FORTY-six

"Ew. I can't believe you just painted an image of my mother having sex in my head. Ew."
We'd laugh it off. Of course, the facts remained. No mattered how ignorant we pretended to be. Mama is in an asylum. Nothing we dreamed up could ever change that. She normally sees her psychiatrist twice a day an hour in the morning, half an hour in the evenings. They even introduced her to a group therapy and art therapy. While we're on this topic (art). I Wonder what Mama does in there. Her drawing expertise are limited to lines. Straight lines. Curly lines. Somehow her bananas always manage to look like a penis with ears and dear lord! her circles. I swear every time she attempts one, they manage to be uneven boobs.
Now that I'm standing in front of her. She's throwing things around. She's different. Of course her lips are still fat. Her eyes still evil. Unusually Red. Her butt still big. It must be her whole body. She's slimmer. Her hair gathers at her shoulders in clumps. And not in a good way. I need to take her out of here. She's lost some weight. It doesn't look good.
"Does your father know where I am?" She asks. "He thinks I left him doesn't he?"
I swallow. How do I tell her this. "He was murdered. A month and a half ago."
"Zayed's dead?" A whisper. No life in her eyes. Vacant emotion in her voice. My eyes lower to the green pyjamas she's wearing. They look comfortable and quite honestly, ugly. Brown monkey faces are printed all over them with pink and white roses.
This is not the Mama I know. My mother would be crying. Lashing out. But this woman is just staring at me. Her gaze falls at me with disbelief. Horror. The tips of her fingers are chipped and swollen. I can think of one possible cause: she's been trying to claw her way out of here. My heart breaks. She's been busy since I last saw her, but then, so have I.
"Why did you kill him?" She says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. Not why I killed him. But the assumption that I killed him.
I ignore this.
"He was murdered, yes. And the police are working hard to bring his killer to Justice."
Mama laughs. Loud. And unapologetic.
"They're wasting their time. You know that." She stops to smile. "You're very good Clara. Have everyone fooled. You know they'll never catch you. You always get away with it. When I found out you killed Wendy, I wanted to call the cops. But you are always one step ahead. You... You found out somehow. And then had me thrown in here. Who would believe me now? You'd tell them it's all up in my head."
I march to where she's sitting and grab her shoulders tight. "Look, I know you're cra— going through a difficult time but you and I both know it was Daniel and his friend Skylar. He came home dripping in her blood. You and dad knew he'd done something bad. You checked his diary. You found out. You made sure nothing led back to him. This is the last time you speak of this. Daniel would hate you if you landed him in jail. He wouldn't survive in jail. He's taking pills for it. Pills that help."
"Daniel and my husband already hate me. You primed them."
"Mama, please listen. I love you, okay?"
She nods.
"It's all up in your head. I'll do my best to get you out of here. Okay?"
Again she nods.
"But I need you to promise me you'll behave. That you won't rat out Daniel."
"You want me to believe that I'm crazy when I know you're behind all this? That stupid nurse, Zola, he's in your pay role. He's giving me PCP. You know how horrible the hallucinations are? Its a nightmare."
"Mama, please. They'll up your dosage. Nobody is drugging you. Papa made sure you'd be comfortable here."
"Comfortable. I'm suddenly suicidal. It's because of that drug. You're cruel, Clara. I regret having you. If I could go back I'd abort. Even if it means Daniel goes along with you."
"Mama, you know that you illegally adopted him. You had only one child. Me. My brother Amos died at three days old."
Like a child, she presses her hands to her ears. Rocking back and forth. "You're lying. You're lying."
Hugging her, I run my hands up and down her back. "Shh. I'm here. Relax. Shh."
"Why do you hate me so much?" Mama says, loud and rough, making me shudder.
"I could never hate you mother."
"You do. You're just a kid and yet you're so evil. The devil has nothing on you."
A wave of despair floods me. And I close my eyes as I try to work out the basic details. How did we get here? How did our lives become so messed up? What happened?
For a moment, I still and even out my breathing. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
After a while I accept that there's just no way I can ever come up with the answers I seek. The answers my mother desperately needs.
An enormous pain envelops my heart and I bury my face in her neck. I haven't held my mother like this in a while. She always manages to take away my pain. In her arms, I feel safest. Tightening my arms around her makes her whimper. Must be too tight. But I can't let go. I belong here. Right here in the comfort of her arms.
"You're trying to push me away. Don't do that," I beg. "You've alienated everyone else. Please don't shut me out."
She rips herself away from me, surveying me for a moment, her eyes linger on my face, before turning to point at the door. Mama's lost it.
"You're sick," she shouts. "Get out. Get out."
The flat screen TV screen attached by an invisible strand to the wall is turned on to a show I'll never watch : How to get away with murder. My mind strays to it for a second. How Daniel got away with murder.
I step towards her warily. "Mama. I'll find a way to get you out of here." I don't know why I keep saying that when everybody knows an asylum is like a Zoo. It's quite easy to get in but vertically impossible to get out.
I'm not worried about Mama facing possible brutality or even any form of abuse here. My father may have got rid of his wife the first chance he got (and now we all know why) but I think behind all that coldness and aloofness there was still that boy who fell in love with Mama. He made sure she was in the best place money could buy. Surrounded by renowned doctors, psychiatrists and nurses. He was going for comfort. And he found it. At least, as comfortable as being in a place like this can be.
"Are you going to tell them to give me more PCP?"
I fight off the edge to snap at her. I set my jaw, trying to will myself to be strong. Not to allow the tears prickling my eyes to fall.
"I've never told anyone that."
"I'm fine now. I'm always fine when you come to see me. You know I could hurt you if you come here while I'm under the effects of PCP."
My teeth grind together, testing the words before I spit them out. "Mama, if you insist on talking crazy then they'll give you more " happy" pills. I'm gonna go now."
She just shrugs: who cares? "Don't come back."
Ouch. I swallow the lump that'll make me cry. "I'll see you next weekend," I say, my voice breaks. I take out a fruit basket, soap (apple scented) and some fried chicken. "Hide these. You know they'll take them away." I take a bite, to show her that it's not laced with poison. She always thinks the worst.