Clarity Page 6

Chapter 6

  Another Friday found me pulling into the dreary little parking lot over at Hillside. The summer fog hung cool and gray over most of the city, looming especially heavily out here. Ads in the paper and on TV touted swimsuits and cold beer at back yard barbecues, but the city felt more like some eerie dark mountaintop set of depressing movie.

  Nonetheless, I pasted a cheerful smile across my face and put a bounce in my step, hoping to bring something other than my own gloomy attitude to the nursing home. Here, at least, people would be glad to see me. Wouldn’t care about the fog outside because they rarely went outside. Wouldn’t try to duck away at the sight of me, as my co-workers had been doing, knowing they were behind on deadlines and holding up my work.

  I sighed again, eyes cast down as I signed in at reception. Work had been unpleasant this week. City officials, as they regularly did, had gone on an accountability tear, and we were suddenly scrambling to put together newly detailed reports on how we had allocated their funding. Needing to justify every expense and provide “measurements of success” and analyses of resulting numbers to prove the funds had been well spent.

  They even wanted little tweet sized success stories to post online. That had at least given us a laugh. Wally, at the white board, suggesting why stop there, why not Haiku? We’d jotted several lines down, ending with We Cured Cancer.

  It had been funny, at least a bit of levity amidst the stress. But probably not such a good story to share with my elderly friends here, I thought. Our and the world’s inability to better address chronic illness just hit too close to where they live.

  The nurses’ station was vacant in the residence hall. In theory someone was always supposed to be on hand; the central phone system rang there, as did the emergency call buttons. But they did get busy here, I understood that.

  One of the regular and more mobile ladies who liked to keep an eye on things out here caught my eye and murmured hello. “Teilah’s out sick today,” she said, her voice a concerned half whisper. “Two days it’s been. We hope it’s just a cold, just a precaution…” her voice trailed off.

  “They do have to be careful,” I agreed. They were real sticklers for sanitation and preventing infections here, one of the reasons I liked the place. And forgave other little lapses. I hoped things were okay with Teilah too. If she were to suddenly leave, things would falter badly here. Her mix of competence, quickness, and cheer were pretty unusual; they would be hard pressed to replace her.

  I headed down the overly bright hallway toward Mag’s room. I knew the few places she was likely to be if I didn’t find her there. Perky voices from TVs competed with a tired sounding litany of complaints from the woman across the hall from Mags, but her room was empty. Della’s too, when I peaked in, so I walked back to the recreation room.

  A chorus of loud voices rang from there as I approached. A little knot of private aides were gathered, whispering together in Tagalog, just outside the door, but one who knew me turned to say in English that I should go on in.

  It was the dog show, I realized. Every few weeks, one of facility’s administrators brought over her pugs, often joined by a friend who had two of her own. The dogs were frisky and sweet, and the women would set up funny little obstacle courses and relay races for the dogs. Afterwards they would make the rounds amongst the residents, accepting pats and treats. This event was hugely popular, with even cat people like Della enthusiastically joining in.

  The dogs were already gone, but I could see their course still on the floor. The residents were scattered around the room, sipping fruit punch and struggling with cookies, few of them really able to eat casually like this without someone lending a hand.

  I spotted Mags and Della, who were seated together across the room, looking as if they were at the horse races, awaiting the results of their betting. Mags had a cup in her good hand, which teetered as she gestured to me.

  Talking over each other, and competing with the other loud voices, they described the antics of the dogs. One had left the race course altogether and made a delightful show of leaping up at the refreshments table.

  It was impressive to see what a charge such a simple thing could give to the whole place. Ladies who otherwise might have been anxious or complaining had forgotten everything but the fun of the dog relays. We should bring them to work, I thought.

  The room was starting to clear out, in fact there was a traffic jam at the wide double doors that lead to the residence halls. I watched the aides and one of the regular nurses squeezing around each other and all the wheelchairs.

  “We may as well enjoy your visit in here,” Mags said, diverting her eyes from her fellow residents. (It bothered her sometimes even to witness other people who shared her degree of helplessness.) “I always enjoy the nice view of the garden.”

