Fractured - Vintage Short Fiction 2008

thought I'd bring this back for a bit....

“Make sure you take care of the old lady in 310. She was seriously off her nut yesterday.”

 

“Miss Boehm? She’s a sweetie.”

 

“Sure, you didn’t see her up on her bed, swinging Mrs Larson’s cane around and shouting ‘En garde. You steala my meatballa!’”

 

“No way.”

 

“Way, and she had her shawl wrapped around her like a cloak. I guess she thought she was a Musketeer.”

 

“Well that’s better than old lady Larson. That old hag bit me yesterday. If she does it again I'm gonna hide her damn dentures.”

 

"Be nice. She's clueless, remember. Just smile and give her her meds, and put ice on your arm. How much longer could she possibly have?"

 

"Enough to take out a chunk of flesh."

 

They’re talking about me again. Every morning I wake up and I find myself in this strange place with white walls and white tile floors. It smells like rubbing alcohol and death. And the old woman across the room snores and drools, crying out and moaning in her sleep.

 

“Mrs. Boehm. Rise and shine. You’re going to have some company today.”

 

“Is Buffi here?”

 

“No honey. Your kids are coming. Eric and Fred. Now how do you want me to fix your hair?”

 

“Can I wear it in a pony tail again?”

 

“Sure. Red or blue bow?”

 

“Blue.”

 

I don’t have any kids. I don’t know what she is talking about. I just want to go home. Everyone here is old and crusty and crazy. Its wearing off on me. I look in the mirror and there’s this old troll looking back at me, all wrinkly like a white raisin. I don’t know who she is but she scares me. This woman who combs my hair, at least she doesn’t pull it like mom used to. I don’t know why my mom put me in here. She never loved me but I never thought she’d give me up.

 

“Ok, there, now aren’t you pretty?”

 

“Thank you.” I don’t know who they think they’re fooling. My hair is reddish brown, not this stringy white stuff with the bald spot in the back. Maybe they dye it when I’m sleeping.

 

“So are you excited about Fred and Eric coming?”

 

“Yes, I am.” I’ve learned to answer them with yes and no or they give me pills that make me sleep. Maybe I’m sleeping now and this is just a dream. I wish I could wake up. I just want to see my boys again. Fred will be a senior next year. I don’t know who the big bearded guy with the holes in his ears is that comes to see me but my Fred is only 16 and Eric is 12. God I miss my boys and David. I miss David so much. I wish he’d come see me but they just smile and pat my arm and tell me he’s in a better place. How could he leave me here with Mrs. Larson who smells like fish and pee?

 

“Hey, mom. How are you?”

 

“I’m fine. Have you met Mrs. Larson? She snores a lot.”

 

“Yes, I brought you something from Buffi. It’s a picture of her great grandkids.”

 

“Buffi?” There’s my BEST friend. I don’t know who the old woman is but that little girl with the green eyes in her lap, that’s Buffi. Tomorrow we’re going to climb the tree in the back yard and look for Cardinal Richeleau and stab him in the heart.“Thank you, young man. And who is this fine looking man with you?”

 

“This is Eric.”

 

“Eric, oh yes. I remember. Are you drawing?”

 

“Mom. I have my own graphic design company? Both of my boys, they work for me in production and technology research? Do you remember?”

 

“Why, yes. Eric. Eric. I love you. I always knew you’d be so successful.”

 

“I love you too, Mom.”

 

I know this boy. I do. My Eric. But why does he look older than me?

 

“I think she actually remembers you, Rico.”

 

“Well of course, Fred. I’m the favorite.”

 

I don’t know why Eric is crying. He never trusted me. I love him so much. I have another boy. What’s his name again? Where the hell am I anyway. Wait. I have to find my sword.

- The above story was inspired by my own Grandmother's battle with the monster that is Alzheimer's....peace.

