The Visit

A son revisits the fallout of memory, and recognizes his liberty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Visit

by

Malenkov

 

 

Goodmayes Hospital, Essex

Great Britain, 1980’s

 

                                    

You just sit there broken and quiet in the psychiatric ward. No nod, no smile, no “hello son.” Cold coffee, uneaten food, a half spent cigarette in the ash tray. The veins in your ankles are blue and raised and your dressing gown has tomato stains on the front.

I mumble, “Hello mum,” kiss your cheek and suppress the urge to shudder: I picture you as a rotting corpse on a slab in the morgue. None of you move. A bird caws and whispering voices can be heard; outside two people get in a car. A clock ticks a steady beat. Patients slump in frozen poses. By the veranda, a man sits, hair patchy and oily, whispering and rocking his head. A lady with large almond eyes stares at a spot on the ceiling, her head swivelling in the direction of our voices. Then the gaze cranes again to the ceiling.

My brother, Jack, draws a chair closer to you, and I shift seats to move away from facing you. We came to see you after a two-hour bus trip, after six hours of school on a swarmy August afternoon. I told my friend I couldn’t play tennis today. "I have other things on."

My face flushes when I think other kids might know you’re here.

Outside on the wide green grounds, faded leaves sweep into the slope of a valley, sucked into the shadowy tree line of sycamores and ferns. The sky, bright when we set out, is heavy with sacks of rain.

You sit like a mangy cat I once saw, thrown in a ditch after a driver rammed it on a windy, wet night. There was a sticky liquid on its fur. That was before you were brought here.
                                   * * *
You were sitting in the kitchen when I told you.

“The driver was a man," you stated emphatically.

I looked at you, puzzled.

“All men screw you and leave you for dead." That was when you dated that navvy who you said would “take us away from Gran’s house.” We never did see the flat you said he promised to buy, and he never came again and you began to cry a lot.
                                   * * *
I could be on the tennis court now. Year after year, you just sit here. No shopping, no laundry, no looking after the house. I do that. That ticking gets louder; it makes me restless, so I say, "Tom couldn't come again." Jack smirks. No, I think. Your baby didn’t have time; he's out hot-wiring Escorts. But we came. Jack too--only after I scolded him. "She's your damn mother, too," I said.

"She sent us away--remember?" Jack said.

Jack came in the end, and we sat on the tube talking about nothing in particular. Our little brother took it hard when you were admitted again. Most times, all I see is Tom’s closed bedroom door. Sometimes he’ll grunt, “Hello,” or, “Good bye,” as we pass each other in the hall of a morning, or as we return from school of an evening.
                                   * * *
Outside, willow branches and leaves splay and bend under the wind and the shadow of a fern is a broken finger across the bottom of the valley. A chat-show lady on the TV asks a film star about her holiday as a leaf blows in the common room and nudges against the feet of a man with grey thinning hair. Beyond the windows, a couple sit on the bench outside the patio window; a man strokes the hair of a young girl who just sits still and straight like all the others. A young man in white overalls, stethoscope in pocket, wheels a trolley in and picks up dinner dishes. As he picks up your knife, it slips and he stoops to pick it up.
                                   * * *
The night they took you away, an autumn hurricane almost shook the windows out. Gran was downstairs, as always stiff and unbent in her arm chair, a small furry Pomeranian dog curled in her lap. Beside her stood her walking frame that she used to huff and puff herself up those few times she moved about.

That night was different.

Piercing barks and Gran's urgent voice rose up to my bedroom.

"Nick." Gran called.

I put down the book I was reading in bed and crept downstairs. Gran's voice rang.

"Nick, quickly please."

Halfway down the stairs, I crouched and saw you standing in front of Gran, the dog snarling. You held a kitchen knife upright in a tightly clasped hand.

"B***h! You took my kids from me." Saliva flecked from your mouth. Gran sobbed and clawed her shawl around her like a cornered deer.

The Pomeranian lunged again and Gran struggled to hold it down, with flabby arms.

The floorboards creaked as I took a step. “Mother”.

Could you really stab your own mother? Can I seize the knife? Mum," another creak and I stepped. "Calm down." Another step. Can I reach you without you panicking?

