Within Remembrance

When she was young woman her hair was long and brown, and it smelled like apples. When she laughed her entire body laughed. It was as if she'd been dipped in gold, and being with her made him excited about being alive.
George picks up a fork and starts to jab at the breakfast sausage on his plate. Ellie sits across the table, sipping coffee from her Italian mug, looking at George with an expression of quiet contemplation.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks.
He stabs the sausage, brings it to his mouth, and clamps down on its end. The juice and oil from the meat coats his tongue as he pushes the piece to the back of his throat.
"My mother," he says.
Ellie puts down her mug, pushes it to the side, and leans forward. "Have you talked to her yet? About her living situation."
George picks the rest of his sausage off the fork with his fingertips, takes another bite, and swallows hard.
"I don't know how to tell her," he says.

It's another day. Summer has come and the air is hot and dry. My back aches. It's a dull ache that I've come to acquaint with colds and flus and heartbreak. I try to open my eyes, but the ache is spreading through my entire body, and any little movement seems to aggravate it. So I lie there, in my bed, eyes closed, feeling the hot air soak into my nightclothes and into my bones.
The phone is ringing. It takes me a while to register, but once I finally do I push myself up so fast that I forget the ache. I slip on the rug, and bend to my knees. The ache returns. Clutching the bedpost, I lift myself up as the phone rings again.
"Hello?" I say. And I haven't reached the phone yet.
I'm shaking as I hobble over to the bureau where the phone rests. I pick up the receiver.
"Hello," I shout.
"Hi, Mama, it's me," says the voice on the other end.
"Who?" I ask.
"Its your son, Mama, George."
…
"George" suddenly my head feels flooded with emotion. I crack my lips into a wide smile. "George, I didn't recognize your voice. I'm so happy to hear from you. How are Ellie, and the kids Peter and Jason, and Betsy and Holly?"
"Hailey not Holly, Mama, they're fine." A long pause. George clears his throat.
Hailey, I knew that. I start clicking my teeth together, like I'm shivering.
"Mama?" he says.
Something about his tone has made a lump in my throat. I open my mouth but I can't get the words.
"Look Mama, I want to come over this afternoon, if I can, just to talk."
I push down the lump, and strengthen my grip on the receiver.
"Would you, and bring the kids too. I'll make them some Rice Krispy treats and Kool-Aid. Ellie can help me in the kitchen."
"Well, Ellie has to work past seven tonight. Peter has to get ready for his senior prom, Betsy and Hailey are still up at Penn State, and Jason just had his wisdom teeth removed. I was thinking it would just be me."
"Okay, how's one thirty?" I say.
"Good, I'll see you then." A click.
"Bye, then," I say, and place the phone back on its hook.
I look at the clock on my bureau. It's hard to read the numbers because the curtains are pulled, and there's not enough light. I squint, 9:33 a.m. Four hours to wait. I press my hand on the cherry dresser and slowly angle my body toward the window. I pull back the curtains. Light cuts into the room, and I feel my eyes sting with tears.

George sits at the breakfast table, the remains of his sausage tossed to the side of his plate. Ellie's mug sits directly across from him, although Ellie has gone. George stares blankly at the mug, thinking back to the conversation with his mother. He remembers how at a point she'd started clicking her teeth. It was a nervous habit she'd picked up a long time ago, almost for as long as he could remember.

Children are playing in the park across the street. I see them panting, even though they're wide-eyed and full of energy. They run around, ignoring the heat until they exhaust themselves. Then they sit down in the sand and stare at the other children running around. There's a little girl in the playground with a bright purple bow in her hair. She sits under a tree with head in her lap.
Cut to forty-five minutes later.
I'm standing outside. I've dressed myself. It's part of my routine, but I don't remember doing it. The air is thick with sweat. It rolls down my head, tickling my brow. The girl is crying. I stare at her as I stand in the middle of the playground with the sounds of screaming children swimming around my feat. The sky is red, the sand is blue, and the children are wearing masks like monsters, as the girl with the purple bow cries.
My throat is dry. I roll my tongue trying to wash away the sweet sticky taste in my mouth. I need a drink of water, there's a slight throbbing in my head. I sit down instead. The wooden bench is hot under my thighs. I straighten my back and fold my hands together.

