Author's Note: I wrote this for a class of mine in 2012. It was a nonfiction creative writing class. I never really did much nonfiction writing, except for on my livejournal (so embarrassing). I'd always thought I was great at capturing imaginary places until I realized what I needed to do was appreciate my own. Stop escaping.
So, this is an essay, not really a short story, about my mother and me and our favorite place--Valley View Mall. It might make you understand my fascination with that place a bit more.
And where my heart is at right now.
This post is unedited and unaltered, originally the essay I submitted to my professor.
“Can we go home? It's depressing here.”
This was our place. Valley View, so pleasant sounding with a twinge of reminiscence. Our mall, our place, one of many, where we spent much time daydreaming, comparison shopping, and general quality time, if that's what it could be boiled down to.
My mom's short, walking frame caught up with my larger one as we passed JC Penney. We were holding hands, like we often do and always have. Her hands are no longer youthful, but they feel frail and delicate under my own that are larger, much like my father's. Even though it was summer, she is often a bit chilled. Wearing a pilled navy-blue yarn sweater, her infamous tan shirt and jeans, perhaps an old pair of mine, and her dirty walking shoes, she looked at me and said, “It just isn't the same. It's not fun anymore.”
In the past, we lived for days like that. Our of adventure and discovery; finding something exciting not so close to home but never far away. We would often find ourselves at this mall, though. My mother had always had a hidden desire for finer things, as I discovered from our many trips to Dillard's and Foley's; the red stickers from a White Sale were all we needed to have something a little bit nicer at home. Discounted jewelry from Christmastime, or some Dockers that were the last pair in Dad's size, it was all there.
As we would discover treasures buried within the bowels of department stores, we learned a lot about each other. Her secret obsession with some off-label dress company still hangs in her closet to this day; sparkly, beautiful, almost to the point of ridiculous, these dresses make her happy. We discussed much during our scouring sessions, lost among the racks of not-hardly-designer clothes for hours, or while munching ice cream under the shadowy, towering topiaries of giraffes near the food court.
I only can recall bits and pieces of information, dangling somewhere between memories of rose pink carpeting, neon lights, and a parking garage. Never were our conversations very memorable—a “do you like this shirt?” from me and a “what do you want to be when you grow up?” from her. Though this was the case for our mall talk, it was not always this way for every conversation. Sitting in the front seat of our '88 Mercury wagon, seeing my mother's profile and wondering if I'd fit the same, asking her questions about what songs meant and what was she like when she was my age. I would put myself in her shoes in the story; her life so much grander than mine, in a time so much more fascinating.
One of my favorite stories was the one about her name. Fay. She never really liked it, and to this day refuses to accept that it becomes her. Fairy-like, she would groan, as if the mere thought of her being mythical or magical was too much to bear.
“You know who I was named after?” she asked me, her sly, crooked teeth and smooth, pale skin collaborated to give me a smile full of embarrassment and humor.
“The nurse. The nurse who delivered me. My parents didn't really care, I guess, about my name. My daddy said he liked the sound of it, and there you go. I'm Fay Louise.”
In the ignorance of my youth, I never thought my mother would be in the list of my best friends. Looking back now, through the perfect twenty-twenty of hindsight, this is gospel truth. Not only then, when she would take me by the hand, but especially now, when I must be the one to lead her.
The realization of changing times came when my mom wanted to work again. My brother was gone, and I was about to graduate high school. She enjoyed our time together, but knew she was capable of more. I always knew she was. What I didn't know was the dire financial situation caused by the collapsing economy, basically ruining my father's business and causing my parents' to file bankruptcy for the second time. Though still employed, it was barely enough to get through. Depression was always lingering at the corner of our household after that, even when Mom decided it was best to try and help save our home.
Mom's stories of working in downtown Cincinnati when she was young sounded magical to me. Office buildings overlooking a great powerhouse, a city that employed and entertained many. Though in my youth they seemed ideal, I didn't understand the circumstances surrounding them. Her first marriage crumbled into dust while still in Ohio in her early 30s, with my brother as the only thing she held on to from the past. She told me she worked hard, sometimes two jobs, to provide for him. Sears, Sohio, Dayton Power & Light. All to provide a better life for my brother. He may not recall these things, or maybe never even asked, but they were striking to me. My mother was stronger than any other I had known; I'd never felt more proud. Nobody knew the next time they would see her strength and tenacity in such a bold way, and I almost wish I never had to experience it.
She didn't enjoy her new job, per se, at some staffing company, typing on antiquated computers and sorting through files leftover from years past, smushed into some tiny, smelly corner. Always techno-savvy, DOS this, some Microsoft database that, she always knew what she was doing and how to do it. The year she went back to work, though, it seemed she couldn't keep up. I had noticed, but had my dad or my brother? They never really spent as much time with her as I had, even after I had started attending college. The people at work spent a lot of time with her, unfortunately. Mocking her minor flubs and flops, forgetfulness and shyness, her insecurity forced her to quit.
