I remember what it was like to be young. Your whole life- heck the whole world- stretched out before you like some enigmatic road to nowhere. All you can think about when you’re ten is how it will feel to be thirteen. When you’re thirteen, you just long to be eighteen…then twenty-one…then you just want to reach the point where life will start to make sense. Funny thing is- it never really does. Ninety-three years have passed me by and I’ve yet to experience one day where life made any sort of sense at all. Happiness, sadness, laughter, contentment, anger, desire- they’re all so random, so fleeting. They come about on flits of wind and drift away with the blink of an eye, never lasting the way we want them to.
The metal leg supports of my wheel chair are cold against the thin material that remains where my beautiful, ivory skin used to be. I look at the other poor souls sitting around me in the day-room- an atrocity of space really- decorated to make us feel as if we are at home, instead of this prison garnished with floral wallpaper. My home looked nothing like this and I want so badly to be back there, though I know it’s not possible. I don’t want this fake living room with its plastic protected furniture and sandpaper carpet. No- I want my living room with my art on the walls, coloring both the space and my thoughts with a rich vibrancy. My home with a fluffy couch, my wedding picture hanging above the fireplace, and the sound of my grandchildren’s feet running throughout. But, as I said- it’s just not possible and I dismiss the thought before my heart discovers it and becomes attached. Time is a terrible thief.
It’s “Family Day” here at the pris -oh, I mean “Golden Horizons Senior Retirement Facility.” I guess that looked better for the brochure versus “A Place to Sleep Until You Die Because You’re Old and Burdensome and Society Functions Better Without You.” But, I’m not bitter or anything.
I watch as the faces around me change (or don’t depending upon their condition) at the recognition of familiar voices and smells suddenly surrounding them, the sensations bringing light into eyes that I had long thought dead. Toddlers pushed in strollers, teenagers- some eager and others listless- trailing behind their parental counterparts; all thrust past the lobby entrance and congregate there impeding all forward motion. Arms are extended, hands grasped, cheeks pinched, and kisses exchanged- forcefully or otherwise.
I sit in the corner and watch from a distance. I know no one is coming for me. I’ve been here over a year and it’s the same every time. I can’t blame her, really. Poppy that is- she’s my only daughter and I can’t imagine the task has been easy on her. Still, I cared for her when it was difficult and nearly unbearable, so to say I’m not the slightest bit hurt that she hasn’t been to see me-not once- would be a lie. Agnes is parked across from me with her young grandson perched in her lap, but her features remain blank, icy. She’s younger than me by a good twenty years and is the unfortunate victim of Alzheimer’s, so I’ve heard the nurses mention. I look on as a woman, appearing to be her daughter, speaks to her, trying and failing to resurrect any memory that might be hidden behind the wall that the disease built. She smiles and speaks softly, but the pain is visible in her eyes. The pain is visible and real, and yet here she is… in spite of that. My heart stings a little and suddenly I find myself wishing for some sense of realization or familiarity- something to cross Agnes’s face. Anything at all to make this pain worth it for her daughter- to give her a small bit of hope, or at least peace of mind that she is not a forgotten character in a life that her mother used to lead. But nothing ever does. Her eyes remain, unfocused, on the white tile floor as the now fussy child is removed from her bony frame and cradled in the arms of a mother who knows him. I can’t bear to watch, yet I can’t look away and see her lean down to kiss her crying child, a tear slithering down her own cheek in the process. The sting in my heart turns to outright pain and I’m forced to tear my eyes from the scene in front of me. I turn my chair and head towards the opposite end of the hall, away from the busy lobby and the heartbreak I just witnessed.
I glide past entryways where patients show off their rooms and art projects, a kind of weird shift in roles taking place. The children, suddenly in their parent’s former position, are having an experience somewhat a kin to visiting a five year old in college.
Look how big my room is! I have my own bathroom and everything- isn’t it lovely? Oh and look at this macaroni picture frame I made in arts and crafts last week…
Weird. Just too weird for words.
I move past it all, seeking solace in the cool shade of the garden just outside the double doors at the end of the hall. But something’s not right. The only thing lying past the glass doors before me is the hot, black concrete of the parking lot speckled with cars.