"She did it all." Your lips stretched tight, cheek muscles twitching.

I lowered my voice, "Did what?" Creak. I moved closer.

Your hand waved the knife. "She sent me to that hospital."

Creak. Creak.

You stepped towards Gran.

The dog strained against Gran's arm, barking, ears flat against its head.

Gran clutched the dog, sobbing. "Nick."

"Mother?" Creak. I took a step.

"Get away from me." Your voice sounded shrill and you stepped back, eyes glassy marbles rolling about.

"Easy," I said in a soft, soft voice, and lunged before I could think. You shrieked, the dog jumped from Gran's lap, and I felt my trouser pulled.

Gran shouted, "Come here!"

I had your knife hand. Your grip was strong and you wouldn’t let go.

"You’re hurting me!" You swivelled and crouched, trying to twist free your hands but my hands locked your fingers against the blade and a red droplet runs down your thumb.

My breath was ragged. I didn’t know what you’d do when I let you go, so I held on. You screamed again. Then your brow cleared, and your shoulders slumped, hands slipping down beside your arms.

The dog is back up on Gran's lap, licking Gran’s wrist. "Good girl," Gran said stroking the dog. You sobbed and shuffled upstairs.

Gran's voice quivered. “Thank you, Nick." She sighed and her shoulders shuddered. “What did I do to deserve this? After all I done for her." Gran's shoulders swayed with long shuddering breaths.

Later, I'm in my bedroom reading, when I heard the ambulance crew enter the hall downstairs. Gran spoke in hushed sobbing tones: "I don’t know what came over her."

"It's all right, love. We'll take her back." I heard the two men, their breath ragged, jerking a wheelchair in the hallway below.

Gran called out. "Mind the vase." A muffled thud and the wail of metal scraping on the banisters.

"Careful, Ron." A man’s voice said and then the voices faded, the front door banged shut and an engine spluttered down the road. Quiet again, I picked up my book, took out the bookmark and read.
                                   * * *
The clouds rumble over the hospital now. Blackness smothers the double-glaze windows. It’s too dark to see the grounds outside.

“I think it may thunder,” I said.

In the ward, Jack sighs, looks around and picks up a paddle. "Let's play table tennis,” he says. I follow him to the middle of the room. The TV jingles with the tune of a chocolate bar commercial. The old man looks up at the TV, then hugs himself. Since they admitted you again, me and Jack returned to the home with fifteen other rejects and orphans. They locked me in the angry room again yesterday. For two hours. They send us on these boring trips and the food tastes like mud.

Jack hits a win. "Twenty thirty."

The Indian lady adjusts her frock.
                                   * * *
The day before the exams, I heard the creak of carpet outside my bedroom. My eyes burned and I just turned out the light. By the side of my bed sat a stack of books. A silhouette framed the doorway and then light sears my eyes. Your stick-thin figure stood in the door, the light cord in your hand.

I sat up in bed, blinking. There was no knife in your hand. "You never care about me. You never bring me a coffee. Nothing. I could rot, for all you care."

"I have an exam, for God's sake. Tomorrow."

"I'm in this f*****g house the whole day," you screamed. You turned and left, and I finally got to sleep. Now and again, I opened one eye, wondering if I saw a silhouette. I made no sound, hoping you wouldn’t come in.

Next day I returned from the library at eight thirty in the evening. I entered my bedroom and whistle as I took in the sight that greets my eyes: My wash mirror hung on its side, one edge tipped in the wash basin, my trousers, shorts, pants, socks strewn over the floorboards like a rubbish tip. The wardrobe lay on one side at an angle, its thin wood and jaded veneer splintered and jammed against the headboard of my cramped bed and the window. Inside the wardrobe, a clothes rail lay on the bottom with the bundle of clothes. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. With an air of smugness on your face, you sailed downstairs to the kitchen like an unmanned ghost ship and I heard the kettle boiling for a coffee.

