Fragile Minds
By
Anastasia Mink ©2011
I watched my sister carefully line breadcrumbs in rows in the city square for the pigeons. She did it with a focus and precision that was beyond human. Sometimes I envied my sister with her ability to lose herself in such simple, meaningless tasks, her ability to derive pleasure from studying patterns in rocks, leaves, flowers – nearly anything. I envied her seemingly naïve pleasure. I tended to be easily bored and distracted. I did not, however, envy her sudden outbursts of fear or anger, the screaming, the howling cries, the head-banging. I often wanted to escape these tantrums by hiding in my room. If mother was around I whispered secret prayers of gratitude because that meant she would take on the task of calming Emily.
After watching Emily feed the pigeons in her peculiar way, I called to her that it was nearly time for dinner and we ought to go. I held my breath waiting to see if she would come along without a tantrum. Then, remembering Dr. Harris’s suggestion that we always give her a two or three minute warning before a transition in activity, I told her, “Oh, you have three minutes then it will be time to go back, okay?” Emily looked up and smiled an angelic smile. “Okay”, she replied.
On the way home I fought down a sense of foreboding. My heart raced slightly and my stomach knotted. What secret doom awaited me that this premonition overcame me? I looked around for clues from the environment – darkening clouds, whispering trees, an old lady cloaked in black or even just a black cat. I saw nothing. The sky was blue with tufts of white clouds. Mothers with happy children walked up and down the bright, cheerful street lined with blooming cherry trees. Business men strode briskly to their cars, offices, or homes. There were no black cats in sight, merely a white puppy sniffing around a bush. There were not even any ladders to avoid. I decided to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk in case. No need to tempt fate, after all.
We arrived home. I found myself holding my breath as I opened the door, but we were greeted cheerfully by my mother who was busy making dinner. “How was your walk?” she asked. Secretly sighing in relief, I smiled at my mother and answered, “It was nice. Emily fed the pigeons”. Of course, my mother already knew this. Emily fed the pigeons nearly every afternoon.
I awoke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat. I turned on the light and looked at the clock. Three o’clock in the morning – witching hour according to legend. I got up and rinsed myself, changed my pajamas, and laid a towel on the spot I had been sleeping. I got back into bed, but left the light on. I lay listening to the sound of the house settling, the occasional gust of wind, the barking of a nearby dog, and the lone hoot of an owl. I thought about my father and how he had suddenly disappeared two years ago. Mother had wept copiously while I tried to reassure her and take care of Emily, who didn’t seem to understand what was going on. Although if Emily did understand, how were we to know? After all, not even I really understood. I only understood that something terrible had happened, but no one would explain, and that it was up to me to make sure mother and Emily were okay. I don’t know how or why I knew my role in life, but it seemed clear to me then. I think it was after father disappeared that my nightmares began. It’s hard to say for certain, since I also suffered nightmares as a young child. I must have drifted off whilst thinking these thoughts because when I next awoke I heard mother in the kitchen with Emily. Smells of eggs, toasted bread, and coffee wafted to my nose. I lay there for a moment reveling in the cheerfulness of the morning and then rolled out of bed.
“You’re finally up, sleepyhead,” remarked my mother as I grabbed a cup of coffee and a plate from the counter. “You are going to be late for school”.
A moment of panic flooded me, and then I laughed. “It’s Sunday, Mum.”
“Is it?” she asked looked truly bedeviled.
“Sure. Yesterday I helped you with lunch before taking Emily to the park, remember”
“Aaah, right,” she murmured, but seemed unconvinced.
“And how is my Emily this morning?” I asked my sister who was busy lining up crumbs of toast on her plate.
She looked and me and smiled. I looked around for her PECS PECS
Emily looked around and suddenly jumped down from her seat and ran into the living room. She returned holding the half mangled booked with a triumphant grin.
“Good job! What would you like to do today?” I asked.
Emily paged through her book and then pointed to a picture of a swing.
“You want to swing? Shall we go to the playground after breakfast then?”
Emily nodded, and I settled down to my breakfast.
That evening a storm rolled in. Emily screamed and cowered in the corner as thunder cracked with a ferocity I was not accustomed to. I wend and put my arms tightly around her to try to calm her. Mom brought out candles in case the power went out. The house seemed to shake with the wind and thunder. Rain pelted the roof seeming to seek revenge. Branch hit the sides of the house threatening to ram the walls in. I pushed the image of trees grabbing people and squeezing them to death out of my mind. The lights flickered as lightening lit the room, reminding us of the true source of electricity. Mom began lighting the candles. I stared out at the tempestuous storm from our candlelit room soothing Emily. After a while the storm subsided. I put Emily to bed and then curled up in bed with a book. I slept dreamlessly that night and awoke refreshed.
The next day when I returned from school I found my mother on the phone talking in urgent whispers. I noticed a glass of brandy on the table. That meant mother was upset about something. I learned this at a young age. Mom rarely drank, but when she did it usually meant something terrible was happening. I recalled the sense of foreboding from the other day and the subsequent nightmares. My stomach knotted, nausea threatening to attack. I tried to listen to what was being said, but Mom waved me out. I stood at the doorway a moment before finding Emily. I could make out nothing, but my gut told me it had something to do with father. I found Emily in her room pulling books of her shelf. The room was a disaster. Boxes of toys were strewn about, paints were open and half spilt, pens and markers were scattered across the floor. How long had mother left her alone here, I wondered.
“Emily? What are you doing?” I asked. “You remember the rule don’t you? You must put the toys you are playing with away before getting out another?” Emily stared at e incredulously and then resumed pulling down books.
“What’s the matter? Are you upset?” I asked. “Tell you what. I will help you pick up and then we can go to the park and feed the pigeons. Deal?” Honestly, I did not feel like going to the park today, but saw no way out of it without setting Emily off.
