I heard her. I heard her talking all lovey-dovey to them after she didn’t answer the phone, something that’s happening way too often lately, if you ask me. She makes excuses when I mention it, says, “Oh, I must have been asleep” or “I was visiting Nicole next door,” or something like that. But this time I knew she was at home — and awake. I’d just ferried her back from a pedicure, seen her grab the railing and inch up her front stairs, wisps of gray sticking out from her black beret. So, I was worried when I called to ask what she wanted for dinner. I thought she might have gone out back and fallen off the ladder she’s always climbing, against doctor’s orders, mind you, nobody to spot her: my long-reluctant, lovely mother.
I ran over, cell phone in hand, ready to call 911; then I found her talking baby talk to that pack of raccoons, those dirty varmints. They’ve taken up residence outside her kitchen window, in her avocado tree, perched two or three to a branch, those raccoons. And now I know it’s true. She talks to them rather than answer the phone. Nicole said so, said she leans her face in close to their masked eyes and sharp claws, too close. Every evening she babbles to them on and on. Tells them secrets.
I want to kill them, kill them all. Kill them so my mother will answer my calls, those vile, probably rabid creatures. Kill them all. They’ve stolen her mind; they’re responsible. Before they took over that tree, before the invasion, at least I had hopes she’d smile at me, say my name, ask how my day went when I walk through her door. Hopes.
I need an accomplice, someone to distract her while I do the deed. But who? The little boy who lives up the street? She offers him candy every morning when he delivers the paper. It’s the same fun-sized Butterfinger bar leftover from last Halloween. Day after day, the same piece of candy in her hand; the same no thank you ma’am coming from him. Has he told his mom about her?
It’s only a matter of time before someone insists she be sent away; I can’t watch her every minute, even though I live on the block and spend as much time with her as I can. That nosy graduate student who drops by every week with a jar of homemade pesto might set the ball rolling, maybe, or the mailman who’s always pestering her to trim her rosebush hedge, even though I do it myself twice a year. Or her doctor could any day just say it’s time; let her go, let her go.
Oh, let’s face it. I can’t kill even one raccoon, let alone a tree full of them. Animal control will have to cart them away in cages. She should make the call; it’s her property. But she’ll never do it. My dear, distracted, demented mother, Mom, Mommy, Ma, the Old Lady, and her new family or whatever you want to call them, those raccoons. She loves them. She loves them. She’s even named them, each and every one. She thinks she can tell them apart.
And the thing is tomorrow or the next day or next month when her signals sputter and cross, when she forgets, when she can’t tell which one is which, when she mixes up their names, even calls one of them her own name, or when she thinks she’s seeing them for the first time, when she does all that, their feelings won’t be hurt. They’ll carry on with their raccoon ways, eating, climbing up and down the branches, looking like they know something I don’t, like it’s all a big joke anyway.
Names. What do names mean to them? They only mean something to me, the one she swaddled but never embraced. The one who makes sure the bills are paid, the floor is mopped. The one who cuts her roast beef sandwiches into half-inch squares and forks them one by one into her mouth as she watches “Judge Judy” repeats on TV. The one whose name wobbles at the back of her tongue, all too soon to slide down her throat, never to be spoken again.
Laura McHale Holland is a writer, editor and storyteller living in Sonoma County, Calif. Her memoir, Reversible Skirt, is under contract with RockWay Press, a small publisher that isn’t putting out any books in 2009 due to the recession. Here’s hoping things pick up in 2010.
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20 Responses to “INVASION • by Laura McHale Holland”
Comments
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November 18th, 2009 at 7:03 am
Not much story here, yet another “slice of life” piece. Nice writing, descriptive, but it doesn’t seem to go anywhere. Migth be nice as part of something longer.
November 18th, 2009 at 7:23 am
This one was interesting. I got the feeling the MC was just about as crazy as the mother was demented (as in suffering from dementia, not Lex-Luthor-diabolical-demented). The buildup had me expecting the MC to do something unhinged, showing the mother as being the “normal” one. Instead, the MC sort of talks him/herself (I’m guessing herself) down by the end of the story and it becomes a sad commentary about the pain of dealing with a family member who is suffering from Alzheimer’s or some other mind-debilitating affliction.