George stands in his living room; he holds a photograph in his hand. The corners are worn, and the image has faded with years. In the picture George is a little boy. He sits on the front steps of an old house. A little girl with a purple bow in her hair sits beside him as a standing woman, young, with smiling eyes and long brown hair, holds her hand.

My hands are starting to get moist, and I feel the need to breathe deeply. My purse lies across my lap. I unlatch its clasp, and brush my fingers inside. Pulling out a handkerchief, I bring it to my eyes. A soft light glows behind the cloth, as I use it to shields my eyes. I take a deep breath, and the ache that was so persistent since this morning starts fading away.
"Mam."
I look up and squint, a young woman stands over me.
"Mam, you look a little peaked. Are you all right?" she asks.
"Oh… my, yes. Thank you," I say. "I'm sorry to bother you darling, but could you tell me the time?"
"It's a quarter to one Mam."
"My, this day has gone by so quickly. It seems like the hours have shorten to seconds."
The young woman smiles, the sun shines behind her creating a gleaming circle of light about her shadowed face. She looks like an angel of glory, my heart lifts.
"Thank you, you are such a dear." I say with a little laugh, and take her hand. "Its so nice to meet someone kind and sincere."
"You're welcome," the young woman responds, squeezing my hand lightly before letting go. She walks away from me, toward the end of the park, and past the crying girl.
My eyes follow her as she reaches a small hill. She turns, with one glance in my direction, and smiles. Then she's gone. My eyes are fixed on the spot where she stood just moments before, and that's when I see him.
He's tall, black, with long arms and legs. He wears glasses and a white tee shirt.
The man moves under a tree, and crouches down into the shadows. I stand up, as the heat presses down on my shoulders. My feet feel wet in my stockings. I move my tongue over the rim of my mouth and taste the salty sweat beading upon my upper lip. He's talking to the girl with the purple bow. I clasp my hands together, and move them over my mouth. He's grabbing the girl's arm.
"Take your hands off her-- that's no way to treat a child." I cry out in my mind.

George is clutching on to the wheel of his Honda as he drives past Maple and onto the causeway leading to his mother's house on Emerywood Road. He keeps his eyes ahead, and his brow creased in concentration, as he taps his fingertips against the plastic. George thinks back to a particular afternoon when he was young. It's summer and the house, though cooler than outside, is warm with the heat of the kitchen. His mother is leaning against the stove stirring a pot of apple cider. She's mumbling something, as George walks in the room. He bumps into a chair that creaks lightly as it scrapes along the floor. His mother turns, startled for a moment, spilling the contents of the pot down her dress, burning her hands and thighs. Shaking she picks up the pot and places it back on the stove. Turing up the flame, she begins to stir again, although the pot is now empty. George stands in bewilderment. He begins to call her name, but she does not turn around.

"Mama… are you all right?"
I turn around. A man in a dark suit, with dark brown eyes, stands before me. A golden disk circles his frame.
"George… I just saw your sister over by the tree." I reach out to his face and press my hands to his cheeks, then onto his shoulders.
"Mama, Lily's gone."
"No. I just saw her over by the tree. It's the little girl, with the purple bow, like the one in the picture you have of us," I say, swinging my head in the direction of the tree.
The man has started shaking the girl violently. She seems to be crying out louder than before, but her voice is clouded by the masked children's laughs.
"Mama, don't do this," George cuts in.
"I saw a man, as the woman passed. She was an angel."
"An angel? "he says..
I turn my head back to the girl. The man has lifted her off the ground. The girl kicks, and screams, grabbing at the air.
"Don't you believe me?" I say.
George's face looks red, "Mama you're sick."
"No… wait-- aren't you listening to me, he's hurting her. He's hurting Lily, look, there, you have to stop him. Do something. Please." I grip George's shirt, pulling him down so that I'm peering directly into his eyes. He isn't looking at her; he's looking at me.
"No, you listen to me." George grabs my wrists and pulls my hands away from his shirt. He shifts his body towards mine, and I try to back away. He holds my hands tight, my palms turning white from the lack of circulation.
"Listen, she's crying," I scream. "Can't you hear her George, she needs our help."
"Lily died in a car accident 32 years ago." George is breathing hard.
"No don't say that, it isn't true." My breath is caught and I'm shaking.
"Papa was taking her to the hospital because she was sad all the time." George strengthens his grip as I try to resist. They got in a fight and she grabbed the wheel. I saw them. I was in the back seat. Mama, we crashed, right into a tree, they died instantaneously. I was lucky."
My body feels numbed. I roll my eyes upward, and all I see is red, the red, red sky.

