Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 

She tried to force herself to approach the machine and erase the message, but found she couldn’t move. She began to tremble and lest she fall to the floor, backed up slowly until she reached the dining room and half-fell into the nearest chair.

She was overwrought. And no wonder--with two episodes in one day and some serious self-realization, who wouldn’t be? These excuses were admittedly flimsy, but she refused to consider any alternatives. Especially the one that kept knocking at her consciousness " demanding entrance and recognition.

 

"Yoooou.....brooooke.......myyyyyyyy -"

 

No! She was suffering from sensory overload, her imagination had been freed by the release of pent up grief and was now running amok. So why didn’t she replay the message to be sure? As if the question had been spoken aloud, she shook her head, "No, no, no".

Guilt, it was the guilt she had felt but could not clearly identify for the last two years. Her guilty conscience had projected the chilling message now that her defenses were down. She was weak, in spirit and mind. But try as she might, she could not summon the strength to delete the unintelligible message and forget it. Suddenly, she became aware of the animals, or more to the point, their absence. There was never a time when she was seated that one or more cats and the dog failed to circle her, crowd her, begging attention or lap space. She peered into the living room, then looked back into the kitchen. Not a whisker, not a sound, nothing. This frightened her even more than the strange message as it seemed to give validity to what she thought she heard and hoped she hadn’t.

Swallowing hard, and reluctant to move, she, nonetheless, steeled her resolve and pushed herself to action. Slowly, she rose from the chair and visually located her purse, keys and the much needed cigarettes where she had tossed them on the couch. Okay. Now, go! Move!  She stumbled over to the couch, grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and with shaking fingers, lit one. She still could not turn her back on the machine, as if it were capable of movement and could act with the evil intent of the hoarse whisper she still refused to believe she heard.

 

While the calming toxins invaded her lungs, she willed herself to be calm. Slowly, her trembling ceased and she sat down on the couch, pushing her purse and keys aside. Instantly, she realized she was angry. This was ridiculous and downright neurotic, and she’d be damned if she was going to go down the same demented road as her sister.

 

But her anger was not strong enough to enable her to replay the message or even go near the machine and with a false bravado that she did not feel, she scooped up her purse, keys, cigarettes, and, after another look around and still no animals in sight, she left them to their own devices and promptly left her house to drive directly to her mother’s. A short and uneventful ten minutes later, she pulled into her mother’s sloping driveway and decided not to mention anything about the message, but to approach the subject with general questions.

 

She pushed open the heavy front door and called out "It’s me, Mama." She softly closed the door behind her, and took a moment to adjust her sight to the sudden darkness in the small foyer. She walked to the hallway, looking first in the den and not seeing her mother, looked the other direction down the hall toward her bedroom.

 

"Mama?"

 

Her mother could not answer her call as a result of a laryngectomy ten years earlier, and she waited a moment for sounds of movement, a soft rustle, a closing door, but heard nothing. She noticed the back patio door was open and as she walked out into the screened porch, she saw her mother in the lush and landscaped back yard refilling one of four large birdfeeders, her short, stocky body stretched to pour the birdseed into the top of the feeders. She remained still, quiet, and watched her mother for a moment; this woman who had overcome so many trials including cancer, the death of both her parents, the death of her only sibling - her beloved older brother, and now, recently, one of her children. Was it really her faith that sustained her through these heartaches, or had she lapsed into her own version of dementia, a calm and unsurprised perspective that would serve her the rest of her days? No, her mother was strong, with a backbone of steel. She had seen her mother lose composure only three times in her life, each time merely a brief lapse, under control within minutes. She assumed that her mother had moments similar to those she herself experienced like today, when, alone in her home, emotion would overwhelm her and there being no reason to maintain dignity, would cry out her grief in tears or angry words. Otherwise, how could she go on? Wouldn’t that much contained anguish poison her body? Her mind? She shook her head and moved to open the screen door for her mother.

 

"Your knee must be better, today. You started that physical therapy this week, didn’t you?"  