I crept into your room and threw perfumes on the floor, photographs on a bed, overturned the bed and propped the mattress against a chest of drawers, took the draws out and dumped panties, bras and towels on the floor. To finish off, I opened the wardrobe and piled dresses and coats on the pyramid of clothes. I paused and considered the finishing touches.
Then I took brushes, a makeup and jewellery box, opened the clasps and dumped them too on the mountain in the middle of the bedroom. Then I went back downstairs, and passed you on the way out to the front door. "Enjoy your coffee."

When I returned you came in the lounge where I sat with Gran. Your voice was low. "Don’t you ever do that again. I'm your mother."

I stood and shouted. "Trash my room again, and I'll trash yours."
                                   * * *
The thunder is weaker. It has rolled on. The clouds have broken open to the sun and light lifts some of the shadow from the valley.

Jack hits another win. "Twenty forty." The chocolate commercial finishes its jingle. The chat show host asks the woman about her sex life.

You sat once in the kitchen and said to me, "You look just like your father."

"Really?"

"That’s why I never loved you."

Another time, I came back from junior school--"Let me in, mum"--The wardrobe scraped on bedroom carpet. And I heard a chain lock clink and the door opened. I came in to find you lying in your bed, arms straight out--like you were laid out in a coffin. The smell of urine and the fog of cigarettes made me gag. I stood by your bed--"Here, mum. I made you coffee, and toast with marmalade"--I placed the tray on the bedside table.

Your face screwed in a scowl. “You made me nothing before you went to school." I saw your coffee mug jerk, then my cheek burned and I wiped scalding oily coffee off my face. I didn't cry, and I didn’t visit you with coffee after that.
                                   * * *
“Let's go," Jack says. "She doesn’t care anyway."

On the train on the way over Jack said, "Parents screw you up."

I laughed.

"With a mother like ours, who needs enemies?"

"I'll be away from all this. To university," I said.

"Lucky for some."

I have the letter in my drawer upstairs. "One month and I'm off." Each night, I inspect that letter, hold it up to my bedside lamp, checking the seal, the signature and think: Could it be a fake? Might I lose it, my ticket out? I’ll get my own place, and things will be quiet and good.

There’s a breeze that blows in from the outside and a man and woman stroll on the grounds. The sun softens the clouds into tufts of cotton. Your eyes are wet and I resist the impulse to hand you a tissue. The Indian lady, who sits in the chair, wraps her shawl about her, a far away look in her eyes, dead still.
                                   * * *
I saw Ms. Gupta, roaming up and down our road a month back. She was dragging a suitcase. Didn’t look like she knew where she was going. "Her husband threw her out," Gran whispered.

A year or so ago, you let Ms. Gupta in. "Whatever will the neighbours think," Gran said.

Ms. Gupta had wet hair and clothes from the rain, like a cat brought in dead. Her black hair was bundled about her face and you sat with her in the kitchen, talking, trying to reach her. She just sat there staring, and I stood half inside the kitchen doorway to the side, knowing I could watch without being seen.

"Poor dear," you said. Ms. Gupta’s head was bowed and shaking, deep lines in her face. You gave her tea and sat with her as she emptied out in stifled tears.

Before she went, you pressed two twenty pound notes in her hand, curled her fingers around the notes so she wouldn't drop them. "Take this, dear," you said, with a Good Samaritan’s smile.
                                   * * *
Outside, the willow branches rustle but hang stiller.

The nurse enters again with a dinner trolley.

He opens a Styrofoam carton and puts it in front of you on the table. "Janine, dinner." He places plastic cutlery on the table and walks away. Jerkily, your hand lifts the fork to your mouth--and stops there in mid air. In the cartoon are mashed potatoes and sausages streaked with oily gravy. In another part, there’s treacle pudding desert. The smell of sausages makes my mouth salivate.
                                   * * *

Romford High Road and the Tramp sways on the railings by the pavement outside McDonalds. His syringes clacked in a tin--"Pennie for a cuppa?"--His voice was scrappy, left vapour in the air, and people passed him by.

"Let's eat?” You said. "I'm hungry." You took my brothers and me inside.

"Four Big Macs, chips and cokes to go," you told the girl munching chewing gum at the counter.

Three minutes later, I took the bags and handed you yours as we walked outside. I unwrapped my burger and chomped the mayo, cucumber-filled bap, washing it down with sips of coke.

