Photo by Cecilie Johnsen on Unsplash
I open my eyes and notice a thin beam of sunlight rolling atop the folds of my duvet. Within seconds, I feel anxious. It is driven, at least partly, by circumstance. Today I must do something to satisfy social norms. There is a party, an event, an awards ceremony. I must be dressed up for it; but I don’t have anything in my current wardrobe that would fill any modicum of respectability, at least in their eyes.
Flustered, I stand and throw the curtains open. Bright light makes me squint, but I refuse to cover my eyes - my hands stay on my hips. I sigh, as I notice my red car, parked on the other side of the road and the journey it entails. My head falls against the glass. “You’ve done this many times,” I whisper, “many times. You make it as scary as you want to make it. It doesn’t need to be.” Exposure is good, that’s what the therapist says. I groan and drag myself toward the bathroom.
After showering and getting ready as fast as possible, a regular effort of mine to reduce the time thinking, I am in the kitchen, scraping off the remains of my toast into the bin when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It is a message from Constable Sourteg:
Your mother called us again with the same request. Just letting you know we ignored it.
TS
I sigh and message back, thanking him. My mother has Alzheimer’s. She will call me up and say: “this lady’s stealing again”. I imagine her to be standing in her living room, spying out her constantly drawn curtains. “Mother,” I will reply, “that’s Mrs. Jones … your neighbour. You’ve been friends for over thirty years.” She’ll huff, “I doubt that, never seen her before in my life. I’m calling the police.” I’ll try stop her, but she’ll slam down the phone. Luckily the police are informed about her condition, and simply ignore her requests for a patrol vehicle. It won’t be long until she forgets she called them at all.
My mother was a sharp woman, and I don’t use that adjective to describe her mental acuity, but her tone, quick movements, and rigid exterior. When I was young my exploratory nature felt her sharp edge with regularity. This made me resent her being my mother. But I guess many kids do at that age. As I grew, I became grateful for that sharpness. It disciplined me, helped order my future. Many others in my generation, living in the conditions we did, never overcame themselves, if you know what I mean. They were reduced to titles and stereotypes: Addicts, alcoholics, and the mentally unstable.
It is sad, but interesting, what Alzheimer’s has done to her. While she was sharp, as I’ve said, what really made me grateful for her being my mother, was that I could see her wilfully fighting a daily struggle. Her nature predisposed her to be critical, to be harsh, say exactly what she thinks even if it is unkind. Yet every day she woke, and fought against that, not always succeeding, but always trying, with the knowledge that my future will be better for it. Now, it is as if Alzheimer's has removed her ability to fight back against her nature. I used to try to take her places, take her out, go to dinner, or the park. I can’t do that anymore; every stranger is her enemy and she’ll tell them too.
I look down the hallway at the front door. Although the sun blinds my ability to see my yard and the pathway that leads to my car, simply orientating my psyche toward it – the intention to exit my house – is enough to twist my nerve fibres clockwise. I blow slowly out my mouth and collect my keys from the kitchen table.
As I complete my transition onto the highway, the low morning light disperses. My anxiety is boiling me slowly. Like a frog. Pictures of the near future fill my mind. Faces, frowns; social interactions gone wrong. Sniggers, scoffs; ignorant people walking by …
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I curse and check it, realising I must pull over on the highway.
“Hi mother.”
“Hi, my dear.” I can hear some ruffling in the background, clacking.
“What’s going on Mother?”
“Oh, nothing dear.”
I roll my eyes as cars zoot by, “Mother?”
“Yes?”
“Why’d you call me, do you have something to say?”
More clacking.
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear I do.” Her voice is unusually soft. Typically, her harsh delivery of ‘dear’, zaps its maternal quality dry. “I was just in the garage,” she continues, “and going through boxes. You know my dear, how I do that?” I tell her I do. “Well, I was just going through this one box when I found you. Well, not you,” she laughs, “but a picture of you. You’re standing there by the house in your cute swimming gear, you know the pink and purple one you used to love? And you’ve got an enormous surfboard beside you. It was that day we went to the beach, just me and you, and you showed me how good at surfing you were.”
She is mistaken. I remember that photo, I am standing beside her boyfriend’s surfboard, it well over twice my height. We did go to the beach, but it was us three, and we watched him surf. I always wanted to surf on it, but he never let me. A drunken, good for nothing, scraggly-haired hippie; he always acted like he loved our family, yet his frequent absences made me believe otherwise.
I never understood why she liked him. They seemed like polar opposites. A limited, but determined woman, with a flamboyant but chaotic man. Maybe through him, she lived the life she dreamed, of adventure and risk, that she couldn’t have in reality … because of me. I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened to her if I wasn’t around. If that responsibility was flung free.
“You have such wonderful long hair in this photo, my dear. It is just glowing in the sun. You were so beautiful. What happened to your long hair?”
I sigh, “I cut it mother. It wasn’t right for me, you know that.”
“Hmm. That seems hard to believe.”
The wheezing cars intermingle with the crackling of the telephone connection. I have been telling my mother for years to sort out her phone line. I clear my throat, “Mother, is there anything else?”
“Do you remember that day, my dear? The day of the photo?”