After that, she tried working at Neiman Marcus' packing facility seasonally, and enjoyed it. But she wasn't as fast as the others and was laid off immediately after Christmas. That was the last holiday that was somewhat normal for us.
The darkness settled in on our suburban lives when my mom's weapon for freedom was towed away by Chrysler. Tearful, she would hide in her room. My dad told me not to bother her, but I would. We would lay on the bed, watching Back to the Future in Spanish, my mom growing less jovial and more somber. Money was tighter than ever, food scarce; Mom had given up. Dad still fought for us, though, like he always had. But nothing broke his heart more than when Mom had to wait in line at the food bank. She was upset I couldn't go in to collect food with her, but we would make the best of waiting in line. She wanted to find a job, a really good one, but by this time, her memory was starting to disintegrate.
Our days of gallivanting replaced with selling books at Half-Price for gas money, for me and for dad. Her creativity in the kitchen was gone; all that remained were nondescript meat products and freezer burned vegetables doused in butter substitute. Along with her gusto, her words started to vanish. They were there, in front of her. She would look as though she could see them, tangible in their distant glory. But she could never quite reach them.
Her hair, always dyed some shade of red, now showed her grays mixed in with the brown. It grew longer and thinner than I'd ever witnessed, but her shoes and white crew socks always remained the same. The rosyness of her cheeks disappeared and were replaced with a sullen ash, reminiscent of a cadaver. Sudoku books piled up, her old way of writing still trapped in the rough pages. Reading had grown difficult over time; my father thought it was macular degeneration. I thought he was crazy.
Last summer I had come to terms with my mother's state of being, whatever it was. I called it Alzheimer's, though no doctor had ever diagnosed her with such. Dad, ever in denial, refused to take her to the doctor. She didn't even want to go, becoming increasingly anti-social and a hermit. Money, the ever present issue, was always to blame. I feel as though nobody wanted to deal with it, especially him.
“Can't you see? She's just like a child!” I yelled at my dad in my parents' bedroom. I escorted him back there in hopes to gain some kind of common ground, that he could see what I was seeing and maybe feel like I did. “It's not the same. It's never going to be the same.”
“I know,” his bold voice sounded so small. “It's going to be different now. We just have to love her more than we've ever loved her before.”
We would still go places, but it was not the same. The woman who held my hand and lead me through masses of people, at concerts or malls or wherever, now needed to be lead through the grocery store. The questions I had asked were irrelevant now, as she only wanted to ask repeatedly where I went to college, where was my dad, where was she. No longer allowed to drive, I would tote her about in my car, which how the seat belts worked was always a surprise. Raw chicken was left in the microwave for who knows how long, with hours spent trying to de-tangle balls of yarn. She had been trying to make the same Christmas blanket for years.
Going to the movies was no longer a joyful experience; it was difficult to try and explain major plot details while others were in the theater. They didn’t know what was going on, and it was best to be avoided. Reading was out of the question, too. She tried writing, though; a skill which she tried to regain through writing my name in broken cursive on yellow legal pads, spread over the computer desk. Her days were filled with catnaps that would last for hours, John Wayne marathons, and repetitiously asking for details of my life and of what was going on in the world. Most of the time they were followed by soft, sweet tears from a woman who knows she used to know, but can’t anymore.
I decided to try and see if she would remember my birthday. It was my twenty-fourth, and I had hoped it would be a great one. As I got older, my mom and I would usually spend the day together; seeing a movie, shopping, baking a cake. Anything just to be together and celebrate. I moved out the previous summer, and decided I would come visit her for the big day. Maybe it would be a good day, the kind where she was competent enough to know where we were going and remember what she had for lunch.
Walking up the driveway, I wasn't sure what to expect. If I rang the doorbell would she answer? Would she know what the day was? I rang the doorbell, and tried to smile. I thought, worst case scenario, this may be one of the last times I “celebrate” my birthday with this amazing woman; there is no time left to be sad about it but just to accept it. She opened the door in a stupor, not really able to focus and look me in the eye. She said she needed to go to the bathroom and get her wallet, and I said okay and that I would wait patiently. She came out, and I was excited, sort of. There was that sort of nagging dread, though, that my expectations were once again set way too high.
We were on the way to Dallas, to antique, to adventure, to have some sort of normalcy in this crazy new life. I tried to hold a conversation with my ever-nauseated mother. Business passed us as I zoomed down the Tollway, fielding the same questions from Mom; the same where are we going, why, is it a special day? Upon telling her, yes, it was my birthday each time, she seemed sad that she’d forgotten and kept asking what kind of cake I’d like. These were always followed by me trying to tell her what was going in my life, what classes I was taking, but instead more and more questions arose.
