Lower Topia • Chapter 1
Episode 6
Reveal
THE GARDEN. The perimeter wall of the garden was made up of fence posts with split rails running from post to post. Constructed from Chestnut trees, the fence was apparently placed there a long time ago, since all the posts and rails are now showing signs of deterioration. Hanging from this weathered pale gray fence are greenish-gray-brown leaves attached to their own thin woody-vines. Vines that meander the full length of the fence as it follows the property line. Vines that ribbon up, down, and around the rails and posts like a welcome-home banner. It must have been the tendon-like strength of those vines that has allowed this fence to remain standing upright all these years. The field, encapsuled within the fence, was filled with wild shrubs, blooming bushes, lilies, flowers from all parts of the world, comprised of colors from all parts of the rainbow; everything overlapping each other. Chaos within which there is a collection of hues and species; with a little imagination it had a certain order and purpose. Whatever space that existed in-between these plants it was filled with what would have normally been considered weeds; but in truth were actually dainty plants climbing through the tiny gaps to share the sunlight with the rest of the garden. The whole patch threaded with sinews of stems weaving into each other, and topping themselves with every imaginable genus of life form. Butterflies, dragonflies, bees became the synapses that tied everything together.
I found it peaceful, and safe. With dirt trodden paths used to navigate through the garden, they would all leading to a corner of the garden where I had tied a hammock between two tree trunks; long ago fleeced of their branches and leaves. The tree trunks were now assigned with only one task; to hold up his hammock. This hammock was made from the garden’s donated silk fibers, carefully, tediously, magically embroidered.
It was my garden, developed with imagery that only a young child’s mind could conjure. Probably borrowing bits and pieces from the various childhood fairy tales and novels that were read to me at bedtime. I created it for my own enjoyment. A perfect place to be when nowhere else would welcome me, offer me any comfort. It was my safe place. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. It was my secluded quiet place. It would be conjured up, summoned up well into my adult life. The plants would envelope me, swaddle me. Its density deafened the anger from the outside world. It would shield me from the glaring frowns and harsh rhetorical speeches that made a person feel righteous and justified. I was good at making this imaginary world appear at will. No one knew it was there, no one could see it, use it, be comforted by it, but me. My musing, my fantastical world.
With predictability, however, the real world still surrounded me. I knew that. I never lied to myself. This garden was only meant to be temporary. It was upsetting, however, when my stay was shortened prematurely. Interrupted by a realm that was always filled with aggression, yelling, disagreement, with daggers that constantly invaded, pierced my conscious world. Antagonist vs antagonist. Brother vs parent. Brother vs brother. I would go to his sanctuary. Running away was a good thing to do. To hell with those that criticize me for doing so. Sighing with emotions mixed with doses of sadness and relief. Sitting in the middle of his field; finding the dirt path softly moist with the thick under growth of moss; like a pillow. Soon after arriving, I would always walk to that corner of the garden and lay on my hammock; it kept me afloat, sustaining me in a dream; it rocked me, numbed me.
Wednesday November 9, 1994 – 3 AM From a space not far from this hammock, where I laid tranquilly and alone, I heard a very familiar voice coming from behind a tree. “Hi Charles.” Although I was much older now when I first created of this garden, this voice seemed more familiar to the child that I was once, a long time ago. It was my mother. Her voice sounded like something that Charlie would have recognized then me. MY mother? She announced her presence, again. “Charles.” “What are you doing here mom?” my surprise was obvious and shown. I saw garden’s fence begin to transform, deteriorate, becoming more and more transparent. I knew what was happening; and, no matter how hard I tried to focus on its existence, it was disappearing, as quickly as my mother’s voice became more audible and understandable to me. “How did you find me? I didn’t ask you to come here.” I really didn’t want to show my annoyance, anger, that she invaded what was supposed to be a carefully designed safe place; just how did she find it? “How did you find me, mom?”