“Yes, I do, I showed you how good at surfing I was.” I no longer try to correct her; she could believe that the Earth was flat, it didn't matter, she was always right, and conversations only ended when I accepted her version of events. I don’t mind it either. When you get to a certain age, you lose friends and family. All you have is your memories; they’re your own. And you might as well improve them and change them if you can. Experience the past as it should have been - it’s what I do, for sure. Sometimes I think Alzheimer's is good for her; because, although eventually she’ll lose all her memories, her harsh history will be replaced by a vague ideal. And she never brings him up, either.
“Mother, I have to go.”
“Okay,” she replies, suddenly defensive. “Just go then.”
I tell her goodbye and that I love her, but I hear the end call click before I hear myself say ‘love’.
Sighing, I pull out, back onto the highway, conscious that it has stayed dark.
Five minutes later and I’m in the city, inside another small machine stuck in a traffic jam. I’m moving back and forward in my seat, pushing, and pulling the steering wheel. In my mind, I keep replaying the sequence of possible social interactions ahead.
First, although not direct interactions, will be all the people in the mall parking lot. Mostly they will just glance at me, and I doubt there will be any need to talk. However, a problem could arise if there is a challenge for parks. They will consider me, potentially angrily, and I will either refute them or let them get their way. Whichever I choose, I do have the windscreen in favour, which will reflect the basement lights, obscuring my face.
Next is the elevator. Again, there may be nobody inside, but since it is a Saturday, mid-morning, most likely there will be. Elevators can be horrible because people in proximity can study you under the harsh unnatural light. In these situations, unless somebody does say ‘hello’, I’ll stare at the floors rising or falling or at the ceiling, making sure to clench my jaw.
Once in the mall there are all those people. Most will be minding their own business, shopping, like I am. Yet I am destined to pass by many faces, all with the ability to frown, lift their chin, even smirk. What should I do? Do I act like nothing's wrong (because nothing is wrong) and glance away? Or do I challenge them with my own eyes, which in most cases will force them to quit looking at me like that. I have done both, and it depends on how combative I am feeling. Right now, I am not feeling combative at all.
Finally - this is the big one - will be my discussion with the salesperson in the fashion store. I have been in there before, so there is a chance the man who was working last time will recognise me. As I collect my ticket into the parking lot, I try to remember what day I went in last, whether it was also a Saturday. If it was, I am in luck - he was lovely.
I find a park in the far-left corner of the darkened lot. Surprisingly, I see few people in my rear-view mirror. I hop out and approach the elevator determinedly, but as I near it a young family and a couple others crowd the entrance. Children are notorious in their inability to refrain from speaking their mind, and the suspicious gazes they give. I duck to the left and stomp up the stairs.
Puffed, I reach the fourth story and look across the mall. It is packed. The middle class are doing their thing: Shopping, consuming, spending their hard-earned money - like I am. In front of me, numerous children with their mothers are lined up waiting to meet Santa, who is heaving his hefty ‘Ho’. A group of young girls walking past, maybe 12-13, snigger at something. Finally, an obese couple waddle toward me, presumedly to the elevator, their faces white and brown with vanilla and chocolate ice-cream.
I ready myself, and set off into the crowd, my destination not far, on the other side of Santa. As I move through the shifting bodies and dancing eyes, I gain confidence, straightening my upper back and ensuring I don’t return people’s glances. Look occupied, I tell myself. The key, I’ve figured out, is not to appear like you’re daydreaming - because that suggests laziness and impotence - but focussed so intently on a goal that the people around you are not important enough to consider. The hope is to transmit some kind of pure competence; a reflection of intrinsic mastery over oneself.
My height helps me here, as most gazes fall below my eye-level. More people are concentrated together the closer I get, and I must turn sideways, to squeeze through a gap in the bodies. Someone replies gruffly as I excuse myself, and I feel several children staring at me, but luckily, dodging requires enough cognitive effort that I don’t ponder the uneasiness. I stop in front of the store, and stare up at the sign, plastered above the wide, navy, rectangular opening.
Not through it yet, I tell myself, as I enter and scour the shop for the salesperson. A man down the aisle in front of me pulls a jacket off a stand and puts it up to his body. In the far-right corner two women are discussing a selection of pants one has draped over her arm. And in the centre of the store, beside the counter, is a little boy sucking a popsicle, presumably one of the ladies’ sons. Where the hell is the employee? My body is beginning to feel light, as if my bones are made from hollow plastic.
From behind the counter a door opens. A man - I do not recognise - glances at me, but the sucking of the child has captured his attention. He frowns and rounds the counter, putting his hands on his hips.
“I’m sorry young one, but we do not allow eating or drinking in this store.” His face is screwed up, dramatically.
“Oh!” One of the women screams. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She approaches and asks the boy to wait outside.
The boy sulkily stands, yet to remove the ice block from his mouth, and I let him walk past me, out the store. The woman hastily returns to inspecting the pants with her friend, leaving the man to consider me. I watch his eyes drop from my eyes to my feet, and back up. His curious frown turns my stomach, and I can feel half-chewed pieces of toast rising up my throat.
He then looks directly up at me, and smiles, his face slowly rotating. “Hello sir, how can I help you today?”
I swallow, and turn my head, in an effort to regain composure. “Um yes, I would like to buy a sports jacket please. Sports jacket.”
“Certainly.” He nods, putting his hands together.
“I have pants already.”
“Indeed. This way, sir.” He turns and I follow him, my back straight, my chin raised and my inner smile nice and wide.
Chur,
The Delinquent Academic
Deeply human and humane writing, your words are a gift, a reminder, a memory, of meaning in the pathways we must walk.