Emily and I picked up her room, with me doing most of the work, of course, and set off. I wondered what my mother was doing. I stared in horror as a black cat came towards me. Normally I tried not to give into superstition and genuinely loved cats of all colors, but something about the timing of this particular cat sent shivers down my spine. Its green eyes seem to focus on me with unnerving intensity. Its gait seemed sinister and calculated. “Shoo!” I cried trying to no avail to wave away the cat. I said “Shoo! Scram!” I cried louder. Passers-by stared at me with mild curiosity. A couple laughed. I imagined them saying, “Look at that silly, superstitious girl trying to scare away a black cat.” I didn’t care. I got up and ran towards Emily.
“Let’s go Emily! It’s time to go!” my panicked voice must have alerted her to danger, for she did not throw the usual tantrum. Crows cawed overhead, frightening me even more. Suddenly the trees seemed menacing, and I imagined evil roots shooting up from the ground to grab us. I ran with Emily all the way home.
Mom was sitting at the kitchen table staring at her glass when we came in. Her expression was undecipherable. I smelled dinner burning in the oven so rushed over to check on it. The chicken was a little crispy, but not ruined. I helped Emily set the table and waited for mom to say something. The silence was deafening. I could barely swallow anything due to my nerves. Finally mother spoke, “I got a call today from the police. They found your father.”
My heart starting fluttering and my hands felt cold and clammy. “Where is he? Is he okay?” I demanded. Emily started banging her utensils, sensing something unusual was occurring.
“They found him living under a bridge with a bunch of homeless people. He couldn’t remember who he was or where he lived,” mother began, “They say he must of suffered some kind of trauma to the head and got amnesia.”
I filled with a sense of relief that my father was alive, but worried about how things would be if he didn’t remember us.
"They took him to the hospital for a physical exam. He should be coming home to us in a day or two.”
“That’s great, isn’t it Mom?” I exclaimed with a touch of uncertainty.
“Of course it is, darling,” my mother reassured me, but I could tell she also felt uncertain. It had taken us months to get used to the idea that he had abandoned us or even died.
At last the day came for father to return to us. We met him at the hospital and greeted hi as he came towards us. The nurse who accompanied him introduced him to each of us and soothed his visible fear and confusion.
“Thee types of injuries are somewhat unpredictable. He may eventually get some or all of his memory back. Being around people that he used to know and living in an environment that holds memories for him, may help jump start the process, but don’t expect too much too soon,” the nurse explained. “These are his appointment times for rehabilitation therapy and some prescriptions for his mood disorder.”
“:Mood disorder?” my mother asked surprised.
“Mood dysregualtion is common in those with brain injury. You may find your husband more impulsive or easily angered than before”.
We drove father home. No one spoke. We were all wrapped in our own fears and worries. I held my breath when we pulled up the house wondering, hoping father would remember us. We ordered pizza that night for dinner as a celebration of Dad’s homecoming. Dad practiced remembering all our names. “How come the little one, Emily, don’t talk?” Dad asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Emily is autistic.” I replied. Father grunted as if satisfied.
After cleaning up for dinner and putting Emily to bed, I sat next to my father, who was watching sports in the living room. I didn’t recall my father watching sports before, but a lot had changed in two years.
“Hi, Dad, how are you doing?” I asked.
“Hey, ah….sorry what’s your name. I forget again.”
“Gabriella, Dad,” I answered. Suddenly, my Dad leapt off the couch and threw the remote across the floor, “How could you miss that! He was wide open!” my father yelled. He must of noticed my stricken face.
“Sorry, darlin’,” my Dad said softly, chagrined. “Not used to being indoors with young women around.” “Hey, does your Mom got any beer?”
“I’ll check,” I said and hurried from the living room. “No beer. She has brandy though”, I called.
I heard him mutter under his breath before he answered out loud, “Okay, bring me a glass of that”. Ｉwondered if he was supposed to drink, but handed him the glass and said nothing.
I slept fitfully that night. Sounds from the television both soothed me and annoyed me. I heard my father go to the kitchen and pour another drink. Eventually I dozed off. I dreamed I was suffocating and awoke in panic. The weight on my chest subsided, but I found y arms and legs paralyzed. I watched as a vision unfolded before my waking eyes. I saw drunken, dirty men standing around burning trash cans under the bridge. I looked for my father in the scene and saw him in the back. His eyes glinted in the firelight. I wanted to yell at him to come home, but was unable to speak or move. After a while the numbness faded and so did the vision. I sat up and turned on the light. The house was quiet now.
Mom took Dad to therapy the next day, and I stayed home from school to watch Emily, who seemed unusually agitated. I asked her what we should do today, and she threw her PECS book across the room. I asked if she wanted to paint or go to the playground. She covered her ears and screamed. “Emily you cannot communicate this way. You’re a big girl now”, I said, “Go bring me your PECS
“Emily, are you upset about father?” I asked.
Emily nodded. I sighed. I knew the transition would be difficult. Emily was only 3 when Dad had disappeared, so she barely remembered him, and now he was a different man – an unpredictable man with no memories of his former life or us.
“Com’ere, kiddo,” I said lifting Emily into my lap, “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but our daddy loves us, okay? We have to be strong and help him. And since you’re a big girl now, do you think you can do that?”
Emily hesitated a moment and then nodded her head solemnly. “Good girl,” I said.
The house was a bit chaotic and seemed like walking on egg shells to me. Neither mom nor I knew when either Dad or Emily would throw a tantrum, but gradually things got quieter. Dad began remembering our names and seemed to feel at home in the house. Mom regained some of the energy she has lost after Dad’s disappearance. I stopped having nightmares. Looking at my family I was grateful we were all together again and resolved to make new, happy memories for us all.