We pulled in to our destination, Lula B’s, while I hoped that this day would not be as tiring as I had anticipated. We went to the front door and noticed it was closed. I asked mom if she had been hungry, and she kept repeating no. I pulled out of the parking lot and decided we could drive around until the store opened at 11 am, just like old times. Mom and I on the hunt for some birthday treasures. Upon my yakking to my mom all the potential plans for the day at a stoplight, I noticed she was quiet…far too quiet. As the light turned green, so did my face; I turned to look at my mother’s immobile face.
Her eyes were wide open, arms straight out in front of her in my tiny little Civic.
“MOM!” I yelled, followed by “mother”, then finally “mommy. Thirty of the longest seconds later, she emerged from the electric shocks to her brain, struggling to find any words at all.
“What?” she said gently as she stretched, as if waking from a nap.
“Mom, what was that? Does dad know this happens?” I didn’t want to bombard her with questions, not yet. The liquid heat from my eyes would not stop, fear encompassing me. What had I just seen?
She didn’t want to be taken to a hospital, because she never thought a thing was wrong. How many times had this happened without anyone noticing? She asked if we could stop as soon as she felt nauseous. We pulled into the parking lot of a home furnishing store, and just sat. She looked overcome. Everything I said, my soliloquy of hope of her healing, my anger at God, and reminiscence, didn’t even pass through her ears, but hit like a brick wall. She didn’t look well, so I followed her wishes. We went home.
After guiding her through the front door, she immediately excused herself to the bathroom; her retching was loud and strained. I pounded on my brother’s door, telling him that I must take mom to the hospital. He seemed nervous, but not as terrified as I felt. I called my dad, telling him of what happened, and he demanded she go to the emergency room. How funny, my mother and I spent another day in the hospital on a bright sunny September day, in the same city no less, of where I was born.
I checked her in, grown-up me, trying not to crumble with my mother who didn’t know what was going on. I sent an e-mail before we left to my friends and church members asking for prayer. My pastor came, and she sat with us. Her gift of good humor helped Mom cope with her sickness, and me with my despair. She stayed with us through most of the day, through the catheter, the questions about what day it was and who was the President. Who I was. Scary questions that I didn’t know if I wanted the answer to.
“Mrs. Hagen, what year is it?”
“1987. It’s Christine’s birthday.”
I tried to stay strong, but tears would not stop. My father was not with me, but at work. Persistently I begged him to come, that she needed him: I needed him. He finally stopped what he was doing, checked out of his denial, and came to help take care of Mom.
She was finally moved to a proper room, with a connected bathroom, television, and privacy. She liked that bed much better, and I liked that we could sit down for once. Three days total, she stayed. They did MRIs, CT scans, physical tests as well as mental. They gave her IV after IV of anti-seizure medication. So, that was what that was.
After her first day, she became a little more like herself. Jokes about politicians with the nurse, complaining about the food like her normal self, little by little my Mom was returning to herself. Despite the electronic monitors glued to her skull, I thought she looked radiant as the life started to return back to her. The third day, though, was the day that brought us more hope than I’d experienced in a while.
The doctor said that some wires were crossed, and that he wasn’t sure he thought it was Alzheimer’s. He said that something should’ve been done a long time ago, but that not all hope was lost. There were therapies, speech and writing, and that she maybe could recover. Not one hundred percent, but almost there.
Having answered the discharge questions about the year and the month, she had to sign her release papers. I was nervous, and looked to my dad. He looked apprehensive to have her try to sign for herself, nudging me to move in closer.
“Can I help you, Mom?” slowly tripped out of my mouth.
“Nah, I’ve got it,” her typical response to me offering help.
She grabbed the pen and took a moment to readjust her grip. Maybe a few times, even. She adjusted her glasses, like always, and scrunched up her face to where her nose was wrinkly. I was hoping this would work, that she would save herself the pain of failure.
The pen, shaky and heavy, touched the paper. It coursed to map out the backwards “F” of my mother’s name, how she always wrote. It was a little rough, yet still flowery enough for me to know it was hers. She wrote her name for the first time in months. My dad and I about died of joy, if that’s such a thing.
Months have passed, and hope is still in sight. We still sometimes go to our old places, like Valley View, but the change is too much. She acknowledged that maybe its failure is that we stopped going, that we are powerful enough to keep something afloat. We walk past our Dillard’s that closed many years ago, both of us reminiscing of more than a life full of consumerism; we miss our adventures and the countless hours spent together discovering much about the world around us.
Her despair is no longer all-consuming, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. There are good days still, amongst a sea of bad ones, where she prefers the comfort of a daytime talk show over venturing into the world. Mom can now answer the phone sometimes when I call. Even when she asks the same questions over again, I know she doesn’t mean anything by it and wishes she was the same. I’m just glad our conversations are getting easier, despite the occasional word or phrase departing her brain before it could pass through her lips.
Despite all this transformation, if you will, my mother remains strong. She wouldn’t be the first to tell you, though, as she is still so modest. Her sense of humor and laugh, ever infectious, helps me to cope with all of this mess. She is more courageous, beautiful, and tenacious than I have ever recalled. I don’t mind holding her hand anymore, as long as it’s there to hold.