  “Such as it is,” Della added, presumably more aware of the outside weather.

  I helped them unbrake and then eased each chair toward the long window at the back of the room, angling them toward it and then pulling up a narrow folding chair beside Mags.

  It was nice to see her with her color up and eyes lively. Della’s good cheer was less visually apparent, but still, I was aware of it. Something in her facial expression, and the way she held herself up, even as she exuded her usual aura of serenity.

  We chatted for a bit. I asked how they were doing, prodding Mags a little without being pushy. Sometimes she would mention things to me, things deemed “not important enough” to mention to the nurses, things Liza might fly off the handle about. But also little issues I kept mental track of, that I could just quietly ask someone about if needed. Happily, Mags really was feeling okay.

  We ran through news headlines and a little gossip about the nurses (someone thought Teilah might be pregnant, but others said this was unlikely since she was divorced and had two teenagers). Mags tried to identify the flowers she could just barely make out in the little back garden, and I told them what was blooming in my neighborhood.

  “Remember my mom trying to garden?” I said, glad for an opening, a way to steer the conversation here. “Brown thumb,” I added to Della. “I don’t know if she forgot to water, or didn’t plant deep enough, but nothing more than these spindly little shoots would come up.”

  “It was much warmer there,” Mags said, referring to Pleasanton. “Toasty in the summer months.”

  “One would need a strategy that included shady spots and morning watering,” Della said.

  “I guess Mom was too busy for much of that,” I said, though I couldn’t picture now just what might have been taking up her time.

  “We did keep busy back then,” Mags agreed, that half smile still on her lips as her eyes cast toward me but focussed far away. “In those big houses. Things that seemed so important back then, that I can hardly recall now.”

  “They used to talk all the time,” I reminded Della. “Mags and my mom.”

  “Yes, well, we were raising you children, that certainly was a job in itself. And our husbands, their jobs, and all that unpaid work we used to do in those days, the PTA, the library…”

  “I used to wonder,” I said, as Mags faded out. “That’s not all you talked about, right? I mean it was more than superficial stuff, who’s making cookies for the bake sale and all that?”

  “Well, of course not. We delved into all manner of things that friends tell each other. Your mother was a quiet person, very introverted, of course you know that. But one should never confuse quiet with a lack of feeling or thoughts.” She smiled gently at me. “I know your mother wasn’t always, well, happy with her lot. But she cared so much about you and your father, you were the most important things to her.”

  I nodded. I did know that, though it was nice to hear the words spoken. But I also thought about how much I didn’t know, how much had gone unspoken. The things I had not told anyone about, and what secrets she might have kept. “I feel like there were so many thin
gs I didn’t think to ask,” I finally said softly. Raising my eyes to look at the pair of them, I felt bad for bringing down the cheery mood of the dog race day so firmly and quickly.

  “Clarissa, dear,” Mags said, reaching out a shaky hand to pat my own. “If your mother had lived, I’m sure you would be having those conversations. We all have some of those regrets, I’m sure.” She looked at Della, who nodded in confirmation. And I suppose there was something reassuring to each of them, as mothers, to hear someone else’s daughter express these feelings.

  “It was nice to have someone to confide in,” Mags added. “I don’t regret a one of those many conversations, and I’m sure your mother didn’t either.”

  I nodded. I tried to remember the last time I had really shared something deep and personal, with Doug, with my friend Joan, with anybody. Like being a little bit aware of reading Doug but purposely not doing it, I had over the years gotten pretty good at just swallowing away the sorts of anguish or joy that I once would have needed to share.

  My mom had done that, I was sure, she was so careful not to outwardly emote. Even after she met Mags, there was probably only so much she would tell her. But did she have the sorts of dreams I had? Had Dad accused her of meddling when she knew what he was thinking? Had she suspected anything unusual in either of us?

  Della, I realized, was watching me with the wise eyes. Inknowing or whatever she was doing – I was sure she understood, perhaps better than I did, the sorts of things I was wondering about. And why. After all, she was the one who had first heard me out about my dreams, my unusual perceptions, and encouraged me to pursue the thing. Not tune it out, as Doug had recommended, as I myself had been doing for so long.

