Wonders In Dementialand: Dementialand

by Suzka Collins

  The story cleared the room of everything worldly. The balloons of Kitty and Dora floated closer as not to miss any of the good parts.

  My mother's Good-Friday-voice could be heard in my head - a voice from years ago. It was stronger and not forgetful. The younger mother started telling the story...

  * "Your father was at work, the day shift at Western Electric. I was upset that he was working on the most religious of holy days. It was snowing heavy, God's punishment to all the weather complaining peoples in Chicago who were at work instead of church. It was the heavy snow that stopped all traffic on the side streets. On the busy streets, cars drove in tunnels made from the snowplows burying the parked cars on each side.”

  “I was busy in the kitchen wiping down the table from the breakfast morning goop. Mira, your older sister, was in the bathroom straddling the edge of the porcelain tub. One leg was in the tub and the other tapping hard and loud on the bathroom floor. I heard her tappin’ all the way in the kitchen. She would tell you to hurry up. Your poop was moving too slow for her."

  I don’t exactly remember the details. The image had been refined and tailored every time I heard the story: my sister would prop up her head with her fist and with a whole lot of attitude, rest her fist and full arm on one knee – the other leg she used for tapping. Mira was ten, tall for her age and a bit more grown up for just being ten. She had far better things to do than to watch her sister sit on a potty waiting to be intestinally inspired. Serious potty-butt dents or poop would be the only outcome that could end all her suffering.

  I remembered the bathroom was small and narrow. On one side of the room was the tub - the other side had the servicing fixtures and hamper. The potty was between the porcelains, the sink and the grounded toilet. The floor was linoleumed with small black and white octagons. Turquoise plastic tiles never completed their climb up the wall. They stopped three quarters of the way. At the far end was an old wood window that opened unevenly. Its lopsided opening made the way for bad air to leave and good air to come inside. Not sure how the airs figured this out but they did and it worked.

  I was small for my age and too short to use the room's grown-up toilet. I sat on my own little wooden throne, sitting between the porcelains, resting my crossed arms on my bruised knees, picking at the over-done scabs. I had tree climbing, kick-ass legs for a four year old, filled with bruises and an assortment of black-n-blue moons. The hairs on my head split, creating two cockeyed pigtails above the ears, one considerably higher than another. They evened themselves out when I tilted my head to one side, while sending telepathic messages to my sister Mira Don't even think of leaving this room until I poop. I was sadistic at four.

  * My head helped my mother tell the story, but even in her silence she shoved my words to the side and continued her soundless dialogue.

  "Well, you were in the bathroom on the potty and Mira was watching you. And then I heard your sister's a screaming. You know, normally she's not much of a screamer so I go running into the bathroom. She's screaming... Mom, Suzka is acting crazy, she's shaking all over, come quick, hurry! Well, when I got there, you were shaking alright like the devil himself was inside of you."

  "I didn't know what to think. You were shaking and burning up with the fire's heat. Your cries were stuck inside of you trying to push their way out. You curled your fists around the heat of your fever."

  "I grabbed you so fast, bent you over the sink, and let the cold faucet pour its water all over you. At the same time, I yelled over to Mira to turn on the tub water. I told her to use the cold knob only and put in the stopper. Your sister was frozen in place. I had to yell at her again... Mira, now! Do it now! I screamed the scare out of her so hard that she back-slammed her body right into the wall. Then she did what I told her to do."

  "I ran back into the kitchen to get some ice. I held you tight in one arm. Your face was burning hot. Your whole body was dripping red and still shaking like a mad dog. I don't know how I did it, but in one arm I grabbed everything out of the freezer; ice trays, roasts, frozen peas, everything freezing cold that I could hold. I was scared the fire inside of you would boil your brains."

  "I ran back to the bathroom and saw Mira leaning over the tub, lookin' at the faucet, beggin' the water to move quicker. I screamed to her, Move over, move Mira, move, move, move. Then I laid you in the tub with one arm and dropped the frozen cold all around you. There was only a little under four inches of water in the tub. You were looking bad. Your eyeballs were rolling all over the place. I had to think with all my brains. Your sister kept asking me if you're gonna die?"

