Intertwine
Page 7
This weekend, Ma is going to Tumpa’s house to stay, for at least a week. A disgusted Amit puts her suitcase in the car. As he waits, a roly poly overweight girl trundles out of his neighbor’s flat.
“You must be Amit. Your mother was saying you are a software engineer. She is such a sweetie pie. She asked me to show you my doctoral thesis. It seems you were interested in taking up microbiology if you hadn’t been a software engineer?” coos the roly poly girl sweetly. Amit prays that his mother arrive soon. Did he even like girls anymore?
Ma finally appears, wipes her tears and locks the front door. Her face seems to be glowing with grief. There are two wells on her face. Amit feels guilty and hugs his mother.
“Ma you really need this change. I will be fine by myself. Don’t worry. And we are in the same city. Just think, sister will be so happy to have you with her.” Ma nods her head, her bun bobbing up and down and bursts into tears again.
They enjoy a smooth ride to Tumpa’s house. Amit feels relieved to see his mother settle down, hoping she has forgotten about Rani (of all girls!). He huffs and puffs silently and then his cheerful nature takes over. There! He had done a good job! He chuckles to himself, happy that he has managed to divert her mind from girls. He congratulates himself on being a responsible son.
Just as the satisfied Amit turns to make his trip back home, Ma pops the question: “Err….one minute son, what you think of Rani?”
The Great Monster
She stood facing her floor to ceiling mirror. Her reflection no longer startled her. Her body had changed considerably since the great monster chose to use her body as a host. That is what she called it now, “the great monster.” No one else seemed to have the ability to give her silent tormenter a name. Doctors were baffled and she sometimes doubted her friends and family truly believed her. Her monster was silent, nameless, and faceless. It’s hard to believe in something that you can’t see or touch or even put a name to. She knew it was there. That was all that mattered now.
She reminisced briefly on her life before the monster. Her hair seemed to shine brighter, her face appeared younger, but it was the changes in her body that bothered her the most. She was growing older, after all, so a few wrinkles were nothing to get excited over and her hair was mostly worn in a ponytail so who cared if it didn’t shine as brightly. Her body though, her body was so different.
She thought of how, at one time, she stood tall, strong, thin and straight. The monster had a different idea for her body. Her body now could swell from her toes to her head causing her once beautiful skin to stretch and contrast. Now tiny lines covered her skin as though the beast was marking its territory. Her once flat belly now protruded as though she was pregnant and her strong spine had given up on holding her upright. Her body leaned severely to one side more often than it stood straight. These were just outward appearances though. The things people could see. The things that proved something was not right were inside of her. It was the way the monster terrorized her insides that left her nearly crippled, mentally and physically.
Most days the monster ran with fire beneath her skin. It wreaked havoc on her muscles, her bones, and her mind. The pain was uncontrollable, leaving her weak, angry, sad, and, most of all, resentful of the life she had lived and of the life was now living. Try as she might her mind couldn’t compete with the monster. She tried, in vein, to quiet the monster. She would feed it morphine but the drug only made the monster stronger and her mind weaker.
Before she knew what was happening, the monster took hold of the morphine and begged her for more. Her mind was conflicted. She knew the dangers of the drug. She knew the risk of addiction. She also knew the pain that controlled her life. She knew the sadness she felt when the pain held her bed bound. She knew the morphine could keep the monster quiet, if only for a short amount of time, so she fed the monster.
She could feel the morphine rush through her body. She felt its attempt to kill the monster and its disappointment when it could do no more than numb the monster temporarily. She felt her body beg for more. Beg for the small moments of sweet release. The moments were few and far between but she lived for them. At least she used to live for them.
She visited more and more doctors but they couldn’t help her. The more treatments and drugs they gave her, the stronger the monster grew. The harder she fought the monster, the weaker she grew. Her sad mind and heart were now beginning to appear more often than her happy heart and mind. Some days she begged her body to heal. She begged her body to live, to fight, and to beat the monster. Other days, days that were becoming more and more frequent, her body begged for release. She cried to be let go, she prayed she would fall asleep and never awaken. Her emotions were in turmoil as the monster ripped her body to pieces. She was at a crossroads but she didn’t know which way to go.
She would wait. She would hope. She would pray to another unknown entity. She would fight. She would never give in. She would never give up. She was in a bitter fight for her life. She would keep her mind strong even as her body grew frail. Her opponent may be invisible but it would not win. She would win. She would stand tall and strong and straight. Her hair would once again be shiny. Her skin would glow. She hoped she would be with her family in this world when she finally beat the great monster but knew her body was weak. Her body may give out, but her heart, her thoughts, her soul would live on. That one thought gave her peace. She would cling to that tiny feeling of peace.
RELIVING MEMORIES
With every stroke of lead on the paper, every fluent motion of the hand, every concentrated detail, her memory was coming to life. The talent beyond her 9 years of life was playing out before her on that white sheet of paper.