  The same went for the things unspoken. I took a big swallow and decided to just plow forward. All those years my mother had kept things to herself, and for so long I had too, and for what? “I never told her this,” I said, “nor you Mags, or any of my women friends, but I had a miscarriage back when Sam was little. It was painful. I mean, not more than normal, the physical pain. But it hit me emotionally, more than I think I realized at the time. I didn’t want to get pregnant again after.”

  “You poor thing,” Mags exclaimed.

  Della shook her head sadly. She had had one too, but she hadn’t been many weeks pregnant. It hadn’t affected her in the same way. I stared at her face, which didn’t seem even to have moved, and tried to figure out how I had concluded that with such certainty. “You too?” I asked her.

  She nodded. “It was not so unusual then, I think? Or maybe that was just my sisters and me. Anyway I was not far along, and I ended up pregnant again not a year later. Not the same as your experience, I can see.”

  “Oh dear, I wish you had been able to talk about this with your mother,” Mags said.

  “Well, it was so close to when Dad died, it just seemed like too much to hit her with,” I began, talking too fast, feeling oddly defensive after all these years.

  “Yes, back when Sam was just a little thing, I do remember.” Mags held my gaze for a moment before turning away, her lip trembling.

  The silence sat between the three of us like an unwelcome guest, and I began to regret having said anything at all. They were just in here for a diversion, what was wrong with me.

  But Mags was still gazing at me, gentle and concerned. “I guess you didn’t know about your mother’s experience?” Mags asked.

  I shook my head, frowning.

  “It was before I knew any of you, well before you moved out here,” Mags said. “And it was years before she said anything, but somehow the subject came up. She had hoped to have a little boy too. She thought your father would especially like having a son. But they had some difficulty conceiving. And she miscarried almost three months after she finally got pregnant. I guess she was home alone. It sounded quite painful for her, poor thing.”

  A series of memories shot into my head. Their bedroom door closed as it almost never was during the middle of the day. The faint sound of her moaning, and later the sight of her hair, tousled and sweat soaked, over the monstrously false looking gleam of a smile. “I was there,” I said, the pieces tumbling together in my head. “She wasn’t alone, but there was no one to help her – I must have been four or just turned five.”

  “But you just said you didn’t know?”

  I turned helplessly to Della. “I didn’t know I knew, but when you said it… I do remember. It was the first time I felt another person’s pain like that. She didn’t tell me about it but I can tell you where it hurt.” I pointed to my own low belly. “I guess I figured she had a stomach ache or something. That she was embarrassed about being sick. But I had this overwhelming sense of her sadness too, it was very frightening.”

  Both woman kept watching me, eyes showing concern. “She never told Dad,” I said. “Or explained it to me, obviously. But now that I’m remembering it, I must have always known on some level. It was so disturbing that I put it out of my mind, I made myself forget.”

  “I wondered that she kept it from your father,” Mags said. “If she had an inkling something was wrong, to conceal a pregnancy from him. I suppose that’s another of those things that surely would have come up again if he hadn’t gotten ill so suddenly…”

  “That was my first, my first knowledge like that,” I said to Della. I gripped the edge of my cold metal chair for a moment, feeling unsteady even seated, as another flood of memories rushed in. The sensations that I had felt the morning of my miscarriage, and how familiar they were – in the back of my mind, hadn’t it struck me? How I recognized the sensation so completely when it should have been unfamiliar? I had pushed aside the sense of déjà vu, and just concentrated on getting through the experience. But now it seemed so clear – the physical and even emotional feelings had been the same as what I had felt out of nowhere as a child, all those years back and in another room in the house while my mother went through it.

  “It can be disturbing to remember these things,” Della said gently. “But I think it helps in the long run, not to block them out.”

  I felt so roiled up inside that I turned to her, incredulous. “How does this help?”

  “I think you already know,” she answered, her voice a bit more biting. “You’re at a point where you’ve gotten comfortable with yourself. Your life is easier, more routine. But there’s such a thing as too routine, isn’t there? Where you don’t look around to see anything beyond those high hedges you’ve built around your day to day patterns? Where they turn to ruts?”