When did that happen?
I must have gotten turned around somewhere. I had been so upset.
But why?
Why was I upset?
Why…..?
My pulse is racing as I take in the white walls and sterile environment around me. It looks like a hospital. Am I sick? I don’t feel sick. It hits me suddenly, unmistakably and I realize I have no idea where I am. And I am so frightened. The feeling engulfs my entire body and panic washes over me. A young woman in purple slacks and a shirt with kittens on it approaches me with a smile.
“Hello, Francine! How are we doing today?” she asked.
“Why am I here? What is this place?” I begin to cry, overwhelmed with emotion.
The young woman moves towards me, but I realize I don’t want her to touch me. I don’t know her and I don’t know where I am and I just want to…I just want to…oh, god- I don’t even know. I swat her away.
“Do not touch me! I am a human being and I have rights! Don’t touch me or I’ll scream, I swear it!!”
Nothing feels safe. Nothing feels familiar. It’s like I’m in some alternate universe where I have no past or future, only the present- but it makes no sense. I’m already screaming it seems, as shoes begin to screech on the floor and make their way in my direction, placing restraints around me. I feel the sharp, pointed metal go into my arm and a sense of calm overcomes my entire being.
I wake up to find a woman sitting in a chair beside my bed. Her strawberry blonde hair is twisted into a loose spiral at the nape of her neck with the slightest flecks of gray showing around the wispy pieces framing her face. Her pale blue eyes are set on my own and there is so much kindness there.
“Hello, there.” she says.
“Hello.” I reply, slightly skeptical. “Who are you?”
Her features flinch slightly.
“My name is Poppy.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Poppy.” What a beautiful name. I say it a few times in my head, liking the warm thoughts it evokes. I decide to tell her about it.
“That’s such a pretty name.” I tell her.
“Thank you. My mother always said she chose the name because it made her happy when she thought about it. She said it made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like the feeling you get on the last night of summer.”
I look back at her, intrigued by how comfortable I feel with her. There is something so familiar about her, but I just can’t put my finger on it. The soft, steadiness of her voice seems to ease my fears- quieting ghosts that seem to always be clanging about, hangers-on to a life I don’t know how to live.
“I had a daughter once.” I say to her, letting the words escape before I am fully able to remember whether this is true or not. It feels true. Here with her, it feels so true. I give in to the peaceful feeling as she reaches to hold my hand in her own. Her face softens more as she pulls it to her mouth and presses her lips against my frail, skeleton of a hand.
She stays for a long while, showing me old pictures of her mother and father, newer ones of her children and tells me stories about their most recent adventures. I’m not sure what she wants with me or why she isn’t actually visiting her mother. Perhaps she was dead and her daughter still came to spend time with other patients in honor of her. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I was just glad she was here. We both fall quiet, but her hand is still entwined with mine and I can feel her thumb stroking the top of it as she begins to hum. The sound is hushed and pleasant- the kind of content humming of a lullaby perhaps. The various notes dance around and ricochet off the walls. It sounds so familiar and I think I might have heard it before, so I join her- the voice coming from my throat much less beautiful than hers.
She turns to me now, her blue eyes the color of a clear, spring puddle; and- I notice- just as wet. Something churns inside of me as she raises my hand to the side of her cheek and holds it there. We hum the song over and over until I feel sleep beckoning me once again. I try to resist, but soon find I can’t.
When she stands to go, she bends down and kisses the corner of my mouth, her lavender perfume filling the space around me. I don’t want her to go, but I know she must. Sleep still has me in its clutch, but I can feel her beside me, her breath on my neck and I hear three faint words whispered- almost inaudible- in my ear.
I love you, Mom.
My breath catches in my throat, and I keep my eyes shut tight. I sense her moving away from me, breaking my hand from hers and resting it on the bed beside me. I can feel her distance growing with every step she takes and I long for her to stay. Her last words both scare and comfort me, but I can’t figure out why. I hear the door click shut behind her and I’m alone again.
I think I had a daughter once. Yes, I think I did. I wonder if she thinks of me. Sleepiness makes my eyelids heavy and as the world around me falls away, the scent of lavender remains... subtle and sweet.