TL Boehm

©2008

Author's Note

I don't write much short fiction but when I do I write like this. or maybe I don't. I waste a lot of time writing poetry (along with half the planet and 85% of the cafe patrons) because I have a voracious IVM to feed (internet validation monster) but story telling is my love....

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Very good. A bit of humor helps dull the edge of this woeful predicament so many have and will find themselves in. At 65, I notice a marked deterioration in my own mind, and let me tell you--it's frustrating and scary. I never imagined my own thoughts would betray me, but they're starting to. The thought of full-blown dementia is just unacceptable. How sad about your grandmother. I saw it happen to my father, also. I guess this is what happens if we live long enough.

[TL Boehm]

It is scary. I'm only 48 and some days - I wonder...I blame stress. On the other side, I had two great grandparents live into the late 90's - both incredibly sharp...so perhaps one can dodge the bullet.

[Lyn Anderson]

I love this. It is beautiful, and sad, and unfortunately, very real.

[B.J]

I did enjoy reading your Grand mothers story. I hope one day I will dodge the bullet also. So many I know that have had Alzheimer's.

[therisa]

Tammy, this story hits very close to home, for me. As I have watched a friend deteriorate, after a severe stroke on Valentine's Day. The stroke left her, with vascular dementia, turning a very strong independant woman, into a child. Sadly, her daughter had to move her, to a full care nursing home, to give her, the proper care, she needs.

[TL Boehm]

I almost consider this one a horror story of sorts, Therisa. I lost my grandma to this disease, and I know my great grandma suffered with it. I see it in my mom already and she is only 67. It may be my future.

[therisa]

Oh Tammy, maybe you'll be the generation, which is skipped. Or advances in research, will offer a solution that delays the onset, for many years to come.

[Delmar Cooper]

I had already seen the other two stories and they are good, but of the three I prefer this one. It has an eerie realism that is difficult to create, you should be proud of this story. If elements of the story are fact that is irrelevant to the creativity that exists here.

The story reminds me of "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. If you haven't read it I suggest you do.

[TL Boehm]

Thank you so much.

[Jack V.]

I want to read more of your stories!! I love this. Kept me watchful. More please :D

[TL Boehm]

Thank you. I have a few more I may bring over to the cafe this next week.

[Jack V.]

Looking forward to it!

[R J Askew]

Gulp. The thought of being in this state of creeping decline is horrifying, esp as it is now more commonplace as many of us live longer. The notion of knowing that it is happening to us must be awful. Once the illness takes its course I imagine that this lessense with capacity.

The notion of Alzheimers for anyone with a creative mind is acutely painful.

Your short captures the case perfectly, esp the way the mind traps people in different ages to their actual age.

[TL Boehm]

SO nice to see you Orlando - hows the book selling? Thank you for the kind review. Yes, it is horrible

[R J Askew]

116 .. am planning a flanking move via Atlanta, Georgia

[Keith]

Brilliant write, extremely moving. Well told with both the patient & carers viewpoint.

Topical for me now, as my step mother is moving into care and my Dad (91) moving in with me for a while.

[TL Boehm]

thank you, Keith. thank you.

[redflutterby]

This touched me greatly. My best friends mother passed away last year from Alzheimer's and I participate in the walk to end it. I'm also an elder care companion. I've seen what this disease does first hand. Thank you for sharing this heart wrenching story. ;-)

[TL Boehm]

thank you. the emotional impact is wrenching for family and friends to watch someone get taken bit by bit but my understanding is that it takes out the body too, little by little. the command centers just disengage.

[redflutterby]

Yes that's exactly what happens eventually. The brain can no longer tell the body how to function. Also falls from disorientation are a main cause of death.

[Ken Simm.]

I know of this. I have met this before and you have written an incredible story of its horror. Full of pathos and detail. It is horrible to be alive and not know that you have lived.

[TL Boehm]

Yes it is. It runs in my family. Which doesn't mean it is my future, but it is why I write so much now (part of the reason) and why I also work on genealogy. If this is my future - my memories will already be on paper so if I lose them - someone else will still have them.