  Mags stared between us, puzzled by this accusatory tone. But I understood that she was talking as much about herself as about me.

  I nodded. “I know you’re right. I mean, that’s why I brought it up at all. I’ve just been thinking about whether my mother had this, these sensations, these perceptions that I’ve had. Or if she did, whether she ever talked about it. It seems like maybe she did but she just never said? But I didn’t realize there was so much that I had also put out of my mind.” I felt I was babbling. Both women were waiting politely, hearing me out, but not really understanding. I was confused myself. To make matters worse, a hot flash swept up, radiating warmth from my torso outward. I could feel my face flush.

  Della gave an encouraging nod. “I’ve told you bits and pieces about my earlier life,” she said, addressing Mags. “Apparently Clarissa and I do have some common ground, as I think I mentioned some time ago now.”

  Mags gave a slow smile of comprehension. “Well, we did sometimes joke that your mother was a mind reader,” she said. “But I always figured that was mostly because I was such an open book.” More seriously, she added, “I’m afraid she never said anything directly about, oh, having visions or whatnot.”

  She wouldn’t have, I thought. She had always been more an observer than a participant.

  “I didn’t realize how strong the physical element was,” I told
Della, my voice pitched low but directed right at her so she could hear me.

  “I do believe that can be a strong aspect of inknowing,” she answered. “You know, back in the 60s, lots of people explored Eastern philosophies and all manner of things that opened or linked the mind and body and spirit. One’s very sensations aren’t necessarily one’s own.” Her face exuded calm now, or at least the half of it that showed expression; her left side was a blank slate.

  “You’ve experienced this too? Your mother’s pain?”

  “And my sister, more than once,” she said with a sigh. “I told you, dear, I once fainted in unison with my poor mother. But they’ve been gone for years now. It was all so long ago for me.”

  I felt my inner heat radiating up, mixing with my rapid heartbeat and the pulsing throbs that still echoed in my mid-region. It may have been long ago for her, but it was right now, right here for me.

  The Hillside manager, the one with the pugs (who were presumably leashed away somewhere), came hurrying into the room. She stopped to chat with each person left as she picked up the obstacles and dog toys off the floor. I took the opportunity to fan myself and put my social smile back on. The ladies complimented her profusely on her and her dogs’ talents.

  I turned to Della, meeting her eyes just long enough for reassurance. That she knew what was bothering me, the nature of these memories aside from the immediate discomfort of feeling overheated (hormones, I recalled her saying at one point). That she could explain it to Mags and make sure that neither felt insulted that I needed to leave, so early in our visit.

  But I couldn’t stay in this hot, loud, bright room any longer. That searing recollection of my mother’s pain had unleashed a dozen other visceral memories. Each from decades back, and each with a physical manifestation. I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment, and opened them, attempting to appear my normal self.

  Mags reached out to pat the arm of the pug woman. As she settled back, she winced for a moment, shrugging back both of her shoulders, and a jolt of pain stabbed through my upper back. Her pain, I thought, what else could it be. Apologizing, I said goodbye and hurried from the room.

  I got in my car and just sat there for several minutes. Partly taking slow deep breaths and telling myself I was fine, these were just thoughts of pain not actual physical sensations. Although apparently my brain registered little difference from one to the other.

  And partly I fought against my natural and obvious impulse to shove the whole thing away out of my head and forget about any of it. Della had talked about routines becoming ruts – and that was the safe, mind-numbing alternative. I knew that already. From our first conversation about Yvette’s death, about the dream voice, I recognized that I was choosing to go a different direction than my standard flat out denial.

  I sat forward, shrugging out my shoulders as Mags had. Her pain was gone – gone from me, I mean – as were the throbbing cramps from my abdomen. The heat was gone too, and I reached over for my sweater, dabbing my forehead with my sleeve. What I needed was a way to achieve this balance between utter sensation and blocking it all out completely.

