crib.
I turn to my left to see myself changing a channel.
Skipping class.
Running late for work.
Laughing at Stern.
Yawning.
Fighting with an ex-girlfriend.
Sitting on a subway.
I lean back. There are just as many images flying above me. I’d stay here forever if I could. In a second it will all be over.
There. My childhood house. The laundry room.
I focus.
It’s March of whatever year I was eight.
I’m terrified.
Hiding in the corner behind a laundry basket. I’m watching my mother as she cries, staring at the locked door as she crouches next to the washing machine, terrified. The room is hot from the dryer. The washing machine is spinning an unbalanced load, making too much noise and offering too little protection. Her dress is a light floral pattern that seems familiar to me. She’s swimming in it. Must be fifteen pounds lighter than the last memory I saw her in. Oilier hair. Deeper lines in her face.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Someone is pounding on the door. It might break.
It’s my father. He’s yelling through the hollow wood.
—Let me in there, God dammit! Open this fucking door or I’ll break it down!
BOOMBOOMBOOM! The door cracks a little at the top. The hinges are loosening from the door frame. My mother can’t stop shivering. She’s wearing house slippers and they’re filthy as if she might have been wearing them outside as well. The smell of her perfume mixed with her sweat wafts my way. I have to remember this part. How the fuck do I sketch a scent?
She looks back my direction but I don’t think she sees me. Her eyes are wide like an animal’s.
—Open up!
She grabs the sides of her head and screams. My eight-year-old self wipes a full palm of sweat beads from my forehead. How long have we been in here?
—Leave me alone! Why can’t you leave me alone!
She curls up tighter on the floor and convulses with sobs. I’m watching. Helpless. Paralyzed.
She looks up at me. She does see me. Talks to me like I’m an adult.
—Why won’t he leave me alone?
I have no answer for her. She sobs and my father beats on the door.
I can’t hold on much longer. I look around and force myself to remember every detail. The cluttered shelves. The sound of her sniffles. The vibration of the off-kilter washing machine. The heat of the dryer. The feel of the tension coming from the door. Everything.
And then it’s gone.
Black.
35
An ambulance siren.
I’m strapped down.
I’m bursting through hospital doors.
My clothes are ripping.
Someone yells
Clear!
A PHOOMP of defibrillator paddles.
A heart monitor beeps once and my soul smiles.
I did it.
Black.
I wake up. Tired in my bones.
I move my eyes enough to look around the room. This must be a community or teaching or whatever kind of hospital is the dirtiest. Very different from my last stay. Isn’t there a code hospitals have to adhere to? I feel like SoHo should have something nicer to service its ill and deranged. At least something hip. But this place is a dump. Someone should be fired.
There’s an old guy in the bed next to me. Coma. Gotta be.
An orderly changes coma guy’s sheets like he’s fixing a flat. Not what you would call rough, although not overly concerned with his patient’s comfort. But what’s the old guy going to say? He’s probably never going to wake up. I wonder if he’s wallowing in his own memories? Living in The White. Did he figure it out? Is he leisurely traipsing through his own childhood? Or is he sleeping off a tough life in The Black? Either way, I’m a bit envious.
The real question is how many times can I pull this off? It’s draining like nothing I’ve ever felt, but I already know I’ll do it again. I can still smell the fabric softener. I can see every wrinkle in my mother’s face. I can feel the grit on the floor. How long until it fades? The edges are already crumbling. How much of the story have I lost?
Two doctors look over my file. Their backs are to me. I don’t say
I turn to my left to see myself changing a channel.
Skipping class.
Running late for work.
Laughing at Stern.
Yawning.
Fighting with an ex-girlfriend.
Sitting on a subway.
I lean back. There are just as many images flying above me. I’d stay here forever if I could. In a second it will all be over.
There. My childhood house. The laundry room.
I focus.
It’s March of whatever year I was eight.
I’m terrified.
Hiding in the corner behind a laundry basket. I’m watching my mother as she cries, staring at the locked door as she crouches next to the washing machine, terrified. The room is hot from the dryer. The washing machine is spinning an unbalanced load, making too much noise and offering too little protection. Her dress is a light floral pattern that seems familiar to me. She’s swimming in it. Must be fifteen pounds lighter than the last memory I saw her in. Oilier hair. Deeper lines in her face.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Someone is pounding on the door. It might break.
It’s my father. He’s yelling through the hollow wood.
—Let me in there, God dammit! Open this fucking door or I’ll break it down!
BOOMBOOMBOOM! The door cracks a little at the top. The hinges are loosening from the door frame. My mother can’t stop shivering. She’s wearing house slippers and they’re filthy as if she might have been wearing them outside as well. The smell of her perfume mixed with her sweat wafts my way. I have to remember this part. How the fuck do I sketch a scent?
She looks back my direction but I don’t think she sees me. Her eyes are wide like an animal’s.
—Open up!
She grabs the sides of her head and screams. My eight-year-old self wipes a full palm of sweat beads from my forehead. How long have we been in here?
—Leave me alone! Why can’t you leave me alone!
She curls up tighter on the floor and convulses with sobs. I’m watching. Helpless. Paralyzed.
She looks up at me. She does see me. Talks to me like I’m an adult.
—Why won’t he leave me alone?
I have no answer for her. She sobs and my father beats on the door.
I can’t hold on much longer. I look around and force myself to remember every detail. The cluttered shelves. The sound of her sniffles. The vibration of the off-kilter washing machine. The heat of the dryer. The feel of the tension coming from the door. Everything.
And then it’s gone.
Black.
35
An ambulance siren.
I’m strapped down.
I’m bursting through hospital doors.
My clothes are ripping.
Someone yells
Clear!
A PHOOMP of defibrillator paddles.
A heart monitor beeps once and my soul smiles.
I did it.
Black.
I wake up. Tired in my bones.
I move my eyes enough to look around the room. This must be a community or teaching or whatever kind of hospital is the dirtiest. Very different from my last stay. Isn’t there a code hospitals have to adhere to? I feel like SoHo should have something nicer to service its ill and deranged. At least something hip. But this place is a dump. Someone should be fired.
There’s an old guy in the bed next to me. Coma. Gotta be.
An orderly changes coma guy’s sheets like he’s fixing a flat. Not what you would call rough, although not overly concerned with his patient’s comfort. But what’s the old guy going to say? He’s probably never going to wake up. I wonder if he’s wallowing in his own memories? Living in The White. Did he figure it out? Is he leisurely traipsing through his own childhood? Or is he sleeping off a tough life in The Black? Either way, I’m a bit envious.
The real question is how many times can I pull this off? It’s draining like nothing I’ve ever felt, but I already know I’ll do it again. I can still smell the fabric softener. I can see every wrinkle in my mother’s face. I can feel the grit on the floor. How long until it fades? The edges are already crumbling. How much of the story have I lost?
Two doctors look over my file. Their backs are to me. I don’t say
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