  "I then picked you up and ran out into the dining room. I grabbed my coat and laid it flat down on the table and wrapped you up in it. I knew I had to go outside and get some help. I hated to leave Mira alone but I had no choice. I told her not to go anywhere. Don't answer the door, don't answer the phone, don't speak don't move. That's no good to leave a little one all alone on such a terrible cold day but I had to do it. I had to find help.”

  “She listened - she listened too much. Mira didn't move - she didn't even go to pee. When I got home, she was exactly where I left her. Your sister was frozen stuck."

  I was the teller of the story and the listener at the same time remembering my mother’s words and picturing it in my head. After Violet gave Mira the kidalone-at-home instructions, I saw my mother make twenty sign-of-the-cross’s and then run out the door like a shot out of hell. She never included that part in her story telling but I saw it anyway.

  The room was quiet. I was lying so close to her I could feel her heartbeat with mine. I couldn't move - my eyes were closed. Without a sound, without a word, my mother’s younger voice continued the story...

  "I ran down the middle of the street with you in my arms, wearing just a cotton dress and my slippers. I didn't feel the cold at all. You hardly weighed anything. There was a pharmacy a couple of blocks away. I remembered they had a doctor's office on the second floor. I ran down the middle of street as fast as I could, then into the pharmacy and up the side stairs."

  "The second floor was dark and had a long hallway of doors on both sides; doors with gold letters on those fancy pitted windows. My eyes were serious. They took me from one door to another looking for the word 'Doctor' on the glass. I was nearly to the end of that hall and I saw, 'Dr. Yurka'. Relief sweat out of my head... but not for long. I couldn't get the door to open. I looked around me - his door, every door was closed, dark window closed. No one was working. It was a holy day. Even good Jewish doctors don't work on Good Friday back then. I walked back down into the pharmacy. I just stood there in place, I couldn't move no more. The cold talked to my head and it started me shaking.”

  “My baby’s dead, I said. Everyone looked at me. My hair was crying down my face, my dress was dripping cold water. I was standing there in a puddle of disbelief. I was a mess. My baby’s dead, I said."

  "The pharmacist stopped his pharmacy'ing and ran to me. He took you from my arms and laid you on the floor. When he opened the coat, you were already blue, dead blue, Grampa blue. The skin on your face tinged and your small eyes turned inwards. People in the store were looking down at you and whispering words they sent to the heavens. Everything inside of me left. God took me from all happiness. I thought for sure God had punished me for something I did, something big. Then two firemen walked in like they were the archangels themselves. They came from nowhere. We all moved aside. They knelt over you and brought you out of death and back to the living."

  Violet would pause at this part, take a deep breath and change the tone in her voice, taking a more pragmatic approach to end her story.

  "Your father came home from work, Mira got unfrozen and I watched over you for two days straight, so the devil wouldn't take you back to convulsions. Everything was back to normal, except you were not the same. You changed. You were like a jumping bean. You could not be still for a minute. It was like you had antsin-your-pants… and you made me crazy from that day on. Never knew what t
o expect from you. I talked with God, God talked with the druggist. It was about that time when I started taking the Nervine pills for my nerves. It all worked out. And never again, on Good Friday, did your father go to work.

  [ There was talk among the family women that life took away that precious angel from this earth

  and dropped in a rather capricious child. ]

  * I fell asleep with my head tucked into my mother's neck. The warmth of her body and the rolling wave of her breath immersed me into the warm waters before time.

  A sound had swelled in the heat. A muffled sound that started in the corner of the room and grew as it moved closer. I stretched my ears as far as they would go to hear the sound - a run of woods tapping against the steel rims of drums. As the woods got louder the energy intensified. My head was filled with voices that must have come from the moon's side where dreams are painted and filmed. The air around me pulsated and came alive. An impatient curiosity overcame me. I opened my eyes inside my sleep.