  It occurred to me that Kylie would understand this as well as anyone. She would still be at work, and we really didn’t know each other, nor did I know what was socially appropriate for someone like her (I should text her or go through social media?). But instead I just followed my impulse and found her number on my phone.

  She took my call herself; she had one of those jobs where she needed to be perky and available at all times. I didn’t even need to stumble through an explanation of why I wanted to talk to her, she got it from my voice and urged me to come straight downtown. She would leave early and meet me at Yerba Buena Gardens, close to her office.

  As fleeting a plan and destination as this was, it got me back towards even keel. I made my way downtown, purposefully focussing outward. Not repressing memories, just not inviting them in, rather watching the people around me, reading the funny little ads in the stations, eavesdropping on bits of conversation.

  I glanced at my reflection in the darkened streetcar window between stations and saw that I wore that studied neutral expression I had developed years and years ago. The I’m cool, I’m normal, I don’t give a crap face that I showed to the world back when I thought I was such a freak. (But why did you think that, I asked myself. A, every teenager does. But B, no, other kids never seemed to be fighting off quite so many bizarre feelings and impulses. I had taught myself to blank out on the exterior, and it had worked. The interior had gone blank too.)

  Kylie was easily recognizable as I entered the small park. She signaled from across the sloping expanse of grass. She waved off my profuse thanks as we walked upstairs to a secluded bench that overlooked the fountain and park below.

  “You’ve had a breakthrough,” she began, then clamped a hand over her mouth. Eyes bright, she exclaimed, “But I’m not going to do this. Please, you tell it to me, I won’t guess.”

  “Okay,” I said, laughing too, that “breakthrough” was how she would phrase it. “But why are you so happy? You’re not ‘feeling my pain?’”

  She sobered immediately, and reached out a hand gently pat my arm. (Like Mags, I thought, momentarily amused and distracted.) “I could hear how upset you were when you called. But I’m picking up something more now seeing you – maybe you’re not aware of it even. It feels, I don’t know, like you’re moving to the other side of things that have been blocking you.”

  I considered that. Like looking into a long tunnel that began with the sudden rush of memories this afternoon, maybe there was brilliant light way off in the distance. That very instant, feeling physically neutral and sitting comfortably, bathed in sunlight and watching tourists wandering and children playing below, all kinds of things seemed possible.

  I wondered, as I related my sudden recollections and realization from the afternoon, if she would pick up on any of the sensations. Where did it stop, would she be bothered by the mere description of someone else’s pain?

  But I felt okay. Interested, but detached, just describing the incidents, not reliving them.

  Kylie followed, eyes wide and empathetic. “That’s amazing,” she said, when I told about my mother’s outward denial of losing her baby. “It’s like she taught you that repressing things is the way to handle a problem. No wonder you made yourself forget.”

  “You think I did that myself, on purpose?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  We stared at each other, then turned away, both laughing. I had no conscious memory of doing so – but I imagine we were both recalling our lunch with Daniel, how she had admitted to blocking away her troubling dreams. Not thinking that such a thing might be challenging for most people. Or that one might be pretty much unaware of doing it.

  “By the way,” she added, “I started a dream journal. I know it sounds dumb, but for me it’s a way to let those thoughts back in. It’s been interesting, but nothing spooky so far.”

  “Maybe I should jot some of this stuff down,” I said. “I need to find some way to be open to what I’m drawing in from other people, without it overwhelming me.” I tried to describe how I had felt at Hillside, the urgent need to escape to be alone, the panicky out of control run of emotion and sensation that seemed to be swamping me as though I was fighting the ocean tide.

  “I totally know what you mean about feeling overwhelmed, needing to escape,” she said. “The best I’ve been able to do is just postpone it well. Promise myself to stay wherever I am a little longer then reward myself with quiet time.”

  “Maybe I could learn that. Assuming I keep, whatever, letting this stuff in.”

  “It’s hard to find a balance,” Kylie said, her voice low and serious. “I’ve definitely thought about seeking medication or hypnosis or doing something more to help me block things out sometimes. I mean, just to make flying easier, for instance. But I don’t think it woul
d work to just deny the whole thing.”