Closing her eyes, she could remember every strand of hair like it was her own. The blond curls twisting and turning like a world famous roller coaster. As her eyes opened, she relayed her thoughts to the paper turning her hand slightly to get the angle just right.
The hair was the easy part. She knew the eyes were going to be a bit tougher. The thick eyelashes, the semi-forming crows feet from a lifetime of smiles, the perfectly placed mascara. She spent hours looking into those eyes, dreaming of the thoughts that lay behind them, wondering if she was ever in those thoughts.
With the finishing touches of the perfect eyes completed, she moved onto the lips. The full, always shaped in a smile lips, every line, every curve coming back to her, the light red lipstick that was never out of line like an obsessed table setter placing forks in a row. She turned the pencil to the side, causing the exact tint needed, making no mistakes.
With every piece of the face coming together like a Beethoven masterpiece, she knew the 5 years lost didn’t affect her memory. The countless minutes, the miserable days, the missed birthdays, none of them mattered now. She was coming back to life. Every flawless line drew was reliving every second spent with her.
As she finished her work of art, the little girl felt the tear roll down her cheek and drop onto the paper. She knew she needed to be strong. Not for herself, but for the person who mattered most to her. So she stood up and took the picture with her, turning towards the door out of the sun room.
Wandering through the house she could hear a familiar noise in the den. This was a sound she heard for hours before she closed her eyes at night. Filling the house like the saddest song she had ever heard.
Slowly opening the door, she peaked in. There sat her dad at his desk, holding a ring in is fingers as tears rolled down his face. She could already feel the love letting out of him like a radar to the one he lost.
The little girl walked over to the desk and slid the picture underneath his hands and put her arms around her father.
“I won’t ever forget mommy either.” she said as her tears fell beside his.
THE PERFECT DAY
The sun was shining down hard against my exposed neck. He always tried to warn me about wearing sun block, but I was 6. I never listened.
I can still feel the breeze hitting my red cheeks. As I asked him where it came from, he knelt down next to me and pointed out into the ocean and said "it is the dreams of everyone around the world, getting to where they are supposed to be." When he took my hand and led me towards something in the sand, I couldn't help but think that this is where my dreams had been carried. It was the perfect day.
Sticking up slightly out of the moist sand, there was a round figure. From the distance, it looked like a rock. I couldn't understand why a rock was important, until we approached it quickly. Gently pulling it out of the sand, exposing all of it, there was an odd texture to it and a weird shape on the back.
"This is a sand dollar." he said while placing it in my hand.
"What is a sand dollar?" I asked him.
"It is a living creature."
I dropped it immediately and backed up. My world was consumed with his infectious laugh, the one thing that no one could help smiling at. It was the medicine for a bad day.
I watched him walk towards the water, rolling up his pant legs, and whistling a song only he knew. As soon as his back was completely turned, I covered up the sand dollar with ease, and raced towards him. Walking together, I tried to keep the beat with him to his song, but I had no clue how to whistle so I was just blowing air. None of that mattered to him. He just looked down and smiled.
Looking back up, his towering form was unbelievable. He was a giant. My giant, the man that would protect me without a care for his own well-being, I was his life, his protege, his son. I would follow him into the unknown, because I knew he would never let anything happen to me.
He stopped me right before the edge of the water, and began to untie my shoes, his enormous hands unraveling my shoe laces with precision. When the shoes came off, he rolled up my pants legs and said "now we are ready." Right before he stood up, he looked me in the eyes and winked. He was the best dad anyone could ask for.
I turned and bolted towards the water, not even taking into consideration that it was only June. When my left foot slammed into the water, I froze in my tracks. The water felt like setting my bare foot onto the snow. I turned around and ran as fast as I could away from the numbing water and back next to my dad. His laugh filled the air again.
"A little cold?" he asked me.
"Freezing," I responded with an over dramatic shiver.
My eyes followed him as he left my side and walked towards the water. He proceeded with caution, following the wave as it rolled back out into the sea. Just as he stopped, he turned around and smiled at me with a kid-like anticipation. The wave vanished, as another passed over it and hit my dad's legs. He jumped up into the air, turning suddenly and running as he hit the ground. My breathing was gone as I laughed harder than I ever had.
"You were right. Let's get out of here." he said with a laugh as he led me back to my shoes, ending the perfect day.
My father was a great man. There are many memories of him, but this is by far the greatest. The memory that will get me through any hard days that is to come. Surrounded by all his friends and family here today, I know he would be proud. Even with him gone, his 17 year old son will never forget the moments in life that matter the most.
I love you, dad.
