It's Fiction Week

There’s barely any light in my room. My thoughts keep turning to having to piss, though, and I can’t concentrate. Finally, I let it out ... first a little, then a lot.

Next thing I feel is being gently tapped awake by a woman wearing white.

“It’s time to wake up, Mrs. Weatherford,” she said. “We’ve got to change your clothes and get you ready for breakfast. Let me help you up.”

I want to ask her where the hell she was when I had to use the restroom, but I still can’t talk. I also want to know where my husband and children are. The last I’d seen of them, we were driving somewhere ... where were we going? Crap, I can’t remember.

The woman has cold hands as she takes my gown off me. I am suddenly freezing, the hairs on my arms sticking straight out. The rest of me is chilled to the bone by the cold air pouring from a vent in the wall. I want to tell her to hurry. The words still won’t come. I hate this. Finally, she snaps some sort of warm gown around me, then bends down to slide shoes onto my feet. I can’t bend over to watch her do this, but I feel them roughly over my toes. I feel dizzy.

I lean hard on her shoulder as she swings me around and plops me down into a wheelchair. I want to ask her why I, a 32-year-old woman in fairly good health, can’t move on her own. What’s with the wheelchair? I’m terribly hungry, though, and her promise of breakfast sounds good. I sit in the chair without struggling and let her push me out of the room.

Gack! The smell of this place. It smells like ... old people. Like flesh waiting to die. Like formaldehyde. I sure hope that odor isn’t breakfast. Well, no wonder. Look at all the old people here! They must have stuck me in this wing of the hospital because the normal areas were full. This is really crazy! Wait, I don’t want to sit with all these old people! Why can’t I eat with someone my own age? Come on! I look at the woman pleadingly, but she just smiles and tells me to enjoy my meal. Fat chance, sitting here among the living dead.

I survey the old, withered faces in front of me. My neck feels stiff and won’t let me turn from side to side, but I get an eyeful of wrinkly skin and empty, fuzzy eyes. A lady across the table lights up when my gaze meets hers.

“Hello, Clara! How are you doing today?” she asks me.

How does she know my name? Before I can ask she tells me about how she feels today, how her grandchildren are coming to visit her tomorrow, how hungry she is. Shut up, already! But I still can’t talk. A groan wells up from my throat, but I can’t control the sound it makes. I sound like a muffled dog begging for scraps. I stop trying to verbalize, and just shake my head from side to side. Maybe she’ll shut up soon.

A plate of gray-looking food is put in front of me. I don’t know who brings it because all I see is a set of dark, hairy knuckles. The food even smells gray. I concentrate and will my arm to the top of the table. Some of the others are already scraping and clanging silverware against their plates, some are locked into blank stares. I feel more uncomfortable every time I look up, so I decide to focus on my plate.

My hand grasps my fork, and I move it toward the plate. The overhead light flashes on the fork’s shiny handle. I hold it a moment, suspended in front of me. I wonder if I can see my reflection and the reason I can’t talk if I ... that’s it. I look at my face.

Oh my god.

The room goes black. I hear the fork bounce onto my plate, then hit the floor. The woman across from me gasps and shouts, “Nurse! Nurse!” And then I can’t hear anything else they say, nor can I feel my body limply laying on the floor.

“Mrs. Weatherford? Can you hear me? Clara?”

Yes, I can hear you. I can’t open my mouth to speak, but I know what you are saying. I tried to open my eyes. They were sort of crusty with sleepiness. I blinked hard, trying to free them.

“Good, Mrs. Weatherford. That’s good. Just relax.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing but a raspy sound comes out. My throat was sore and dry. “Wah,” I hissed. “Wah-turrrr.” Thank goodness I can finally make a noise that sounds like English.

“Of course, Mrs. Weatherford. Right away.” I open my eyes and see a figure in shadow who looks a lot like my husband. I can’t see his face, but his voice sounds like Frank’s, too. He hands me the glass of water, and helped me move it to my lips. Most of the water dribbles from the glass, down my chin. I am embarrassed and try to pull the glass away. I end up just spilling more on myself.

“Thaaanks,” I hiss. Suddenly tired, the back of my head hits the soft pillow behind me. I want to ask why I am here, what has happened to me, where is my family, why can’t I talk, and why ... why do I look like an 80-year-old woman? Are you Frank? But I am suddenly so tired.