  “Well, apparently that’s what I’ve been doing. For so long it feels normal.” And sometimes it was nice to feel normal, I thought. Before it turned into half sleepwalking maybe.

  “Yeah, normal. Did you know I grew up in the mid-west? Part of what I love about San Francisco is that you don’t have to be the same as everyone else.” She waved her hand forward at the variety of people wandering below us.

  I nodded. I had heard lots of people who didn’t grow up around here express this. “I think I’m over the idea of needing to blend in. Although it was certainly an issue when I was younger. A motivation to block certain things out, I suppose. But I guess I’ve already decided I’m ready to, I don’t know, develop whatever these innate skills are.” I watched her react, appreciating that sponge-like expression of utter absorption she wore. “I just didn’t realize how much sensation I would suddenly be internalizing. What I would recall that I had set aside or forgotten.”

  “You figured I would get it. Because I’m internalizing other people’s stuff all the time.” She dropped her eyes for a moment. “Too bad I don’t have good advice for handling it. That’s always been a problem for me.”

  “But it’s nice to talk to someone who understands.”

  Kylie nodded, but her eyes were focussed behind me, distracted. I glanced back and we both watched a young mom or nanny pushing a tricked out stroller. The woman wore a head set and was texting on her phone and sipping coffee. She was frowning as she walked, barely watching where she wheeled the stroller; other people walking had to dodge around it. In it, the small child sat, face in a pout, hands waving aimlessly.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said, turning her attention back. “Talking seems to help, right? I’d like to hear about how you proceed.” She paused, head tilted. “Are you okay? You look a little flushed.”

  I felt my cheeks redden that she had noticed. But – hadn’t we just said denial was stupid? “Hormones,” I said. “Hot flash,” I added, to clarify. She was young to make the connection, I realized.

  “Oh my God, I think I used to pick up on them from my mother.” She touched her hands to her cheeks and forehead briefly. “I kind of remember the sensation. She got moody too. More so than usual.”

  I gave a little laugh of acknowledgement. “It’s a challenge if you’re not used to being moody,” I said. I wondered if she had probed her mother’s behavior and abilities, as I’d been doing.

  Kylie turned slightly away, monitoring the progress of the multi-tasking woman, who was now tapping furiously into her phone and ignoring the child, who whimpered and strained to get out of the stroller. “People are so distracted now,” she said. “I mean, sometimes I think I’m weird and everything, but sometimes I think maybe everyone should pay better attention. Look and listen instead of constantly texting.”

  “Hunching over, walking into things,” I added. “Doing five things at once, but badly.”

  “Totally. I mean, what’s that little kid going to pick up about where he rates in mom’s priorities?”

  An image of my mother came in my head, from my earliest memories. How intently she would watch me while I was playing. What had she been perceiving? What did I learn from becoming aware of her attention?

  “I’m not like my mother in the, um, psychic department,” Kylie said, attuned to my train of thought, I supposed. “I do think there’s a genetic component, and it’s from my dad’s side. Supposedly his two aunts were what they called eccentric.”

  I told her a little more about my mom, about what I was remembering, what abilities she may have quietly had. And she responded in kind, listening, comparing notes with her memories of her father’s aunts, childhood stories about them.

  The pace of people around us was shifting, I realized. Tourists disappearing, replaced by hurried office workers cutting through the park. I had lost track of time – it seems like I had just dashed out the front doors at Hillside, but here it was after five.

  “I should get back to my office for a little bit,” Kylie said quietly, when I mentioned the time. “But you’re okay now?”

  I assured her I was, and she told me honestly that she had enjoyed taking this break. She tried to avoid rush hour anyway.

  We set off down the gracefully curved walkway, separating at the bottom. I promised to call her in a day or two to let her know how I was doing. Or sooner, if anything came up. She turned back toward Third Street, head ducked down and the breeze lifting her hair, looking delicate amongst the people hurrying toward her.

  And I – firmly putting aside any issues about crowds that might decide to bubble up – made my way down to the Muni station to catch the streetcar home. I could use this opportunity to practice, I told myself, to pay attention, to be aware of people around me without being overwhelmed.