You walked over to the tramp and stopped. Your trim suit rustled, well ironed and a swish of cashmere. Male heads swivel towards your mousy sixties curls, and brilliant blue eyes.

"Mother, what you doing?"

You hunched down on one knee, "I'll be a second." And you unwrapped the burger, keeping your hand on the paper as you handed it to the Tramp with a smile.

He stood, grasping the rails, and his arms flailed an empty gin bottle spinning into the gutter. Grimy fingers grasped the burger. "God bless you, Ma’am".
                                   * * *
The shadows have fallen away and the ground is clear. A choke comes up and I bite it down. My breath is light and ragged.

"You coming or what?" Jack stands by the door, his coat on. Jack looks at me, eye brow cocked, so I yawn, and rub the salt out my eyes, and get my jacket.

On the way out, I turn and see your face and picture you for a moment--a browned out leaf, crumpled in the hand. Outside, a swallow streaks across the parking-lot, chasing a dragon fly. The couple come in from their walk, wide lipped smiles.

As I step outside the visitor's entrance, I pause. I put my bag down on the gravel path. "I forgot something."

Jack looks back at me, a frown on his face. "Be quick."

I go back, and sun frames you in fading shadow. I take a step, place a hand on your shoulder, and kiss your cheek. It's warm, wet. "Take care, mother." For a moment, I smell fresh roast beef on a Sunday, baked apple pie, and meringues filled with vanilla ice cream and fresh plums from the garden.

Then the orderly lounges in again, pushing a medical trolley with swabs and needles.

"Nick!" Jack enters, stabbing forefinger at watch. "The train's coming!" He shakes his head and sighs. "Come on!"

I stand and leave the visitors’ room--where the air is still and the shadows heavy and dark and long. I stand on the ridge of a hill. Outside, a cool breeze blows against my cheek. Behind me, the doorway is in shadow. And in the depression of the valley below, the shadow of the piles of leaves have been blown away.

I walk on.

The air is fresh and cool against my cheek and face.

My hands open in my pocket.

And I think.

Of that letter at home in my drawer.

 

--END--

 

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I see some people feel that your portrait of the mother is incomplete, but I see where that may actually be the point--an incomplete portrait of an incomplete or "defective" person. Likewise, I can see where the aura of detachment in the story works hand-in-hand with the difficulty (if not actual impossibility) of bridging the gap inherent in the narrator's relationship with the mother--indeed, the scenes of her trashing the room and throwing coffee at the narrator show the danger and difficulty in trying to cross that bridge. This is very impressive work. The narrative is strong, the characters well-drawn within the constraint of the story's length, and the movement from time frame to time frame is handled skilfully. This is as fine a story as I have read on this site.

[emmajoy]

I've read this twice - read it aloud the second time because I wanted to hear a voice. It's really touched me and, for various reasons. As you know we all interpret other people's writing in different ways, seeing scenes and characters with our own eyes, hearing different intonations, gasps or sighs.

Firstly by the end of this I wanted to know more so i need to read more.. it's unfinished business, I want to know more about the three young men, want to know what happened to mother, want to understand the way she treated her boys the way she did, etc. etc. So many questions need answering and yet you've added clues and hints.. 'Halfway down the stairs, I crouched and saw you standing in front of Gran, the dog snarling. You held a kitchen knife upright in a tightly clasped hand. "B***h! You took my kids from me." Saliva flecked from your mouth. Gran sobbed and clawed her shawl around her like a cornered deer.' Why does she - mother, feel that hate and rejection of her own mother?

Amongst the drear, sad atmosphere are beautiful lines .. ' On the way out, I turn and see your face and picture you for a moment - a browned out leaf, crumpled in the hand. Outside, a swallow streaks across the parking-lot, chasing a dragon fly. The couple come in from their walk, wide lipped smiles.'

I think I may end up writing too much so must be concise now. Your writing opens a door, inside the room of your writing are strongly defined characters and a very bewildering tragedy. Your writing goes from near desperation to extreme tenderness.

I wonder if you could use italics for past scenes? Like others i came to a halt, which in turn broke the flow, when the tense altered.

Will probably return to read again. Impressive post, truly.

