Fields of Grass

Horse shit. Such utter horse shit. I haven’t cursed in over ten years, but this horse shit has finally made me cross the line. I consider myself a person of high morals and I deserve better than this. What do they know? They were still picking their noses when I was diapering their bottoms and babysitting their children at family reunions. All I’ve done for them and this is how they repay me? With a one way ticket to this loony bin of a nursing home. I’m only 65 years old and still lively enough to give their kids a spanking! I can take care of myself. If I can raise four children and their grandkids, survive the Depression, and a divorce, then I can take care of myself.

They think that just because I accidentally slipped on the front step that I need more supervision. Wasn’t having Crystal as a nurse enough? She was already enough invasion of my privacy as it already was. Just because I have Alzheimer’s doesn’t mean I’m stupid, no matter what the doctor’s say. It’s natural for someone my age to lose things. I only lost my keys a few times. She wasn’t even there to prevent me from falling and now they’re wasting their money on this looney bin when I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, have been for over 15 years since Will left me, god rest his soul. I was almost sure she was stealing things from my jewelry boxes, let me tell you! I had an amethyst necklace that was a gift from Will and when I checked for it a few weeks after Crystal starting staying with me, it was gone! I’m telling you the God’s honest truth that thieves will go to Hell, God have mercy on her soul.

But no one’s listening to this old lady anymore just because I have this crazy invention, Alzheimer’s. My own first-born, Roddie, talks to me like an idiot and I’m not half neurotic yet. Which is better than I can say for the other three children who he makes excuses for. They’re on vacation, or they have to work, or they have some other emergency that prevents them from coming to see their own mother.

I don’t have lepresy, I tell them, I’m not going to infect you with this inane disease.

My granddaughter, Rachel, visits me sometimes, the one of my grandchildren that seems to have a head on her shoulders. She’d stay with me in the summers and I’d watch her take the cheap Dollar Tree markers and create little red, purple, and yellow masterworks in her notebook. I’d buy her a set each summer and teach her how to shell peas, then let her get back to her little drawings. My own little twin, Alba and Sarah would say, since her dark little head of hair looked just like how mine did when I was younger and fresher. Yessir, Rachel is a looker just like I was. I’m still a looker, just in my own aged way and don’t let anyone tell you different!

Hi granny Anne, she’d say, Are you doing okay?

Well of course I wasn’t, but I told her I was anyways. At least she cared enough to ask. I wish she’d talk about her boyfriend, or her schoolwork, or even just come and stay with me in the summers like she used to. But all she’d do was look at me and smile, her big hazel eyes searching me, no doubt trying to figure out what was wrong with me just like I would when I looked in the mirror. I don’t think she ever could see what was wrong with me, just like I couldn’t see it. Big brown hazel eyes, just like mine.

What are they going to do with my house if I’m not there to clean it? What are they going to do with Rachel’s markers and her pictures? Probably throw them away just like they’re throwing me away in this god-awful prison. Who’s going to feed my tabby cats and water my gardenias and azaleas? Who’s going to sell cakes in the summer fair? If my gardenias die, I’m going to be ornery! The secret to spice and carrot cake is dying with me if they don’t come up to visit. I can be stubborn just like they can!

Horse shit. That’s all this boils down to.

* * *

Virginia, the nurse here, isn’t so bad. She’s a jolly colored lady that always shows me respect, always using the word ‘Misses’ when addressing me. It makes me feel old, but at least it’s respectful, though I hate it when the other nurses treat me like I’m a child. I can dress myself even if my hands hurt, but I’m tired of protesting while they strip me. If they want an eyeful of this old body, then let I let them have it. Virginia I like because she let’s me walk around the veranda where it’s sunny. The wisteria grows around the white poles in spring, just like my jasmine used to around the wood block columns of my porch. I miss the sweet smell of it in the sunlight, but the wisteria will do for now till I can visit my house again, my home. They better be taking care of it or I’ll whip them good.

The food isn’t so bad, just the same food every day gets annoying, except for the turkey at Thanksgiving. That always tastes good no matter what, but not as good as if I’d made it in my own damned kitchen. I miss my tabby cats, Richie and Elvis. They were always better company than my children, who were always fussin and fighting. I remember one time Roddie got into a fight with his little brother Michael over some damned girl when they were hardly old enough to shave! Michael whooped up on Roddie, I declare I’ve never seen two boys so adamant about some hussy! Are they ever going to come home? I can’t remember what time they’re supposed to be home. I’ll whip them good if they’re skipping again!

Rachel came today, or at least someone who said she was Rachel. She had the same eyes and the same dark hair, but she was taller, but I had to believe her because she had that same uncomfortable smile. I couldn’t believe her till she showed me her pictures though. She’d gotten so good! Drawin people like she’d taken a photo of them in paint! She got those genes from me, you know. I was always the artist in my family.

I tried to leave with her, but the nurses wouldn’t let me. I squeezed her arm and asked her for help, but Rachel just smiled and held my hand for a while. She seemed so afraid to do even that, like she would break my hand if she held it as long as I wanted her to. She left me just like everyone else did. It couldn’t have been her, could it?

