Forty-Five

Clara Addas






Boy! Am I a sight this morning. I would make a grieving widow jealous. ,
I'm in black Chuck Taylors, black skinny Jeans, black afro wig(which is so uncomfortable), black sunglasses and black coat. Black everything.
I walk towards the glass double doors. The grass on either side of me is grey with fog. Evidence of early morning. I walk fast, look once behind me and twice to the sides. I have to make sure I'm not being followed. The last thing I need are the police on my ass. That would just complicate things.
I just want to see her. Just once. To look into her eyes and possibly see the demons inside her. To hear her soothing voice. I've almost forgotten what she sounds like. To smell the scent of her. She always smelled like baked beans and fresh apples. I went too far, didn't I? With this whole sensory experience thing. I always do that. Not knowing when to stop. Always go too far. I shouldn't even be here.
Papa and Daniel don't come here but I always do. I can't just pretend like she's dead. Everyone else in my family can but I guess I'm not like them.
Two nurses in all white come out just as I walk in. They nod in greeting. I wave. My gaze to the floor. I can't risk the cameras in this place spotting me. The second I enter, I turn towards the front desk. Giving the first camera my back.
"Hey, Lulu," I say. Slip a two hundred bill under her hand.
She smiles. "You can go in. She's alone. They just gave her breakfast."
"Thanks." I pay Lulu-Barika so that there won't be any paper trail.
I pick up the entrance slip that has the word VISITOR sprawled in navy ink. I bury it in my pocket and shuffle towards the hallway.
My shoes squeak on the linoleum. Warm air blows from the floor vents. The morning cold melts around me the deeper I walk down the hall. Jacket is too hot now.
The hallways are deserted except for the man screaming. He's swearing at me. Chanting. Stupid bitch. Stupid bitch. Stupid bitch. Jerry. He cusses at everyone. Even the men are stupid bitches. No exceptions. No one pays him attention.
The rooms I walk past are closed, save, for what?, maybe two which are opened wide, the television whispering in the background. Someone in the second room is tied to the bed posts. Crying. Begging.
My heart swells. It takes me a moment to look away. His eyes are mesmerising in a odd way. He's about my age.
Three nurses making rounds, pushing carts full of medication see me. We smile and exchange pleasantries. I know they talk about me sometimes. Pity me. I pass. The whispering begins.
"Poor girl," one says. "Don't know how she manages to do this every week. Brave little thing."
"Did you see the news?"
"Mhm... Terrible thing about her father."
"No about her."
"What?"
"Apparently someone tried to kill her too. Poison."
"Oh? That's horrible."
"Poor thing."
"Who would want to hurt such a saint."
Their heads huddle closer against each other. They must've heard about Daniel being a suspect. I shake my head and turn the corner.
I'm here.
The door is closed but not locked. I knock just to be polite. When I enter there's a nurse feeding her. She can eat by herself but she refuses. Because there are no other means, she's trying to starve herself to death.
"How is she?" I ask. I sit in the chair by the window and place my purse on the floor.
"Better."
Better is just another code for: still as crazy as the last time you were here. My mother has been here for months on end. No change. She didn't run off with some young sexy thing in the middle of the night though sometimes I like to pretend that's the case. Certainly sounds much better than : My mother is in an asylum. What teenager wouldn't feel embarrassed by that?
I wait until the two men walk out and close the door behind us.
"Hello, Mother," I say.
She glares at me. "Clara, please, Just get me out of here. You know I'm not crazy."
My mother does this all the time. It's sad each time. I can relate. I know what it's like being stuck in a place you don't wish to be. I'll see what I can do about it now that Papa is gone. He had to bring her here. She was a danger to both the people around her and to herself.
"Mama, please." I get up.
Smile, Clara. Act optimistic.
It Hurts seeing her like this especially because I know what she was like. Before... Everything. The kind soul she was. "Look what I got you."
"Clara stop it." She gets up from the bed and walks towards me. "Stop talking to me like I'm crazy. I'm not crazy."
"Mama, please. Shh." I place a finger to her cold lips. They are wet with saliva. "You know that if you get worked up they'll pop you with pills. You don't want that, do you?"
"You put me here." Her eyes narrow. "I'm not supposed to be here. You are. You locked me up in here. How'd you do it, huh?"
Her words sting.
My mother is not herself. I have to understand.
"Papa brought you here so that you'd get better."
"You're a liar."
"Look at these," I say. Apples. She loves them. "I bought them now. Fresh. Take one."
I offer her the one in my hand. She slaps my palm with the back of her hand so hard that the Apple flies to my face. I duck. It goes out the window and into the garden out back. A group of patients standing there look up. Searching for the source. One let's out a string of profanities.
"I came here to tell you something," I say. I've long ago learned that if I want to keep the peace with Mama then I should avoid everything she does and most of the things she says.
The first time I came here, days after I'd learned that Papa made Mama write that note so that if anyone came snooping around, he'd have something to show them to get said person out of his business. Having a mentally unstable wife wasn't part of what Papa considered perfection. He wouldn't let people know that his wife saw red eyes staring at her. That she had an unfounded desire to off the president. That she often stares into the same spot for a long ridiculous amount of time. That she once wandered the streets in a daze. Luckily we found her long before the neighbours saw her. That she had a habit of crying when it came to bath time. That she once chased Daniel and me around the house with a knife. That was what propelled Papa to have her locked away. He was afraid for his children's lives. For his own. For his wife's.
But once he had her in here. He never bothered to come check on her. Not even once. Daniel too just pretends she left on her own freewill. It's easier, I find, to live in a constant state of fantasy than to actually think about it. Your crazy mother.
The first time I came here her doctor, Dr. Phillip Belle, said: "I'm afraid your mother is delusional and undoubtedly insane."
The doctor further explained how they had to confiscate everything, including all her other medication. Except for the birth control pills. Basic blood tests were done along with checking her blood pressure, that sort of thing.
The first weeks for her were brutal. They put her on some heavy medications. Though her side effects were monitored, the meds made her tired. She'd be so stoned that waking up became impossible and even when she was awake she'd sluggishly complain about dead eyelids.
But I was comforted by the fact that they have hot water — important, religion friendly menus — again important and each bedroom has a security guard on the outside (though I'm sure this is more to prevent suicides rather than to provide general protection).
Daniel and I usually make up these lame but sad stories. This is the best thing (totally makes sense to us) we could do to get through this.
"Maybe Papa killed her, Clara." Daniel usually says. Serious.
I normally nod. Pushing the facts so far back in my mind that I wouldn't even remember even if someone held a gun to my guts. "Yes. Maybe he hired an assassin."
"And then, fuck Clara, maybe the assassin fell in love with her and they both immigrated to the US." He'd even look surprised. Horrified.
With a slight shake of the head I normally say: "Oh no. No. Mama hated the U.S. thought its film and music industries cripple the South African industries."
"Okay then. France. She'd do some shopping—"
"But you know Mama preferred Italy. Perhaps she'll two time the assassin and get involved with a hot blooded Italian."