This was an enjoyable read. I can picture the whole setting based on your choice of words, which makes it well written. There is a good storyline which works both independently or with another story along.

A good piece

[Marie]

Nicely done.

[Vanessa Whiteley]

I was left wondering what the impact of their environment would be on the sons in the Kirby Guest House. I think you do an excellent job here. Not only do you bring the character of Nick to life but you show how Jennine has transferred her frustration onto the sons. I don't think you need to foreground the mother here because her character is explored in your other story. I disagree with Anthony that the son would not feel a sense of loss if he has only known cruelty. Experiments on animals have shown how the need for the mother is innate even when they only experience rejection. Moreover, he has witnessed her ability to express tenderness towards strangers. I think these scenes create a fine balance.

The descriptions are excellent especially within the psychiatric ward.

[Anthony]

It has been a long time since I've done a review. So forgive the rawness.



What I did like. You description of scenery and setting was spot on. I know I'm reading something good when I take notes. You drew a clear picture of the overly medicated patients. Great little one liners. There is also a very strong poetic quality throughout.


What could be worked on. This piece reminds me of something I wrote entitled Sister. It was a letter of sorts and a fictitious confessional piece that lacked a genre. As I was reading The vissit I couldn't really place it in a genre either. Looks to me you followed your inspiration and enjoyed your creativity.


In an attempt to place this more in a category, my suggestion would be to reduce the usage of I. I is useful and bold, but to use it too much will have the resemblance of court testimony. It is a tough thing to do in a first person narrative but it has to be done.

The good times� Where there any? Mother has to have some redeemable qualities or else his frustration is mute. How could he experience loss if there wasn't anything worth loosing? Right now it reads a little long to me (short attention span man) and I believe it is because of the lack of balance. It comes across as one accusation after another. That is fine if it is meant to be that way but if so then I suggest shortening it some.

I don't know why but I ended up feeling a little sorry for the mother. I think it had something to do with her anger when she returned home at her mother and children. Seems to me she wanted to regain her place but could never find it again. Then of course the insanity.

I was so tempted to rewrite a few of the paragraphs in past tense and change you to her. Especially with the opening.


A few edits

Your cold cheek flashes the image of a rotting corpse on a slab in the morgue. (this one is a little sticky for me) At first read it sounds like the check is flashing like a movie screen.
Suggestion-- Your cold cheek is reminiscent of a rotting corpse on a slab in the morgue.

A bird craws� I think Craws should be caws? The reason I ask because if craws can be used I'd like some more info on it.

Later, I'm in my bedroom reading when I heard the ambulance.. I think there should be a comma after reading

[Cameron Probert]

Wow. Let me start by saying I really like a lot about this piece. But anyways on to the review.

Characters -

Here is where I think the best part of this piece is. All of the characters in this piece are powerful and moving. I think you do a wonderful job with the mother in showing how she isn't always crazy. I wonder why though she seems to be kinder to strangers in her more lucid moments. I'm totally cool with her reacting crazy with her sons and their Grandmother, but it just seems kind of strange that we don't see more of that between the son and the mother.

The only character I have any real issue with is the Grandmother. She kind of seems like the stereotypical little old lady, who really doesn't care about her daughter's problems because she's too busy minding everyone elses business. I can definitely understand that there might be some fatigue in dealing with someone like that. But I really want to see more of that, rather than the almost blaise treatment we get in that scene.

Probably my favorite character is the MC, who really reflects both the emotional fatigue and geniune caring really well. I'm a fan right there.

Plot -

Okay, I'm probably going to hit some of this stuff in style, but I wanted to touch on it here. I think there are two things that are nagging on me here. One is that most of this story occurs in the past. Actually most of the most powerful scenes do (the knife scene, the room destroying scene, the hamburger scene). While I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, a lot of the time those past scenes seem to take away from the present scenes. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but the heart of this story seems to be letting go of the past and forgiveness. But the MC almost seems ambivalent during the present scenes. He's not seeking forgiveness from her, and he doesn't seem upset enough (at least at the beginning) to be looking to forgive her. I like the frame, but I think you need more about her in the present.

