Becoming Invisible

Born into a family with issues!

 

 

BECOMING INVISIBLE

BY

ROGER C. SIMMONS

The clock on the wall outside my room reads ten fifty. ‘She’ will be coming soon, wearing her starched white uniform and frozen smile. On her tray, my nighttime medications and a glass of lukewarm tap water. By then, she won’t be able to see me. Won’t she be surprised? Let me explain while there’s still time.

My mother refused to leave her house. Unfamiliar places and strangers caused her extreme anxiety. Here they have terms for her conditions. Here they have terms for every condition. Her terms agoraphobia, coupled with a social anxiety disorder. The names alone are frightening. Divorcing herself from the rest of the world, she acquired a distinct fondness for collecting things. She called them her “knick-knacks”. She ordered them online from QVC until I finally convinced her to switch to Amazon.com. She reveled in her Prime membership.  

Once delivered, her “knick-knacks” remained unopened. They became orphans upon their arrival. Cardboard boxes multiplied faster than rats on steroids. The large overstuffed couch in our “living room” became my new bed when my original one became buried. Falling onto it, I sank so deeply into its worn foam, loose springs, and woolen cloth recesses it felt like a hug. With free space becoming scarce, over time, mother turned the couch into another storage area. A bare spot I created on the floor became my new sleeping area.   

As the “knick-knacks” continued to arrive, it became difficult to find the stove or refrigerator. The bathrooms became “knick-knacks,” a toilet, and a sink. Good luck locating the s**t paper. 

In school, the kids in my classes used to ask what happened to my mother and father, since my grandfather attended all conferences and important events with me. Mother? Well… And father? He left for work one morning years ago and never returned. Last I heard, he moved in with his secretary, made her his wife, and started a brand new family. I can’t say I blamed him. The b*****d could have at least taken me with him. He stayed in touch through his monthly child support/alimony checks. Grandfather forwarded them to his address the moment he discovered mother wasn’t depositing them. 

There being no one else, grandfather paid the bills not covered by “the a*****e’s” checks, pissing him off to no end. To mitigate his losses, he applied for Supplemental Security Income and Food Stamp benefits. Mother has the distinction of being the first person in our family to go on welfare. Grandfather admonished both my grandmother and me there would be consequences if we “spilled the beans” about those benefits. 

When I turned eighteen, grandmother was finally able to convince grandfather to allow me to move in with them.“Why not,” he said, “there’s no more child support to be gotten out of his deadbeat father’s a*s.”

A week following my relocation, I visited mother. It was like spending time with a ghost. My presence didn’t matter. Saying goodbye, I slammed the door and never went back. Nine months later, grandfather made his regular visit to his daughter’s house. He found her lying on top of the living room couch with a plastic bag over her head. The bag was tightly secured around her neck with electrical tape. Inside the bag, my grandfather told me, her face was purple, her features badly distorted. “A hell of a sight to see,” he said, shaking his head, “one hell of a sight!” Grandfather measures all things by how they affect him. “That’s life,” he added. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked away.

It took quite some time to rid the image of my mother’s final few moments from my head. Retreating to my bedroom, my mother’s room when she was a child, I buried my face in my pillow and cried until my chest ached. I didn’t know if my tears were for mother, myself, or because I felt partially responsible for her death by abandoning her.

Mother’s funeral service was small. The attendees included the funeral director, myself, my grandparents, and their minister, Pastor Jones. She was buried along with a few of her “favorite things” my grandfather told me to pick out. That assignment stumped me at first since all of her “knick-knacks” were unopened. I finally picked out a few packages randomly. I knew she would pay them no more attention in her afterlife than she did during her life. 

Father’s nonappearance at the service wasn’t unexpected. Grandfather still cursed him under his breath. Grandmother cried, whispering to me she felt guilty for not doing anything to help her daughter. I did my best to console her, while grandfather stood at a distance shaking his head. An anonymous person sent carnations. They were displayed next to her casket. That person stated in the attached condolence card they were mother’s favorite flowers. I recognized the handwriting. So did grandfather. Tearing up the card, he dropped it in the nearby wastebasket. He told me that although carnations are known as the flowers of God, he never knew his daughter to be particularly fond of them or any other flowers. I concurred. 

During the brief service, while Pastor Jones preached, I presumed for my benefit since he stared at me the entire time, my mind focused upon the overwhelming task of clearing out mother’s house. I knew grandfather would insist on my participation. That thought made my stomach do a series of flip flops.

A few days following the funeral, to my relief, grandfather hired a professional cleaning company. The workers reminded me of spacemen in their white uniforms, masks, caps, and shoe slip-ons. It took three large dump trucks to accomplish the deed. What they did with “all that lady’s s**t” as they referred to it, I didn’t have a clue, until grandfather told me they took it to the local landfill. He then gave me one of his looks. In hindsight, it seems sad none of us thought to donate any of her “knick-knacks” to charity, where they could have served a useful purpose. 

Three months after mother’s passing, I became invisible to my grandparents, when I headed off to Gainesville to attend Santa Fe Community College. I drove the used Honda Civic “they” bought for me. Grandmother cried when I left. Grandfather warned me not to get any girls into trouble if I knew what he meant. My high school grades weren’t good enough for me to get admitted to the University of Florida. I planned to attend Santa Fe College for two years, while working hard to improve those grades, and then to reapply at UF. 

