words lost their way. How damn frustrating it must be, I thought. We all need to communicate in some way, to be heard and understood, to tell people who we are. But once I moved outside myself, I noticed Violet spoke eloquently with her simple gestures, her eyes and her body. She made incredible sounds when she didn’t speak.
I sat across the table from my mother. Both her hands were hidden under the linen. Her eyes sought out the blank holes in my face. I stared back, determined at first and at the same time, questionably cautious.
Her face was striking, not handsome or beautiful, it was different, lined and abandoned. She shared her smile with a kind and unpronounced gentleness. But it was in her eyes that she did all her bidding. They had a bright almost sharp clarity that brought a sense of significance to things.
She winked at me. For some stupid reason I looked around me as if her wink was intended for someone else. Then she winked again, a clear strong wink. Maybe it was her way of reminding me of the secret we shared. I really didn't know of its intention. It seems a bit silly now when I think about it but at that time I had believed she was thanking me for defending her strange behavior and protecting her craziness from being unfavorably interpreted.
She closed both her eyes and then opened them quickly. They were set, fixed and steady. There was a kind of charm about her that was very compelling. This time she raised her eyes and held her wink longer in a deliberate manner. My head turned to the side firmly focusing my one eye in her direction. I slowly winked back. Then she winked with her other eye; another clear bold wink just like its twin. I responded in turn with my opposite eye but my attempt was sloppy and spilled all over my face. That was when I realized I was a right-eyed winker.
Conversations in the room muffled. Every sound muted as if it was strained through fine linen. The room blurred itself and moved to the side giving us plenty of room as if we were on a clay court; two athletes in sport.
Violet returned without the slightest effort. Left wink. Right wink. Left wink. Right wink. How in the hell does she do that, I thought.
Stephan and Sovina stopped talking. They looked at me and back at Violet. Spectators.
At first one could barely hear her wink but then it got louder. It was hard to believe that a gesture was able to create such a glorious sound.
[ The Wink to Signal a Shared Secret: inspired from the story of Odin the Norse god. Odin gave his eye in exchange for a drink from
the well of Mimir; a drink which would give him the gift of great wisdom and knowledge. ] Oh lord I thought. Listen to her. I was learning to distrust the thievery of the dementias. It may sound absurd to say this but there was a kind of glory that she owned at that moment. She was awakening all kinds of thrilling vibrations in her senses drawing me deeper inside. Neighboring patrons heard the winking and looked over to where we were sitting as if we had gone crazy.
"Psst. What's she doing? Over there.”
"Is she deaf or something?"
Soon more patrons joined the sport of right-side, leftside winking. Old men shifted their hairy noses from side to side trying to master their serve. Right wink. Left wink. Wrinkled faces, contorted mouths, dentures lifted and dropped in the wink's wave. The room got quiet in surfaced conversations and loud in winks. It was an extraordinary and delightful experience, for which I cannot explain.
A waitress with a large tray balanced on her shoulder, placed a platter of dumplings on the table and covered the clayed court.
34.
COME WITH ME [ In her pocket, Violet found a key to a gate that when opened would lead her to everything mysterious and wonderful. After turning the key in its lock, she gave the key to her daughter in hopes that she would join her.]
There were moments when Violet would be
confused, then serious and in a second flip her thoughts upside down and laugh. Sometimes she would slip into empty places and settle there for a spell, then pop out through the cracks in its wall and come back to visit. Conversations with sentences properly connected were at a minimum. We all tried to follow but it was as if she snapped her words in two making them meaningless and foreign. She spoke gibberish fluently as if it were her born language.
Her thoughts might have been scattered and unclear but she had pirate eyes; eyes bluer and brighter than any eyes I had ever seen on anyone. They were bright, moist and watered in Caribbean blue pools of unspoken clarity. Pictured memories would float in and out of the yeasty ocean, bumping into each other. Sea urchins full of stories and mysteries waited for any courageous soul to dive in its deep pool. Angelfishes dangled a seductive lure in hope to catch me off my guard. Violet was the long lost queen of these waters.
