Time Bandit
by Tracey Henry
Reverie used to be like stargazing for her. She could reach up to points of light on the horizon of her mind; bemused wonderment at the shining beauty of memories so far away. Now, it’s as if the sky has fallen upon her; the stars without the benefit of distance have engorged reality in a blanket of darkness.
She does remember distinctly the first day she was brought to this place. Her family thinks she is incapable of forming new memories, but they misunderstand a lot of things about her. They think she doesn’t notice the obvious anymore. They speak louder than necessary because they believe she can’t hear them. When she doesn’t produce the response they expect, they repeat themselves. Its not that she’s not listening, she’s just not answering in a way they can understand.
She remarked to herself that the staff was friendly enough; sympathetic smiles pasted on their young faces as she rolled past them in a wheelchair she didn’t yet need. She remembers the tour through the dining room, the recreational room, the craft room and finally, her room. The only distinction between each was the cheap artwork on the painted cinder-block walls.
Charlie was visibly nervous, whispering to an attendant how she took her coffee and that she was allergic to shellfish. All three of them knew the information was moot; Charlie would be there everyday spooning the sugar and monitoring her meals himself.
She remembers that she didn’t speak much during this time, not because she couldn’t, but because she didn’t want to. She had nothing positive to say, so she chose not to say anything at all; just like her mother had taught her.
She hears a lot of her mother’s words these days, which is probably why she ended up here. If only the explanations of her thoughts came out properly, then it would make sense to them, too. It seems an invisible tether between speech and intentions has been severed.
At the beginning of the descent, she just forgot the smallest details. Fine points she should have remembered, but somehow lost to her. Where she left the keys, what time her dentist appointment was, if she had taken her blood pressure medication that morning. Usually no one realized these slips, and she was able to cover her lapses. Only Charlie noticed, and that was to be expected. There was no point in hiding anything from him. They had lived together for 48 years, so things like losing your mind don’t go undetected.
He had been so patient. Even considering it endearing the way she would search endlessly for a book that was in her hands the whole time. It never worried him then. If any beautiful mind deserved a rest now and then, it was hers.
At first, she figures she must have dozed off for a little while. That happens quite frequently these days. She just gets so tired--sleeping and waking ebb and flow seamlessly.
Slowly, she realizes that it must have been longer than a cat nap, as she is wearing different clothes and the light in the sky is casting longer shadows onto the tile floor than she remembers. Must be the second day, she thinks.
She organizes her day in her mind, planning to unpack, perhaps meet some other residents to get accustomed to the place. She wants Charlie to see how well she can adjust. She knows this decision was a torturous one for him.
But she discovers that her suitcase is stowed away, and all of her things are already in the drawers. Tiny silver frames of vaguely familiar smiles line the dresser and nightstand. Efficient staff, she thinks.
Charlie walks into the room to find her standing beside the bureau, all of the once-neatly folded clothes cascading to the floor. Panic sets into his eyes, which look sadder and older than last she gazed into them. She starts to tell him that someone has so nicely put her things away for her, but she wants to find her pink sweater because she’s cold. Perhaps someone has borrowed it.
"They stole my sweater," a voice that resembles hers says. She is frustrated that it came out that way because she knew what she meant.
Charlie is already replacing the items in the drawers. "No one stole anything, honey. Look, your sweater is right here, hanging in the closet," he explains patiently.
He places it on her slumping shoulders. She thinks, I always fold that sweater so the hanger won’t misshape the sleeves. But she knows an explanation would be pointless.
Charlie sits beside her and takes her weathered hand in his. He absently twists her wedding ring around her finger; an old habit, reassuring both of them it is still there. After all of these years, his touch still makes her heart flutter. She feels like a teenager when they first began dating.
"Mom says I have to be home by ten," she says. Why didn’t I finish that? She wonders. Her thoughts are precocious children; she a careless mother.
Charlie squeezes her hand gently. "I know. Don’t worry, you won’t be late."
He doesn’t correct her any more. He no longer pleads her memories to come out of hiding; nostalgia no longer a benign innocence, but a murderer of the present. It is not that he doesn’t care if she remembers or not, God knows he wants nothing more than to give her her amazing history back; but above all he doesn’t want her to be embarrassed at her mistakes. Her dignity will have to be enough now.