 

Her mother, due to the laryngectomy was what is commonly known as a "neck-breather", and spoke in a hoarse but clearly understood whispering growl, "Yes, but, better than that, I got my Darvocet prescription refilled."

 

She smiled at her mother, whose lined face was still beautiful and whose bright blue eyes always appeared calm, at peace. Was it the drugs? She did have several prescriptions for numerous ailments: degenerative bone disease in her neck, recent surgery on her knee to repair a torn cartilage and scrape out the accumulated arthritis, just to name a few. Was she in a drug induced calm to ensure that she stayed in control? No, she rejected idea almost immediately; she had been with her mother after the knee surgery on a Friday afternoon. The initial prescribed pain medication had been ineffective and she had been helpless to ease her mother’s pain, could only talk to distract her during the four-hour intervals between doses until that following Monday morning, when the surgeon was contacted and asked to prescribe a stronger medication. No, this old lady was just tough as nails, period. She hoped she had inherited some of those nails, today more than ever.

 

"Well, don’t overdo it. Sit down, and I’ll fix you a cup of tea--Raspberry Royale or Earl Grey?"

 

"Raspberry, and bring me the notepad by the phone in the kitchen." Innocent and harmless words, but today, these words made C. inwardly shiver.

She turned to go back inside the house, when she saw something that didn’t immediately register, but when she turned back to look closer, she felt her throat begin to close again blocking her breathing and her heart began to thump hard against her chest.

 

"Mama, what’s this?" she hoped her voice sounded natural, to her ears she sounded high-pitched and shaky as she pointed to the object leaning against the wall in the corner of the porch.

 

"It’s your sister’s cast and sling from her collar bone injury--I had forgotten that I saved it all these years because of all the nice things everyone wrote on it for her. I found it in a box in the back room. I’ve been trying to put all of her things together, in one place, and I keep finding stuff all over." Her mother shook her head in mock dismay at the overwhelming task of organizing all of her dead loved one’s belongings, precious only to her.

 

"Hmmm...." was the all she could manage and she hurried to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. The old cliche "Coincidence? I think not..." sprang to her mind and she smothered a nervous giggle. She busied her hands selecting a mug, pulling a tea bag from the box, then grabbed the damp cloth in the sink and nervously wiped clean surfaces around the sink and the stove.

 

She willed herself to calm down, she was here to allay some of her fears, not use everything as evidence of an evil plot to drive her mad. It was a coincidence; she knew that her mother had been sorting through boxes of odd and dear possessions for several months, now, her own attempt to keep busy and be productive. It’s easy to find proof when one wants to bad enough, she knew this from her own observations of jealous, half-crazed girlfriends and over-zealous fanatics of various religions and political beliefs.

When the kettle begin to whistle, she poured the boiling water into the mug, turned off the stove and set the kettle back on a cold burner. She had just passed through the kitchen doorway when she remembered the notepad. She leaned back into the kitchen, grabbed the pad, and had turned to resume her way to the porch, when the kitchen phone, now only inches from her ear, rang out in a jangling and high pitched clangor.

Her heart thumped hard against her chest again, and it occurred to her that if this kept up, she would have a stroke by day’s end. She tried not to run back out to the porch, and hoped her mother would allow the answering machine to take the call. When her mother did not ask that she bring her the cordless, she felt relieved, but only slightly. The third ring stopped abruptly and she waited for the tone that signaled the caller to leave a message.

 

Beep! "B.? This is Marion. I’m jes’ checkin’ on you; we missed you Wednesday night at Prayer Meetin’. I know you been down with yore knee and all...Well, give me a holler if you need anything. And be sure and let me know if you still can’t drive come Sunday, and I’ll come and get you, okay? Call me back when yore feelin’ up to it...okay, bye."

 

She placed the hot mug of tea on the glass patio table, and hurried back inside to retrieve her purse and cigarettes. The porch was the only smoking zone on her mother’s property and she was never more glad of that than now. She lit a cigarette, not yet calm enough to sit across the table facing her mother, and paced the length of the porch, touching plants at random, moving objects inches from where they sat, always with her back to her mother unsure if there would be any tell-tale signs of her distress.