Leaving my grandparents’ caused my stomach to churn. I never had any true friends when I was an undergrad. I was too shy, which Google told me is a genetic trait. To overcome my shyness, I drank to excess. The positive effect is I made some friends. They turned out to be the wrong type. My grades plummeted. Even worse, I was charged with a DUI after leaving a club late one night when I should have Ubered it. 

When he learned about my DUI, in a letter he received from a defense attorney, grandfather threatened to cut me off. That sobered me up pretty damn quick. I dropped the booze and my spotty friends. Just as things were improving, my grandparents died unexpectedly. Ironically, in a motor vehicle accident caused by a drunk driver. They died instantly, which was a blessing. At least that’s what preacher Jones said at their funeral service. This time, he didn’t bother preaching to me. I assumed grandfather told him about my DUI as well as my other issues before he died. Mr. Jones probably presumed I’m a lost cause.

Grandfather left everything to me. This included their life insurance, investments, and savings accounts. All tolled, it amounted to a little over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, not including the value of their home. I was shocked at the amount grandfather had stashed away since he was always bitching about money.

Shortly after their deaths, father called. Since I didn’t recognize his telephone number, I didn’t answer. He left a voice mail message on my iPhone. The gist of that message was that he was sorry for abandoning me, but he had a very good reason. He missed me and thought about me a lot. Please…please…be sure to return the call… he wanted to talk…to catch up and reconnect with his first “son”. I immediately hit the delete button and blocked my father’s number. Thanks to modern technology it has become much easier to impersonally send a “f**k you” to someone. God bless you, Steve Jobs. 

The classes I’m taking are ponderous. I considered taking a year or so off to reflect, travel, and decide what it is I want to do with the rest of my life. The U.S. History course I took as part of my collegiate prerequisites changed my mind. I sat in the back row of the class, barely listening to Professor Smith’s lecture about the Reconstruction. It wasn’t long before I started daydreaming. Turning to my right, I noticed that the pretty brunette, the object of multiple fantasies, appeared to be staring at me. I convinced myself she was deep into one of her daydreams.

I turned my attention back to Professor Smith. My head nodded up and down. I blinked repeatedly for a few seconds and then focused on my watch; fifteen minutes to go, then ten, and then five. After the professor gave us our assignments for the next class, we were officially dismissed. Slipping my textbook, notebook, and pen into my backpack, I buckled it up and had just exited the classroom when a finger tapped my right shoulder. I turned. It was her. I was drawn in by her mesmerizing, dark brown eyes. This time, there was no question. Her smile was for me. My initial impulse was to turn and run. Instead, I stood my ground and refused to cave in.

By doing so, Angelica became my girlfriend. Although things proceeded smoothly, my insecurities lurked in the shadows. I questioned whether I’m built for a long-term relationship. Although Angelica tells me she loves me, she pressures me to become more outgoing and self-confident. She doesn’t believe in a “comfort zone”. She asks me about my mother, father, and grandparents. What can I possibly tell her? That mother was a reclusive hoarder, my grandfather a narcissist, my grandmother passive/submissive, and my father a total bailout? 

I’m confused about how someone who makes me so happy can at the same time make me feel so miserable. She wants answers to her questions when I don’t have answers to my own. I stared into the bathroom mirror. The door was locked. Angelica stood outside, sounding frantic. Perspiration soaked my T-shirt. My heart pounded against my chest. My body immobilized. I watched as my skin becomes more and more translucent. Seeing black dots, I lost consciousness.

The door opens and nurse “Rachid” enters. A look of horror alters her face. She drops her tray and runs toward my bed. Too late! By the time she reaches me, I will be invisible.

 

Author's Note

What do you think of the pacing and the dialogue? Does the story work? Strengths/Weaknesses?

Reviews

[hvysmker]

You say, “What do you think of the pacing and the dialogue? Does the story work? Strengths/Weaknesses?”

Pacing? Not very good. It reads like a newspaper article, one set of facts after another. Try adding more dialog to show, rather than simply telling:
I buckled it up, stood and had just exited the classroom when I felt a finger tapping against my left shoulder. Startled, I immediately, turned around. The finger belonged to her. I was immediately drawn in by her mesmerizing, dark brown eyes. This time, there was no question. Her smile was meant for me. My initial impulse was to turn and run. By force of will, I refused to give in to that inclination. Instead, I stood my ground and faced up to my insecurities.
Try something like:
I buckled it up, stood and had just exited the classroom when I felt a finger tapping against my left shoulder.
“Wha--?” Spinning around, I gazed down and into those mesmerizing, dark brown eyes. There was no question, that blinding smile was meant for, for,fooor mmee. My first impulse was to run, hide, escape. Instead, feet rooted into the concrete floor was all that saved ne from falling, endlessly spinning, down into those all- encompassing orbs. Heart beating rapidly, sweat running down into my own eyes, I stood my ground, faceing up to my insecurities.

Pacing can be helped by altering between periods of short and long sentences. Maybe showing a few paragraphs of background in longer sentences, then switch to an action scene using short choppy sentences?

As I showed above – maybe too graphically – I think you need more emotion inserted between small data dumps. For example,in your closing scene: “I’m a mere heartbeat away from becoming invis--”

Although I do love the attention to detail, I think some of it can be taken out without compromising the plot.

Does the story work? I find it interesting.

Charlie - hvysmker