Charlie wheels her down the hallway to the dining room. Dusty silk carnations sit in bud vases on each table. He pushes her up to one in the corner near a window so she can look outside, and leaves momentarily to bring her a tray.
She picks up the tattered flower to wipe off the dust that has settled on its faded yellow petals. She always disliked silk flowers; she, an avid gardener didn’t see how nature’s miracles could be duly replicated in cheap fabric and wax. Carnations are not found in the wild in this shade of yellow, she mutters.
When Charlie returns to the table, he discards the torn petals that she has plucked. An orange plastic tray with steaming roast beef and mashed potatoes stares back at her. Her eyes have the milky restlessness of being focused on the unseen for too long. He wonders if her rewritten memory is as kind to him as she always was in their life together.
By the time they return to her room, she is exhausted. She is concentrating on the precise words to reassure him that she is OK. Anything to make that furrow disappear from his brow. As he lifts her from the chair and onto the hard and unfamiliar bed, she smiles at him. It is all she can muster for now; she will tell him what he needs to hear in the morning.
When tomorrow comes, she is groggy from her dreams. She has deeper ones now, more vivid than when she was young. These dreams require a lot more participation from her, so she often wakes not rested. She has conversations with so many people from her past. They all seem to need to tell her things, remind her of things, and she has so many questions for them.
This day is not the next one, she slowly realizes in the morning. The branch that brushed against her window now has orange leaves on it, where they were green the last she looked. Damn! She thinks. How did I let so much time pass?
Charlie appears in the doorway, and she shrieks and swears filthily. She is cursing the time bandits that steal so much of her these days, but Charlie only hears her profanity.
His beautiful wife would never have spoken like this, he thinks. He is scared.
He calms her by holding her, and it does help: both of them. She is soothed once again by his embrace. She looks at him, grateful, and thinks this is the time to tell him that things will be all right. She knows how it must appear to him, but the voices don’t frighten her, they console. They begin to tell her of something bigger and more beautiful to come, and she needs to listen carefully so she’ll know what to do.
Before she is able to dispense the rehearsed words, he starts to tell her something else. Some horrible news about losing their daughter suddenly yesterday spills from his quivering lips.
Now she really is confused. She doesn’t know why he would say such a thing.
"I saw Marilyn just last night," she tells him. She tells him so that she may comfort him for a change. Show him how mistaken he is.
"No, sweetie, I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything," he weeps. The only blessing in this whole mess was that I could have spared her bad news like this. A hope begins to form that perhaps she will forget this, but he quickly banishes the cruelty from his thoughts. He is not willing to risk negating a thousand prayers for his moment of weakness.
She closes her eyes for a moment to recall the conversation she had with Marilyn last night.
When she next awakes, it is late. Moonlight pours in through the half open drapes, a gentle reminder that there is light in the deepest darkness. Charlie has gone home-- their home--but she knows he must have stayed with her for a long time as his aftershave lingers on the sheet. She loves that he still pays such close attention to his appearance when he comes to see her.
Marilyn is with her now. She is sitting on her bed, smiling. She looks more like Charlie than me as she gets older. Marilyn laughs aloud at this.
She is relieved, but then the image of Charlie’s haunted face returns to her, and she chastises her daughter, "You must tell your father that you are all right, he worries so much."
Marilyn squeezes her calf beneath the threadbare blanket. Her _expression turns serious, but her eyes remain warm.
"No, Mom. You have to tell him you are going to be all right."
Marilyn disappears into the sliver of waning moonlight, and she wonders if she was dreaming again. She prays she was; she is only ready for a haunting, not eventual reunion.
Charlie returns on seemingly the next day, but she again knows that it isn’t. She is in a hospital gown, and there are wires and tubes. He has aged even more, and she knows it is up to her to stop it.
She takes his hand confidently and looks at him, staying afloat this time in the depth of his eyes. Her swift and deliberate movements startle him, she has his full attention.
"You did the right thing. I may not remember every day we spent together, but I do know I’ve loved you more with the passing of each one. So this day, whatever it happens to be, I love you the most."
It was the most consecutive words she had spoken in over 2 years; words that had managed to acknowledge and dispel all of his fears and doubts, answer the unspeakable.
He wept his thank you into her lap, and she stroked her you’re welcome through his hair.
The time bandits retreated briefly, maintaining a respectable distance that the moment-- and the life-- had earned.