  The streets were lined with massive crowds. Everyone was dressed in costume and had painted their faces. Plum feathered guards with brassy instruments led to what looked like a parade. Nothing appeared to be what it should be as they do in most dreams.

  Everyone was singing, cheering and bumping into each other. They moved like toys wound too tight. Street dancers turned in circles and the birds above flew backwards to confuse the gods. I watched a moving line of cars kiss each other like dogs do when they meet other dogs.

  The parade carried on dropped their tops carried wreaths. Cars followed behind with flags on their noses and arms waving out their sides. Some cars had ballooned angels on top with wings so large that if the wind had a mind to, it could blow them away. Saintly characters stuck out of limos’ roofs. The likenesses to Michael, Christopher and Jude - they threw wrapped candies into the crowds below. Women in white choir cottons carried ornate offerings on their heads. Other women wore large hooped earrings and charm bracelets with hanging gold amulets. Their blouses were ruffled along the top stretching from shoulder to shoulder. The ruffles lowered themselves seductively showing ample cleavage to the crowd. Their shadows moved like spatters of paint along the streets catching the light as they passed by. The sight was truly spectacular. The energy was intoxicating. The smell was hot and moist with human perspiration that lodged in my nose and my throat. I swallowed the night's dream and started counting the cars in the procession. "Forty-seven, fortyeight, forty-nine, fifty..." In the distance, down the long street a Virgin'd statue paled.

  I walked along the curb and followed the parade to a city's circle where an improvised altar was built. It was curtained in gold beaded fabric and cornered with bouquets of jasmine.

  In front of the altar was a large cauldron filled with paper scribbled notes folded three or four times. The for blocks. Hearses that mounds of flowers and notes contained offerings, memories people would give to the gods in exchange for true happiness. The music and cheering intensified. The crowds compressed. Waving arms with fists clutching their papered memories squeezed and pushed their way to the cauldron where they would place their offerings. After much anticipation and quite suddenly, fire-eaters from the parade took their torches and lit the caldron on fire. I had my back turned and it wasn’t until the cauldron and the altar was engulfed in flames did I realize what had taking place. Smoke and ashes flew into the air and fell down on us like feathered snow, baby feathers from a young chic.

  One of the performers broke out of the parade and walked toward me. My body contracted with a shot of feelings. He saw the troubled look in my eyes, a look like I should not be there. He was not an old man and not a young boy. He sat in the middle of deciding. On his head was a black top hat.

  The kindly boy-man walked straight to me and when he got quite close, he swept the top hat off his head and bowed. His voice came out big like his presence. His head leveled to my eyes and asked. "Come with us. Come join the parade."

  A moon woke me up. < UNITED AIRLINES > DEPART: Chicago ARRIVE: California

  EXPIRED

  [ I thought this all had to end sometime. And then it did.]

  36.

  SHE’S READY Sovina ran downstairs to call for me. She grabbed me out of a dead sleep. I followed behind her back up the stairs. I couldn't hear myself running but I knew I was because I bumped into the railing corner at the top landing. My bones told me to forget the bruising pain and hurry. I stumbled into the room where my mother lay. A bright light from the moon covered everything. The room inhaled and held me in its breath, as I stood motionless in the center of its silence.

  Life broke its fever. They wouldn't come back to help her this time. The doctors, hospice too, told me they would not come back. Her organs were not strong enough to continue their work.

  Sovina knew what to do. I could only watch. She peeled away one blanket from my mother and then another. Slowly and with grace she peeled away all her coverings. Outside the stars watched. We all watched.

  My mother was as stiff as a broken puppet. Her legs were rigid in place and crooked. I was hoping she would not travel to the next life with crooked legs. Her face was beautiful. Her eyelids looked as if they were carved by the hands of a saint-maker.

  I heard the music of my family play in my head. Faraway music. Music coming from parade-ians flanked with banners, fans, silver crosses on long poles and tall candles. Plum feathered guards with brassy instruments played.