I dream I look how I am supposed to ... my auburn hair lilting on top of my young head. We were in the car, me, Frank and our kids Hannah and Timmy. I’m not sure where we are headed, but a tractor-trailer is stopped ahead. I think Frank sees it, but he doesn’t slow down. He turns to tell me something. Before I know it, we smack into the trailer and burst into flames. I feel the intense heat. Sweat is running down my face. I scream, but I wake in silence and am back in that room.

A different woman in a white uniform is giving me a sponge bath. Water trickles off my forehead, down my nose, past my mouth and off my chin. I squint at her, but she doesn’t realize I am awake. She is talking to someone else in the room.

“Yeah, my husband doesn’t know about Gerald,” she was saying.

“Do you think you’ll ever tell him?” The other voice was high-pitched and squeaky. “I mean, are you and Gerald going to get married?”

“I don’t think Gerald is the marrying type. We still haven’t done it in the missionary position. Usually it’s in the janitor’s closet down the hall. He is so big.” The squeaky-voiced woman chortles in response.

Their voices fade as I drift back off to sleep. My dream starts slowly. This time I am younger, maybe 19. Yes, it is back when Frank and I are dating. I have long, flowing hair that I feel against my neck and shoulders. He and I are in the park by the river. Oh, I remember this! This is a great night! We are about to make love for the first time.

There is a clearing in the woods, several steps from the walking path. He asks me if I am sure, and I tell him I am. I want nothing more than to give myself to him, feel him inside me, locked together and rocking gently as a light breeze tickles the limbs and boughs of the trees above us. I envelope him and squeeze my legs around him, dreaming of our future and nights filled with this sort of pleasure. I tell Frank it was my very first time, but I don’t think he believes me. It was actually my third, but it was the first time I had come alive with such raw passion. Something about being outdoors, the new feeling of each other’s skin, the novel closeness, his breath on my face as he sprints toward climax. It is always good with him, but a mere shadow of this first time. Over the years, he and I have cultivated a deep love, two beautiful children and are quite happy together.

Have children? Together? Do we, are we still together? Where is Frank? Where is my family? Where did all the years go? I look like I’m 80 and I’m starting to feel older than that, being trapped in a body that can’t be – no, it can’t be mine. Who am I?

I jump, and find myself sitting in a lounge chair in front of a large TV. How did I get here? Why does it seem so familiar, yet strange? I’m so lost.

Doors to my right swing open. I turn my head slightly to see the daylight burst in with a momentary flash. Then the shadows swallow the brightness, and I hear the latches click shut. Someone approaches what’s probably a desk in front of the door.

“Hi, how are you doing? I’m wondering if you can help me,” an eager male voice says.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Well, this is a little strange, but I’m looking for my wife. I was told she may have been brought here by mistake.” He pulls out a photo and shows the desk clerk. “This is her, have you seen her? She was in a car accident two days ago on her way upstate and was hurt pretty badly. At least that’s what I was told.”

“No, I’m not aware of anyone young being brought in here. That rarely happens in this facility.”

“Oh.” The man sounds dejected. “I’ve tried everywhere else with no luck. The kids and I are awfully worried about her. Is there anything you can do?”

“I tell ya what,” the clerk said. “Leave your name and phone number, and I’ll try to track down all the admissions in the last two days. She may have been brought here, then transferred to County as soon as space opened up.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I haven’t had much help and it’s driving me crazy. My name’s Frank Weatherford. I’m looking for my wife Clara Weatherford. Here’s my card. Please let me know if you hear anything, even if it’s bad news. I sure appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, sir. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

I try so hard to call out, to scream so maybe Frank will see me. It is no use. I cannot muster a whimper. Even if I make a noise he can hear, it’s doubtful he will recognize me beneath my elderly exterior. The doors open, letting in the blinding light, Frank walks out, and the latches clicked shut again.

“What was that about?” another man asks the desk clerk.

“Oh, a guy came in looking for his wife. She was in a car accident two days ago. Here’s his card.”

“Yeah. How old was this guy?”

“Mid-30s, I guess.”

“We haven’t had anyone young over here in five or six months. Why don’t you let me handle this one. I’ll call this guy tomorrow and tell him he’s out of luck.”