They’re staring at me like I’m some goddamned idiot. Of course I remembered who they was! How could I forget my own children’s faces? The little one with the ruddy blonde hair was Roddie, but when I tried to fix that cowlick of his, he pulled away, frightened of his own mother! My name’s Michael. He shouted, poking out his lips and pushing me away with his little fingers. I know my own child’s name! He’s Roddie! But they didn’t believe, they just stared and tried to smile, those fake, empty smiles, till the dark haired lady leaned over me and placed her soft hands on my shoulder.

He’s named for your son, don’t you remember? He’s your grandson. She whispered gently to me, but I didn’t care. She was wrong, I know my own goddamned children’s names and I didn’t need some hussy to tell me otherwise. I rubbed my hands together to help get the blood flowing to them. They left and that suited me just fine. The day was turkey day and that always tasted good, but not as good as my own kitchen. They don’t know how to make gravy right. You add milk, not water. Did I have to get up myself and make the damned gravy? When are Roddie and Rachel going to visit me again? I can’t tell them my recipes if they don’t come.

* * *

When I was small, I remember this time I went to go down to the field and play baseball with the boys. It was summertime, not a real baseball field really, but a wild grassy field that just happened to be surrounded by a chain link dugout. The boys had scraped away the grass from the diamond themselves and set up rubber mats for the bases. Imagine their surprise when I showed up. They thought I shouldn’t be there because I was a girl, but boy did I show them! I finagled a bat from Joe, because he had a crush on me back then, and got up to swing! The dust from the field stung my eyes a little and the sunlight tried its best to keep me from staring at the pitcher in the eyes. I could tell it was William though; he was the only boy in town with pale blue eyes, eyes he always had even when we were older. The kind you could write cheap romance novels about. William pitched a curve ball and would you believe that little troublemaker intentionally hit me with the ball? It left a nice round bruise on my thigh. But I didn’t cry though. I never cried. Ah that William, always a troublemaker.

He comes to visit me sometimes when I’m dreaming and sometimes when I’m awake. But I’m not afraid, not ever. Sometimes he stays with me and it feels nice, like the days before we were married and we used to go out to that baseball field and eat picnics in the shade of the tall grass and the maples that grew on the field’s edges. Sometimes he comes during the day and asks me strange questions that I don’t know how to answer. Things like Do you remember me? And Do you know my name? How could he ever think I could forget someone I loved so much? I didn’t reach out to touch him though. I was too afraid that he’d leave and sometimes I risked touching him to hold his arm, to beg him so he wouldn’t leave me here alone. Why couldn’t he just wait for me till I reached Heaven? Why couldn’t he stay? He was such an impatient bastard sometimes! It made me so sad to see him leave one day that I finally did cry, which seemed to upset him, but he left anyways.

I don’t know why I didn’t marry Will when I first had the chance. Maybe I just wanted the security? Joe seemed to love me enough, gave me cards, candies, poetry, all the stuff that makes a fine gentleman while Will was off getting himself put on probation for shoplifting. Joe owned his own up-and-coming law firm. He promised me a house with the picket fence and a grand field for a backyard, my own little house where I could raise our children and be happy together with him because he loved me and I thought I loved him. But sometimes when I couldn’t distract myself with housework, I missed those times in the old baseball field with Will, the best times when we were teenagers who didn’t need anything but each other and a grassy meadow to be happy. Joe’s field was empty with nothing but brown grass and an old pickup truck he worked on instead of spending time with his family. Imagine my surprise when Will showed up one afternoon at the door to my little brick house.

What else was I supposed to do? It’s not a sin to love someone. It’s a sin to leave someone you love alone in a house with your kids, forget their birthdays, your anniversary, and keep some blonde trollop as a mistress because your wife has supposedly gained too much weight to be sexually appealing. I was still good-looking, Will knew that, I knew that, but Joe didn’t, and that suited me just fine. I didn’t give a damned if my parents didn’t like the word divorce. I wasn’t a liar like Joe and I definitely had the time to march my ass up to the new office and file for myself.

God, I miss his eyes. Why couldn’t you wait for me, Will?

* * *

I’ve walked this hallway eleven times today. There’s the TV room where they watch soap operas and some loud show I don’t like, the art room that’s my favorite spot, but my hands hurt so I don’t visit there anymore. I miss it. We make cute things with Popsicle sticks and cotton balls that help pass the time. The white wicker chair. The fake ficcus plant. I always wanted one of those so I’ve made this my ficcus. Maybe I’ll have a visitor today? I deserve a visitor because Mary and Frank had one last week. It’s not right for them to have a visitor and not me. I know plenty of people, why shouldn’t I have a visitor?

Rachel doesn’t come in the summers anymore and I can’t cook her eggs or buy her markers. I can’t go to the store and buy her eggs because I can’t find my keys. There’s a wicker chair in the main room now that I don’t remember buying, but the wicker’s comfortable enough. The pink pillows are a nice shade and I can watch the sunlight on the wisteria from there.

It’s so cold now; I’m always rubbing my hands together. I can’t see the wisteria or the jasmine, my eyes are so heavy. Someone’s leaning over my ear, but I can’t speak, I don’t know how. Soft hands, like Rachel’s.

I love you. She says. My lips form the words to respond but they only mangle the thought.

I love you too.