My second concern has to do with a bit of redundancy. Why the two scenes about kindness to strangers? Why have the knife scene and the room wrecking scene and the coffe tossing scene? I think you're trying to show a level of exhaustion, but since the MC is the one going to see his mother I don't know if it's as dramatic (?) as I would like.

But on the other hand, I suppose this is also a story about what the mother wants, even though she can't communicate it. Which is to be loved and accepted. And on that count I think you do score, although I guess I would like to see more kindness towards her kids as well as to strangers.

Description and Setting -

I had no problems here.

POV -

So for the most part I really liked the first/second hybrid you have going on here. It suggests a level of intimacy that you wouldn't get from a straight first. It only throught me toward the end, when you hadn't used it in a while. Although I can't find the exact spot now, so you can probably ignore it.

Dialogue -

Okay I just wanted to point out one of my favorite parts of this story -

You sat once in the kitchen and said to me, "You look just like your father."

"Really?"

"That's why I never loved you."

That one section really sold this story for me. But over all I think you do a good job on the dialogue. I don't have any problems.

Style -

Okay, so here's my big gripe. I like the switches from past to present for the most part. I think you cordon them off fairly well. But there are a lot of times when you switch from present to past with almost no warning and I have to stop myself to figure out what's going on. I think you really need to stay in the scene with those present scenes, considering that in essence is the meat of the story.

Okay, so that's all I have to say. Take what you will and leave the rest.

[J. Marc]

�The visit� by Malenkov

Sombre and yet full of hope! Deeply moving and thought provoking!

Malenkov has the talent to make us feel as if we were the main character. The first part of his story is very well written: the descriptions are very pertinent; the images used are hitting you in the heart and put you in the right mood to correctly appreciate the rest of the story. There is a couple sentences which are, somehow, not fully integrating in the middle of �The visit� but they do not affect, by any means, the readability of the text.

The subject is not an easy one to write about but the author is very skilled at avoiding exaggerations or simplifications. He does not give us any uneasy feelings about his story. He does not give any fallacious explanations about the characters: things simply happen and that is how he conveys them to us. He does not give us answers to the all questions about the characters and yet we feel a kind of empathy for all of them. One understands fully this desire to escape and cannot refrain a sigh of relief at the end of the story. The emotional construction of �The visit� is very good. Yes, what does not kill us makes us stronger, although I would always incline more towards Goethe and Schiller in similar situations!

[Mykietown]

I actually wrote a similar piece when I was an undergraduate, where a young boy goes to visit his mother in a mental hospital. Your story really resounded with me. The weight of mental illness can be so heavy on a family, and especially on children who almost understand what's going on, and yet cannot fully digest their home situation. I think you captured that element here; the son is aware enough to react to the mother's more distrubing behavior (the knife attack, the bedroom trashing), and yet cannot remove himself into a more objective perspective. It's not enough to explain away that mental illness drove the mother to trash his room, he must retaliate. Someone more removed from the situation might call for order or understanding. But the son's behavior is real and honest.

At first I was a little thrown off by the second-person narrative "you just sit there broken and quiet." Generally, I struggle with second-person. I appreciate the unique and experimental nature it tends to bring since more narratives are first or third. It took me a while to accept that the "you" wasn't referring to me, but that the main character was talking directly to his mother. That being said, I think you used the second person effectively. The son's anger and frustration is directed at the mother, and the reader experiences the force of such emotions as they read the piece. It works, but I'd still make a soft suggestion to consider first or third. But either way it works.

The only other suggestion that I have is for the mother. You capture the affect of mental illness on her so well. But I wonder if you have the opportunity here to hit a few other notes with her character. Perhaps it's not within the scope of the story, but I wonder if moments of lucidity might make the delusional episodes more dramatic, especially for the son who has to experience these highs and lows. But either way the story works. Excellent work.

[T.k. Sutter]

Here you go. Sticky keys get you sometimes eh?

This story paints a vivid view for the reader on the effects of mental illness on the entire family. It was descriptive enough that I could place myself there while reading. With Belle's Advice, this one could go far. It's so hard sometimes for one language to read anothers, but it's also informative and gives us an insight into the way each person speaks and the different words we can use for the very same point.

I look forward to reading more.

Yours,
Tanis