NANNIE’S CAT
Cat was in the garden. She called him Cat because that’s what he was. She didn’t hold with giving animals people-names. Nannie could hear him squalling at the birds who so deftly avoided his clawless front paws. Chuckling softly, Nannie tied an apron around her ample waist and began setting out the ingredients to make a stack cake. She guarded the recipe jealously; it had been her grandmother’s and not an easy one to replicate. She had kept it only in her memory until her memory started to go, then she wrote it down and put it in her coffee canister. She prayed every night she wouldn’t forget where she’d hidden it. She looked around her sunny yellow kitchen and breathed a prayer of thanks that she could still find it when she needed it.
Her children, scattered out all over the state, didn’t like her living alone now, and they strenuously objected to her cooking; they were afraid she’d forget the stove was on and burn the house down around her. She got one meal a day from Meals on Wheels; the rest of the time they wanted her to eat cereal for breakfast every morning, and a sandwich of some kind each evening for supper. She was not willing to give up cooking for herself, but she taped up notes all over the kitchen saying, “Check the stove” to pacify them.
Nannie sighed and began mixing the ingredients for the stack cake. Her son had disconnected the gas stove so she wasn’t able to cook with it anymore. He said he was scared she’d turn it on, forget to light it (it was very old, and she had to light each burner with a match), and die from gas fumes. Nannie was indignant, but she knew arguing that issue was a battle she could never win, and she was terrified her children would have her ruled incompetent and send her to an old age home, so she held her tongue. She wondered how long it would be before they refused to let her cook at all. For the time being they were willing to let her continue to use the toaster oven. It had a timer, so even if she burned something, it would eventually shut itself off.
She couldn’t drive; had never learned, and she was at the mercy of her daughter who lived in a small town just west of her own. She hated having to ask Darcy to drive her to the Piggly Wiggly every Saturday; Darcy always made her call and ask, saying she didn’t want to waste a trip if Nannie didn’t really need anything that week. Nannie thought her daughter just enjoyed being in control of everything. Darcy was the only child who lived close enough to Nannie to help her so Nannie didn’t dare antagonize her. Quietly, while the cake was baking, she made her grocery list. Milk, eggs, Arm & Hammer baking soda, yeast, baking powder, Eagle brand condensed milk, some ripe bananas, vanilla wafers. For a moment she considered what other items she might need that she’d forgotten. Finally, she rose and went to the pantry.
Opening the door, she saw rows of gleaming Mason jars filled with the vegetables and fruits she had canned the summer before. She dusted them regularly and enjoyed some nearly every day. She was careful not to use them up too quickly because there would be no more. With no stove to cook on, she could no longer can anything, and the few things she still raised in her small garden had to be eaten quickly before they rotted on the ground. She used to give away cans of food to her neighbors, but the neighborhood had changed, and she didn’t really know anyone there anymore.
When the timer on the toaster oven went off, Nannie took the cake out and placed it on a rack to cool. Back to the list: new potatoes, salt substitute (which she thought tasted like tin foil but was forced to buy because her children worried about her blood pressure), oleo (she preferred real butter, but Darcy insisted on the fake kind with less cholesterol and fat), Crisco, and vanilla pudding. Putting the list down on the table, she went back to the cooling rack, took the cake and began slicing it crosswise into half-inch layers. Once this was done, she pulled out a jar of apple butter (one of the few things she could not make for herself), and began layering cake slices with apple butter between them. When she had all the layers stacked neatly and had spread the final layer of apple butter on top for garnish, she stepped back to see her handiwork. Beautiful, she thought, licking a smear of apple butter off her thumb. She got out the waxed paper and wrapped it carefully around the sides and bottom of the cake. She left the top uncovered for the “frosting” to get solid.
She didn’t have many visitors, except for the Meals-On-Wheels lady, who had so many deliveries to make she didn’t have much time to chat. The preacher came by a couple of time
s a month to see her; she appreciated that more, because she lived so far out in the country he had to drive a good while to get there. His visits usually only lasted an hour but he always called to let her know he was coming and she always had boiled coffee and cake or muffins for him when he arrived.
The preacher was getting on in years now, too, and the congregation had voted to retire him. They had already brought in a new younger preacher who was getting to know the church and its members; they had given the old preacher six months to prepare for his retirement. She was afraid that after he was gone, she’d really be alone. She didn’t much cotton to the new preacher; she’d met him once, and he seemed to be in a great hurry. During the one visit he’d made to see her, when he was sitting in her parlor, his movements told her that it was a mere courtesy call and that he would much rather be somewhere else.
Her phone rang, she ignored it. It was one of those cell phones with the great big numbers, and she still wasn’t too comfortable with a phone that didn’t have a cord. Mostly she figured it was somebody trying to sell her something or ask her research questions or some other tripe and she just didn’t have time for that. She still had to clean up her kitchen and do her Bible reading. Everything seemed to take her so much longer lately; she tired easily and had to sit down often, even when she was just standing at the sink washing dishes. Sometimes her heart pained her a bit, but she didn’t tell the children that. She knew if she did, they’d pack her off to the old age home right away.