  “Stephan!” I thought, “Of course, Mom would want to hear Stephan’s music for sure. Where in the hell are his CDs. Which one? Which one should I play? The boombox. Where’s the boombox?”

  I did not recognize my own voice. I ran to the counter and nervously fumbled with Stephan's CD. My hands were shaking and confused. For the life of me, I could not remember how to make that damn cheap box work. Moisture beaded on my forehead. My hand searched my head for help.

  Sovina began washing my mother's body, washing away the illness. She didn't want my mother to take her broken brains with her. When she finished, Sovina opened the window telling death, his bride was ready.

  Skeeter took Violet's arm. He would take her to her death. “Are you ready?” He said to her. “It is time.” She seemed to hesitate as though she was giving her decision to go a second thought.

  Violet looked around the room behind her veil. Her new eyes followed a white aisle runner sprinkled with rose petals. At the end, a large thick man stood with a smile so wide it caused his eyes to disappear in its crease. He looked familiar. She squinted and looked closer. His hair was white as snow. He dressed in a gray suit with purple Violets pinned to its lapel. He was there to officiate something. Violet was unclear but resigned and was comforted by his presence. The large man thought her beautiful. He nodded - the nod a father would give to a daughter as a sign of approval. Standing to the left side of the officiator was her groom, her death, dressed like an admiral. He wore a white dress suit gilded in bands of cadmium and plates of gold. Aiguillettes laced across his chest. His heart was covered with shiny stars, precious jewels and gold-laced buttons. Violet could hardly breathe in anticipation.

  The bells rang quietly throughout the house - they had no stones in them. The trees outside looked in the windows and rustled with excitement.

  Violet peeked out from behind a vestibule window and counted the receiving guests... fifty six, fifty seven, fifty eight…

  Softly, Violet closed her eyes.

  My body folded as though someone shot a bullet into my bones. Slowly I bent over death and kissed my mother's cheek. It was cold and felt like wax paper. She smelled clean and dry like a scoured plate.

  Something pushed me back, away from death's draft. I dug my feet as deep as I could into the living side of the room and tightened my jaw. I didn't want to be swallowed into the bowels of the devil. He could be here too. I was not always a good girl and wasn't about to take any chances.

  I looked at the bed where life once lay. Violet's hands were crossed and rested q
uietly above her cotton nightgown. She was covered in white with a wonderful face.

  Death lifted life's veil and kissed my mother before us. The music crescendo’ed - everything was louder, the sound of passage, the volume, the intensity increased. Stephan fiercely pounded on the piano keys inside the boombox - Liszt's Liebestraum No.3.

  The gypsies danced faster and harder as though they were caught in a typhoon. Their colors circled around and through the wedding guests. Older gypsy women with sunken eyes and loose teeth bounced up and down on their weathered bare feet with leathered bottoms; the callused sign of centuries of dancing. They carried cloth brocade bags. From their bags they dug deep and grabbed a handful of stolen memories and sprinkled them around the room like wedding confetti.

  The balloons of Cookie, Kitty, Betty Boop, Belle and Dora shook, scat and shimmied. The other airheads bounced and pulled on their ribbons scooting their weighted hearts around the room. Their feet moved wickedly over the carpet, the sound of their mouths spoke not a word joyously.

  Violet's face paled and reflected the faces of the dead passing through a mirror; faces of loved ones who traveled far to be here for the celebration. The walls opened letting them in. They brought with them the sweet aromas of calla lilies, violets, roses and jasmine.

  Then all at once, the sainted statues throughout the house came to life - the Madonnas and Jesuses, the Michaels and creatures that decades, as the earth, the sun and the skies could not, they all came to see my mother. The blessed statues wiggled and twisted their bodies loose from their footings and squirmed out of their plaster molds. Once freed, they rushed into death's room. Their gowns, their cloaks flapped behind them making a sound like the hands of clapping madmen. They would welcome the guested ghosts who were waiting to greet the bride, drink wine and resurrect their connections.