Well, I can say I didn’t see that coming.
–John
November 18th, 2009 at 7:45 am
I loved this! I thought you perfectly captured the way dementia impacts the family of those suffering. The narrator’s tendency to repeat words, the paranoid tone, the helplessness all reflect the dementia the mother is supposed to be experiencing. Wonderful work!
November 18th, 2009 at 7:55 am
I really like this piece, but I do wish it were a longer story (which I know wouldn’t work here as this is a short short venue) but I think it would work with more story to it – flesh it out to a climax, the one hinted at…
Nice work!
November 18th, 2009 at 8:20 am
When a writer can make me feel empathy for a fictional character without plot development, conflicts and resolutions, protagonist and antagonist, that’s the craft of writing at its best, in my opinion.
A small slice of life with dark humor, truth, melancholy, regret and impending loss…I loved it. Thank you, Laura!
November 18th, 2009 at 9:11 am
It’s interesting to see how the narrator is so jealous of the raccoons. It seems so sad that even at the end of life the mother is still detached and the daughter still can’t come to terms with it.
November 18th, 2009 at 9:22 am
In general, I liked the story. It was an emotional character piece that I bought right into. Maybe it has something to do with my own experience with my mother when she was in early Alzheimers. My brother had to go over there and get a possum out of her kitchen. She was feeding it like a cat.
Nicely done!
November 18th, 2009 at 9:38 am
My Pa was the first experience I had with Alzheimers. Heloked so normal, but hehad lost all memory of any of his granddaughters. That hurt and at the time, I did not understand.
Sad story! But well written.
November 18th, 2009 at 11:01 am
A little to long for a simple story of jealousy and hate.
Well written , but to long in my humble opinion
November 18th, 2009 at 11:03 am
What a lovely piece! Beautifully written, and a unique approach to the pain and loss that a parent’s dementia inflicts on the children. The raccoons work perfectly as a metaphor for the invasive power of dementia and the strange inner life it creates in its victims, and for which no cure can be found.
November 18th, 2009 at 11:12 am
Thanks for these insightful comments. It’s an honor to be part of this process. You’ve given me much to consider, both in the ways the story moved some of you and for others in the ways it fell a little short. I hope to receive more feedback as the day goes on.
November 18th, 2009 at 11:19 am
Nice painting. I like the writing and the emotion. I found I liked it best when I stopped just before the last paragraph. You said everything you needed to say right there. Just my viewpoint though.
November 18th, 2009 at 12:15 pm
Hello, Laura. There were elements to this slice-of-life tale I really liked, espicially the interior monlogue aspect to the story. However, have to agree with Vondrakker that some pruning is needed to get the most out of this piece.
Thanks for the write.
November 18th, 2009 at 2:31 pm
I really liked this peice as well. I think the daughter’s pretty vitter and a little crazy too. How does she know her mother *can’t* tell the raccons apart. I liked how you described the facthat the raccons will never get angry with her, unlike the daughter who can’t seem to to stop being angry no matter what she does.
November 18th, 2009 at 3:08 pm
I think this kind of story works well with minimal plot because it creates the sense of a lack of resolution that illustrates the daily repetition of sorrow and frustration for someone caring for a parent with dementia. Well done.
November 18th, 2009 at 4:17 pm
Poignant, palpable and thought provoking. I especially liked that the raccoons could take the old woman as she was while the overwhelmed, under-appreciated, frustrated daughter could not. Jealous of raccoons. Not so far fetched after all, when dealing with unresponsive loved ones. Good job!
November 19th, 2009 at 10:03 am
A nice character sketch, as much of the narrator as the mother.
Nicely written for the most part, although I had to read the first paragraph more than once. Not much story, though.
November 19th, 2009 at 6:36 pm
Invasion captures the continuous emotional loop of dealing with dementia: Fear, anger, distraction, loss, repeat. Good job, Laura!
November 20th, 2009 at 8:07 am
I couldn’t decide whether the mother was really the one with mental problems or if it was the narrator, which made the story interesting.
November 20th, 2009 at 1:03 pm
I just loved your story. The heroine’s anger and frustration is controlled in such a lovely, clever way. Was really a hoot about the raccoons. I’m an animal lover and wasn’t the least bit put off by the dark humor.