“I told you to let me die. I told you not to let them operate on me. I’m tired, and I can’t live like this anymore. I am confused. I think I remembering going to the bathroom, I fell. I know you told me not to wear my socks at night, that I might slip, hurt myself….it hurts me so much, Charles…so much pain, Charles. I told you to let me die instead.” Her using my name was that hook that dug deeper into my flesh as she slowly pulled me into her reality; out of my garden. The fence continued to wane; my garden starting to lose its vibrancy, all the colors blending, fading. My mom had so much more to tell me. But I already knew most of what she wanted to say. “Why can’t I stay here with you. It looks nice. I’ll stay out of your way, I promise.” She wasn’t asking, but more like imploring, maybe even openly begging. “This cannot happen mom. I’m sorry. If I am to survive, I need to be here without you, dad, Steve, anyone, and everyone that makes my world so difficult to survive in. I promise I will not be here much longer. Just enough to gather my strength that was ripped out of my grasp tonight. I will be with you, there, very soon. Promise. But just not here. Not now.”
My eyes blinked; close, open, close, and finally my eyes remained open. Gone!!! Flowers gone!!! Post and rails gone!!! My beloved hammock, gone!!! I’m not ready to leave it. But even my secret world wasn’t strong enough to hold back the pain being inflicted on my mother, being inflicted onto me by my mother. Was I wrong to insist that my father sign the waiver for the operation? Should I have allowed her to die? What a stupid option; she wasn’t dying; she was hurt, broke her hip, the choices were singular. Operate.
Blink. My mind is now unfastened from my dream; it’s now clearly receiving the invading impulses. I am beginning to feel her pain. I am now standing in front of a bed on which she laid, in the recovery room. My garden’s fence became the bed’s rail. I’m trapped rather than contained. The clipboard that was hanging from the rail at the front of her bed proclaimed that this woman was indeed my mother.
The early discussion, when I first entered the Recovery Room, continued between us; her nurse and her son. Nerves were both frayed and raw from the consistent beseeching of this woman from the back of the Recovery Room; she would scorn any soul daring to sooth or comfort her. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a woman I recognize.” I said to the nurse on duty. I was told, again, that was my mother, “But, I don’t see her.” Charles insisted. “She’s the one screaming in the back of the room,” the nurse explained impatiently. “Just follow her voice” the nurse on night duty instructed. “She won’t be hard to find. Her clipboard will confirm your search.” Not at all comforting, I thought. The screaming wouldn’t stop; but they were the bread crumbs that helped me locate her. The pain meds were wearing off, apparently they needed her to be alert so they could judge her recovery process. But I also understood that my mom was wearing down the nerves and patience of this seasoned nurse. But still, “Why doesn’t she offer me some comfort?” Indeed, my mother was the woman in the bed exactly in front of where he was standing, as I completely and finally exited my garden.
Never recording the number of times her eyelids would have normally blinked, it’s hard to say that her lids were working at that moment. “Is she awake? Is she screaming in her sleep?” As I watched her, only her face was exposed from the top of the blanket that covered her body; it was the only evidence of her body frozen in a combined expression of fright and pain. Also, angry? Definitely scared? I couldn’t decipher the icy stare. She saw me, a conclusion made with no real proof that she actually did know who he was. Two strangers who used to hug each other, are now just staring at each other. For my mother, a lack of recognition due to her terror, and fear. For me, it was a total lack of association. I just didn’t recognize her. Was she angry? Was she totally disappointed in me? Is that possible, am I responsible?
“How are you mom?” I asked, carefully not to surprise her too much. I was very tired, it was a very long night waiting for her operation to be over, and her entry into the Recovery Room. Finally, she closed her eyes. Asleep? Could she be at peace? Where does he go now? Exhausted. But the garden was not to be found again that night, I knew now it was not possible to reenter it. I sat on a chair next to her bed. Sighed. It was quiet, finally; due to her exhaustion, or medication just administered by that uncaring nurse, or maybe my presence next to her bed in the recovery room. It was finally quiet. I was alone.
Earlier, I brought my father home to rest for a few hours, freshen up for his trip back to the hospital later that morning. Convincing my father that there wasn’t much to be done while the operation was taking place. Convincing myself that I only had the strength to care for one parent right now.
With her finally quiet, her dreaming, praying it was only a dream. I walked out of the recovery room, alone, after the nurse said my mother will be prepped soon to be sent to her room in the surgical wing upstairs. I can see her there, later. I entered the hospital lobby. It was now 4 am; arrived at their home at around mid-night. A long exhausting morning, indeed.
I exited onto a veranda outside the main entrance. Nobody shared this place with me. I cried.