A phone is ringing. The clock on the hospital wall announces that it's 10:08 a.m. Linda Marie Krane lies on her bed; she does not realize the noise. George sits on the floor in a corner of the room, his eyes bloodshot, and his dark blue suit crumpled by a second sleepless night. The phone rings again. George lifts slowly, his back bent with fatigue. His stomach turns, as he inhales the smell of dead flowers, Bengay balms, and sterilized linens. George reaches for the phone on his mothers beside table.
"Hello."
A woman's voice responds. "Yes, Mr. Krane, this is Doctor Lesserman. I'm calling in regard to your mother."
"Yes," he says.
"I'm sorry I can't come in today due to personal reasons," she says, "but I would like to discuss some things concerning Mrs. Krane before coming in tomorrow."
"All right." George pushes the receiver harder to his ear, straining to hear the doctor's soft voice.
"Now, as I understand it, you arranged, a few weeks ago, for your mother's placement in a retirement facility. Is that correct?"
George brings his hand up to his face and presses his fingers against his temples "Yes, although I never got a chance to tell her."
"Well, sir it looks as though she will be needing that kind of attention, if not more. Tell me, have you been noticing any peculiarities in her behavior over the last few months?"
George looks at his mother lying on the bed, and brushes a strand of her hair from her eyes.
"Her mind's been slipping," he says. " She forgets what she did on a particular day, or on the day before. Then a few days ago, right before this episode, she told me she was seeing angels, and my sister, who died years ago."
"Well at this point your mother is in a stupor due to dehydration. She has not been taking proper care of herself, and she will need someone to supervise her in her day to day routine. Tomorrow I would like to come in early to run a few more tests and observe her. Shall I see you then?"
"Yes… thank you doctor," George responds.
"Good, and I'd like you to go home and get some rest. Sometimes in situations such as these you forget even to take care of yourself."
"All right, and again thank you." George puts the phone back on the receiver, and slides his hands into his pockets. He stands by his mother's bed for a long while as the sounds of breathing fill the cold white room. George turns to look at the clock. It's now 10: 24 am. He takes his hands out of his pockets, leans over his mother, picks up her hand, and kisses it softly.

Outside, the morning sun has climbed into the sky, and a crisp breeze carrying a faint scent of car exhaust, and jasmine, whistles in George's ear as he finds himself walking toward his mother's house. George fumbles in his pocket for her keys as he mounts the front steps. Taking out the ring, he finds the appropriate key and slides it into the lock. Inside, the curtains are pulled, and although the day is bright, the small apartment is muggy and dark. George walks in, switching on a lamp resting by a seemingly broken television set. It's been a year since he last came here, but every aspect of the room seems familiar and unchanged. George walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet above the sink. Between the Decaffeinated Folgers Coffee and the Nilla Wafers is a rolled up package of apple cider. George takes the package down and slowly begins to unfold it, remembering the smells of the kitchen when it was filled with the fresh apple cider his mother used to make every summer. As he uncurls the last of the package he realizes a tear at the tip. George opens the package and pulls out a small note. The corners of the paper have yellowed, and the ink has faded.

Dear Lily,
I remember when you used to laugh. Your body would quiver a little, as if the laugh had spread through you. Your eyes would brighten and I'd get lost in them, and the wonder of how intelligent you seemed, in such a simple and beautiful way. How innocent the world felt through your eyes. Then I remember how that look started slipping away. It was a subtle difference at first, but it became more and more noticeable through the years. Every day you were with us I wished you'd smile just a little bit more, but every day you'd smile just a little bit less. I began to question what I'd done wrong, and what was wrong with you. I wanted the answers, and I wanted to give them to you. And then you left. Now all I want is for you to come back. Every day I've been wishing for that, and to say that I'll always love you.
I love you Angel,
Mama

George places the note on the counter and picks up the cider package. He presses his thumbs into it and feels another mass. Reaching inside he pulls out a purple ribbon. George smiles, as he closes the cabinet and gently places the note and ribbon into his breast pocket. Walking out of the house he hears the sound of children laughing and playing across the street. Its about 1:30 p.m. now, the sun is high and the day is hot. George sits down on the front steps, closes his eyes, and tilts his head upward, loving summer.