* My mother cupped her hand and scooped up the air between us; the directional gesture for a body to come closer. Her eyes held on to me and wouldn’t let go. So much seductive magic is at the window’s eye. I believed my mother’s eyes, her new dementia eyes gave her special powers as well as being the keeper of secrets. But I too had secrets. Her eyes often scared me.
I moved closer to her bed and sat on its mattress edge. "Come with me." The first spoken words I had heard from my mother in weeks. She talked plainly as in the voice of a woman much younger than herself and more confident.
The room grew smaller and stilled itself. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly. I felt ice on my feet's bare skin and on my back. Her question came at me so quickly and vanished as hurriedly as it came into the air. Behind her all had fallen into silence, waiting for my answer.
My head was stuffed with no sound - the loud and noiseless remains when everything around you stops and your brain is being sent signals that it is hearing something that isn’t there. It is a very low hum, an electro-chemical sound of energy that often resonates inside my skull, audible to only my ears when given sufficient quiet.
My mother extended her hands out to mine and held them gently. I pulled them back into myself. "Come with me" she repeated.
I was confused and moved. Did she just ask me to come with her to die? A part of me found her invitation extraordinary yet somewhat inviting. She kept looking at me waiting for an answer. In her eyes I saw a thousand stars against a dark sky. She took me to places that were dark and twisted and turned in unexpected places traveling past the moon, past the galaxy. This fragile woman did not see a daughter, an artist, a visiting young woman with colored hair and paint on her cloths. She was looking at someone bigger, someone inside of me, whom I barely dared to know myself. That is when I had become aware of a negative and ignoble character inside me. I had come face-to-face with my darkest side and at the same time, an extraordinary brilliancy that was all mine. It was terrifying. Outside the windows, you could hear the tired night beat like a napping heart. The curtains breathed in and out. One by one the airheads began to wave quietly in the window’s breeze.
"Come with me." She repeated her request that drew me deeper into her follies.
“Eh? Come on now, what would happen to Lil'Vi if I left and went with you?” My senses got the best of me. “You know mom, we can't just both leave her. It woul
d break her heart in two. She’d have a nervous breakdown for sure and end up in some crazy house... you know how sensitive and nervous she is. And Mira, what about Mira? She can’t lose a mother and a sister at the same time. No. It would be bad, mom."
After a short pause, I repeated my mind’s good sense. “No. That’s a bad idea.”
"Oh... Lil'Vi. Yes. She does take everything extra hard.” I was surprised the night summoned her daughters. Did she actually remember she had three daughters?
She concluded, “Maybe you should stay."
We sat close together, without talking, without the sundown gypsies, without MetLife on the TV.
“You look like you’ve been picking dandelions.” We both laughed.
She hadn’t spoke for months following that day. 35.
THE GIRL WITH TWO BIRTHDAYS I climbed into my mother's bed and lowered my body as not to be horizontally taller. My head tucked itself into her neck. I shifted my restlessness and straightened my legs against her blanketed bones. Her body was thin and frail. Her toes were curled as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff.
My mother gently touched my cheek. Her hands were arthritically clasped together. Hands she used to fight the demons in the night.
"Mom do you want to hear the Good Friday story the one about the day the little girl died and came back to life? I can tell you the story and if you want to add something you can."
Silence.
To ease my mother's search for an answer I began the story without her blessing. It was my story even though I had no recollection of being part of any of it. It was simply a great story.
"Ok then, let me start. It's a story about a girl who had two birthdays. Her first birthday was on a warm Chicago day in June and her second birthday was on snowy Good Friday when she was a little girl lying on the floor at Pulaski's Drugstore four years later."
Every Good Friday for as long as I could remember, my mother would tell me about the day I died and came back to life. I heard the story again and again and each time I listened as if I was hearing it for the first time. The story never changed except in the past few years. The story was repeated beyond its Good Friday anniversary date and within its frequent repetitions, the facts got a bit jumbled. Mom added quite a few more characters, television celebrities and dead people, as well as a goat from Indiana and a side trip to Miami Beach for a Tupperware convention. The story took on a kind of fairy-tale-folk-sci-fi-drama genre. I had to use all my brains to follow but the ending was always the same. The little girl lived. My mother stopped telling the story months ago.
Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand Page 21