I look in the mirror, and she looks back. She is all dried out, I never looked like
that. I don't know who this person is. The grey
listless hair is all hidden in my turban of a towel, and still I don't look
like myself. The deep groves on the cheeks, bags under the eyes, blue-ish lips
of a heart sufferer. Yellowing eye scleras of a liver patient. Yeah, I should be thankful it wasn't
cancer. The skin hangs off this person,
especially on the inside of her upper arms. I pick up my arm to check. Yep,
still there. I pinch myself with disgust. It's better to hide this mirror,
before I smash it. Better to never look into it again and not recognize myself.
I hate what I see so much that I hang my damp towel over the mirror, and walk
away, trying not to look at the wasted veiny legs and the protruding tongue of
the belly. How wonderful to be naked, though. I sit in the rocking chair by the
window, and let the sun settle on my withered body. The only touch I've had for
the last 20 years was either doctors hurting me, or the blessed sun. Oh, bliss.
I rock and sip my tea, and doze off.
Later, when the sun is down, I'm walking the tiny apartment like a tiger
walks his cage. Back and forth. The silence is ringing in my ears. I tidy up a
bit, and the noise in my head is getting louder and louder, to counteract the
buzzing, ringing, screaming silence.
"Again?! – I see myself running after Dave, him being only 6 or 7,
no more. I'm holding his pants, and the buckle hits him hard, once, twice,
three times. Once on the back, once on the head, and once on the hand he put up
to cover his face. Then I cry, and kiss his bruises, and swear to never, ever
do it again, and what a silly boy he is not to know that I love him. And want
him to succeed. And to be a good boy, and not to steal peaches from the
Spearman's garden. And not to hit the boys he plays with, because it's bad to
hurt others, doesn't he know?"
I cover my ears, and of course it doesn't help, because the noise is on
the inside. By now it's night. Damn the night. I wish nights were never
created, never came into being to torment me. My heart is racing, and my lips
are dry. If only I was blessed with such a gift as crying. What a relief it
would be. But my eyes remain the Sahara they've always been.
"You witch! Nobody could ever please you, now can we? For every toy
and every piece of paper you tell them off, for every grade, every move has to
be controlled, mine and theirs. Nobody is ever good enough for you. There are
your damn rules to mind, you sit like this and you move like that, wipe with
this and don't move that, or else your wrath spills forth. People don't dare
breathe in this house, have you noticed? When was the last time we had guests?
May you never breathe again. May you choke on your words, your damn criticism,
your endless picking, your perfectionism, your rules and regulations. God, what
a witch I married! If you tell me again to hold my tongue in front of the kids,
I shall see you in court! " – and I see his hunched back, marching away
from me, on that sunny Sunday morning, when the snow finally melted, and I was
left alone, with two kids and one immaculately matched and color-coordinated
house.
The noise gets louder and louder. Screams, yells, crying, blames, just
painful words come back to me magnified by a thousand, and with the screaming
silence surrounding me, it's more than I can bear. I quickly throw on some
jeans and a sweatshirt, grab my cigarettes and a purse, and run out, slamming the door on that
deafening silence. I'm hardly running, though. An old lady of 67 cannot and
should not run, even if she feels no older than 15 on the inside. I walk the
darkened streets. It must be past midnight by now. All the shops save for the
24/7s are closed, barred, and dark, too. Mt my footsteps are resoundingly loud,
but at least, they drive away the screams and the silence. I pass a drunk, and
a stray cat follows me. The river flows just as always, I can hear it but not
see it. Memories plague me here, and I turn my back on it. The rare pedestrians
are barely shadows, barely there, just as I am, nothing more than a shadow. A
drizzle is hanging in the air, but the drops are so tiny that they create a
mist, but do not wet me. It would've been nice to get drenched, I'm burning,
inside and outside. My skin is on fire. I open my sweatshirt, then take it off.
A half-naked elderly woman with disheveled grey hair, marching through the
night. Some sight I must be. I look into the lit-up window of a pharmacy,
sometimes there is a pharmacist on duty, and he helps me chase the ghosts away.
But today it's closed. I collect all the drops off the pane and pass the wet
palms over my face, keeping them there for just a minute. Let the mist be instead of tears, for I have
none left. I lean my burning cheek against the window.
The city is waking up when I finally reach my home. The street-sweepers
are out, and my legs feel like cotton-wool. I get the key in on the third
attempt, drop my bag down, and light up. Another night. I'm chilled through. The
hot shower washes off the grime, and tears, and voices, and memories. Time for
bed. Two hours of blessed relief… then again. But just before I crash, I pick
up the phone, the really nice old fashioned house line, and smash it hard
against the wall. I'm too wiped to kill it, but a crack appears in it. That will
do for today.
When I wake up, I don't know the time. I check the clock, then instantly
forget what I saw there. And who cares,
anyway? Same for the date. It must be spring, because it's warm, and we already
had a winter. Yes. We did. I curl into a tiny ball in my bed. Please, I beg.
One more hour. Just a few more minutes. But cotton candy melts in my mouth, and
sleep melts in the air. Clouds melt, and ice-cream… I think that melts, too.
Doesn't it? Or maybe it was chocolate. A shrill noise whistles into my melting
dreams. I pick up the receiver.
-Mrs. Abramson? Hi. I'm calling for the clinic… would you like to.. –
the voice is saying something, which I can't quite figure out.
My voice is rusty from lack of use, and some bubbling noises escape
before I can master it. -My son hasn't
called me for a year – I say. Who knows, maybe two? I've lost count.
-er…Um.. would you like to talk to somebody professional about that? I'm
just a secretary, - she chirps.
I smash the phone again, this time successfully. The crack widens, the
chirping stops. Damn it. I count the pieces – two, three…
I pull myself out of bed, carefully avoiding the mirror. Then get
dressed again, this time nicer.
There is a bus stop right outside my house. I get onto the first one
that comes. To the circus? Oh, sure. Life is a joke. One big circus. Haha.
There is a young woman sitting opposite me.
-My son hasn't called me for a year, - I say. Somehow, it's very
important that she should hear that. But she jumps and moves away. I target a
man in a leather jacket. But he slips away. I will, I must find somebody who
will hear me. And then he will call. I know it. He will call today, if only I
find somebody who will listen to the end.
-Excuse me.. my son hasn't called me for a year. Do you hear me? A year.