 

Finally, feeling she could speak casually, she said "Mama, do you think L. found peace when she died? I mean, she was so intense and high-strung even up to that very moment, I’m sure of that. Do you think she carried her grudges and paranoia with her?"

 

"No, I believe that she took her last breath in this world, and her next before God, whole and complete in body and soul. But you know that, you were taught to believe the same thing. Why?"

 

She shrugged. "I dunno. Just thinking too much, I guess. Sometimes I have a hard time putting all the facts together in the right order. You know, in some way that it makes sense." She sighed, her own response beginning to accomplish what she came here for. She sat in the chair across the table from her mother and leaned back into the cushion. Tension and nervousness had been with her most of the day and only now did she realize just how tightly she was wound. Like all children, there was a sense of safety when Mommy was around, and she felt her fear begin to dissipate, first, from her neck and back, and then from her chest and arms. Yeah, this was the reality check she needed, and she wondered if L. had called out, or wished for her mother in her last moments. This disturbed her, and she quickly squelched the thought.

 

She sat in silence with her mother on the screened back porch and listened to the orchestra of birds that her mother fed and nurtured. A slight breeze blew through the screen and stirred the leaves of the plants behind her. She closed her eyes and wished, again for the thousandth time, that this porch was attached to her house.

 

She sat up and stubbed out her cigarette. "I’ll take your garbage out to the street while I’m here, pick-up is tomorrow. Is there anything else you need done? I may not be able to get back here until tomorrow, late, if then, more likely Sunday afternoon. I have some things I have to do that I’ve put off for too long and I swore I’d get them done before the week was out." She forced a small smile at her mother, and realized her knowing eyes recognized the white lie and forgave her for it.

 

"No, I’m fine. My knee is better, and my spring allergies have just about run their course. I’m probably going to drive myself to church Sunday morning, see how that goes. No, you go on, I’m fine."

 

"Okay." She rose and went outside through the back porch door, hauled the large blue waste bin down the steep slope of her mother’s front lawn, made sure that the lid faced the street and trudged back up the slope and reentered the back porch.

 

"All right, I’m off, then". She leaned over to give her mother a hug. When the familiar smell of her mother’s shampoo filled her nose, her eyes unexpectedly filled with hot tears and she held her mother close until they were blinked away. What would she do when this woman died? How would her heart withstand that ache? Realizing that she was borrowing trouble, now, she stood up and moved away briskly, as if in a hurry to get those "things" done.

She gathered her purse and keys and hurried out the front door to her car, confident that she had, at least partially renewed her soul’s strength and could return to reclaim her home from unexplained but unimportant noises that found their way to her answering machine.

 

 

 

Author's Note

Again, C. is main character and L. is the dead sister.

Reviews

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

Both chapters kept me mesmerized from beginning to end. Well-written in first-person with good breaks and transitions. Effective inclusion through C's thoughts, of the family history, and trauma with L's broken collarbone emphasized in first chapter. Great suspenseful connection between chapters through the telephone message. Second chapter great detailed fleshing-out of mother-daughter relationship, nuances of C's emotional 'breakdown' and guilt-another effectively haunting hint. End is mysterious- was voice message an hallucination? In all a riveting, personal, insightful, and thought-provoking read. And it must have been hell for you to go through my friend. God bless.

[Carol Cashes]

So perceptive of you to recognize how much of this story is "truth". No, she ain't called me yet, but her attitude about all of us when she died could potentially have been a warning...??!!

Glad you liked it. Hope to post at least 2 more chapters this weekend.

Oohhh....it feels good to be back at the Cafe - I'll have a large coffee, cream and sugar...and throw in a beignet, yes, ma cherie?

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

YAY- MIZ CAROL’s BACK IN THE BUIlDING!!! Welcome, sit right down, put up your feet and drift on coffee and beignet clouds......so good to have you back! I look forward to reading the next chapters of your amazing story. So many levels of emotion and reality there. When you’re ready- I’ll be here! See ya’ later!:):):)