“Yes, sir.”

My heart stopped. I’m here! I want to shout. I want to take that guy and throttle him. Don’t go! I’m the woman he’s looking for! I feel warm tears streaking down my face, and taste the bitter saline on my lips. Dammit! Why doesn’t anyone hear me? I want to be in control of myself! I close my eyes tightly and hold my breath. My head starts to tingle, and I am woozy. By the time I slip into unconsciousness and hit the floor, I forget why I am so angry.

I don’t know how much time passed before I open my eyes. When I do, dim sunshine is starting to peak through the slats in the blinds ... the blinds hanging in our bedroom at home. Frank is sleeping next to me. I see the rise and fall of his chest, hear the loud snores as he inhales through his gaping mouth.

A few minutes pass quietly, and the alarm clock starts to chirp. It was 6 in the morning, but I can’t tell what day, what month or what year it is. Am I dreaming this, too? Is this a flashback or a flash forward? Is this merely another dream? Will I really wake up in a nursing home, older than dirt, mute and unable to do anything for myself?

Frank stirs. “Clara, are you gonna get that?”

“Sure,” I say aloud. It was the first thing I’ve been able to say as long as I can remember. I am startled by the clear, authoritative sound of my voice. I should have stored up something more profound to say in light of my forced silence. I hit the snooze button on the alarm and sit up. I look at my hands, which are smooth, tan and nubile. “Thank God,” I whisper to myself.

“MMMM, honey?” Frank turns to face me. “Why don’t you jump in the shower first? I know you’ve got that conference to get to before noon. It’s a long way up there and I don’t want you to get another speeding ticket.”

“Conference?”

“It’s all you’ve talked about for weeks! Listen, I’ll get the kids up and fed before Rita gets here.”

“Rita’s coming?”

“Of course. She takes care of the kids every day. We’ve been over this. We both have to work. I can’t quit my job at the paper and you can’t quit yours at the Geriatric Studies Institute. Money is tight as it is.”

“Oh, of course. Right.”

I get up, go to the bathroom and take off my nightgown. I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror and survey every inch of my body. My hair is auburn, down to my shoulders. My 32-year-old face is virtually wrinkle-free, except for the growing laughlines around my eyes. My breasts are more or less firm as they have since been I lost the last of my pregnancy weight. My stomach is mostly flat, poochy a little here and there. My legs are smooth, tan and strong. My feet are soft and young.

Frank stands at the doorway and smiles. “Well, hello and good morning!”

I smile back at him. “Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

“Oh yes.” He stands behind me, and I watch as he caresses my body, soaking up his touch. He kisses my neck as he strokes my breasts, sliding one hand down my hips. I turn to face him, sliding his boxers to the floor. He closes the bathroom door and locks it. We make love standing, pressed against the mirror. I feel like I am outside of myself, watching a movie on a 3-D screen. Is that us are are these people actors? But it is me. I think.

I kiss him, then throw on my robe and start out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got something I need to do real quick. I’ll be back.” I rush down the stairs to the kitchen and grab the phone book. I dial the number, running my free hand through my hair.

“Hello? Yes, I need to know when the first train leaves for upstate today. Yes, I’ll hold.”

About an hour later, Frank, the kids and I were driving toward the train station when traffic starts to build.

“I’ll never make it at this rate,” I said.

Police are directing us around the scene, which involved an 18-wheeler and a small car. We pass and I see paramedics using the jaws of life to cut away a section of the roof. I can barely see into the car, but I think I catch a glimpse of a woman ... an old woman. She looks strangely familiar, yet I’m sure we’ve never met.

Or have we?

We stop to let the ambulance pull up next to the mangled car. I crane my neck to see through the broken windshield. I think I see the driver look at me and wave. But it was hard to see, and I may have been dreaming the whole thing.

It’s another 45 minutes to the station, maybe more with traffic. I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I think about the conference on aging I helped plan. I knew I had much more to say about the subject than I did a few days ago. Now I know what it’s like to get old. I yawn as I take stock of all I learned.

Maybe if I nap just a little. I tell Frank to wake me when we’re almost there. I drift off to a deep sleep, but this time I don’t dream.

“Mrs. Weatherford? Mrs. Weatherford?” I hear the voice, but I’m afraid to open my eyes.