A Man Named Dave (3 page)

I’m trying to digest Mother’s new set of instructions.

“Do
you understand?”
Mother probes, fighting to keep her anger under control. “Ah, yes,” I chuckle. I cannot believe how easily Mother can come up with her off-the-wall lies every single day of school. I’m also amazed that I no longer care about masking my emotions in front of her: “Tell ’em I was wrong. I was bad.”

“And… ?” Mother whines, trying to draw me out further.

“Tell them … I was … I was playing, I mean wrestling! I was wrestling and … I got out of control. Yes, I understand,” I stammer.

Mother tilts her head to one side as she inspects her latest damage. She holds her gaze for a few moments before losing her balance, stumbling toward me. In a jerking motion I flinch backward. “Shh … no, it’s okay. Relax,” Mother calmly says with an outstretched hand as she keeps her distance, acting as if I were a stray dog. “No one’s going to hurt you. Shh …” Mother circles around me before backing into her kitchen chair. Bending her head down, she stares into space.

My head begins to slump forward when Mother’s hacking cough makes me snap upright. “It wasn’t always like this, you know,” she whimpers in a scratchy voice. “If you knew … if you only understood. I wish I could somehow make you, make
them
understand…” Mother stops in mid-sentence to collect herself. I can feel her eyes scan my body. “Things just got outta control, that’s all. I never meant to … to live like this. No one does. I tried, God knows I did – to be the good wife, the perfect mother. I did everything: den mother, this PTA that, hosting the perfect parties. I really did try.

“You, you’re the only one who knows, who really knows. You’re the only one I can really talk to,” Mother whispers. “I can’t trust
them.
But you, you’re the perfect outlet, the perfect audience, anytime it damn well pleases
me.
You don’t talk, so no one will hear your pain. You don’t have any friends, and you never go outside, so you know what it’s like to be all alone inside. Hell, besides school, no one knows you. It’s as if you were never …

“No. You’ll never tell anyone … never!” Mother brags as she nods her head up and down to reinforce her warning.

Without stealing a glance, I can hear Mother sniffle as she struggles not to let down her guard. I realize she’s only using me to talk to herself. She always has. When I was younger, Mother would drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, have me stand in front of her as she poured herself glass after glass and raved on for hours. But now as I stand in front of her, I’m too numb to understand her ramblings.
What in the hell does she want?
Can she be totally smashed so early in the morning, or is she still under the effects from last night’s stupor? Maybe she’s testing my reaction? I hate not knowing what Mother expects of me.

“You,” she continues, “oh, you were so cute! At parties everyone loved
you!
Everyone wanted to take you home. Always polite, always with manners. Wouldn’t speak unless spoken to. Oh, I remember whenever you couldn’t sleep, you’d crawl up into my lap and sing me Christmas songs, even in the middle of July. Whenever I felt bad I could always count on you to ‘croon a tune’.” Mother smiles as she remembers the past. She can no longer control the tears that stream down her cheeks. I’ve never seen her like this before. “You had the sweetest voice, David. Why is it you don’t sing for me anymore? How come?” Mother stares at me as if I were a ghost.

“I don’t… I dunno.” My grogginess vanishes. I realize this is not one of Mother’s sinister Games. I know, deep inside Mother, that something is different. She’s reaching out. Mother’s never been this emotional about her past. I wish I had a clear head to analyze what she’s trying to tell me. I know it’s not the booze talking, but my real mother, the one who’s been trapped inside herself for so many years. “Mommy?”

Mother’s head jerks up as she covers her mouth.
“Mommy?
Oh Lord, David, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been someone’s
Mommy?
My God!” She closes her eyes to hide her pain. “You were so fragile, so timid. You don’t remember, but you were always the slow one. It took you forever to tie your shoes. I thought I’d go crazy trying to teach you that damn square knot for your Cub Scouts badge. But you never gave up. I’d find you in a corner of the room trying to tie knots. No, that’s one thing about you, you never gave up. Hey,” Mother asks with a wide smile, “do you remember that summer when you were seven or eight years old, and you and I spent forever trying to catch that fish at Memorial Park?”

With perfect clarity I recall how Mommy and I sat at the far edge of a giant fallen log that hung over a small stream. I couldn’t believe she had chosen me – over my younger brother Stan, who constantly fought for Mother’s attention. As Stan threw a temper tantrum on the beach below us, I thought Mother would realize her mistake. But Mommy had paid no attention to Stan’s commotion; she simply tightened her grip on my belt, in case I slipped, and whispered encouragement into my ear. After a few minutes of fishing, I deliberately kept the pink salmon egg bait just above the water. I never wanted my adventure with my mommy to end. Now, as I shake my head clear of the memory, my voice becomes choked up. “I, ah, I prayed we’d never catch that fish,” I confessed to her.

“Why’s that?”

“So … we could spend more time together … as mother and son.”

“Oh, your brother Stan was red with jealousy, stomping up and down beside the creek, throwing rocks into the water, trying to scare off that fish of yours. My God.” Mother tosses her hair back, revealing a rare smile.

I’m not sure if she failed to hear or understand the true meaning of what I said.

“David?” Mother pleads. “You do remember, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I cry, shaking my head, “I do. I remember everything. Like the first day of school when the teacher had us color a picture of what we did that summer. I drew you and me sitting on that old tree with a happy-face sun shining above us. Remember, I gave it to you that day after school?”

Mother turns away from me. She clutches her coffee mug, then puts a finger to her lips. The excitement from her face drains away. “No!” Mother states in a strict tone, as if our fishing adventure were a hoax.

“Oh, sure you do –”

“I said no, goddammit!” Mother interrupts. She clamps her eyes shut and covers her ears. “No, no, no! I don’t remember. You can’t make me! No one can force me to remember the past if I don’t want to. Not you or anybody else. No one tells
me
what to do! You got that, mister?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I automatically respond.

Mother’s face turns beet red as the muscles in her neck tighten. Her upper body begins to shake. I’m not sure, but I think Mother is having a violent seizure. I want to yell out, but I’m too scared. I stand in front of Mother like a helpless fool. I don’t know what to do.

After a few seconds the redness from her face disappears. She lets out a deep sigh. “I just don’t know anymore … if I’m coming or going. I don’t know … I didn’t mean for things to happen this way; no one did. You can’t blame me, I did my best …”

The sweetness in her voice fades. I want so badly to run and hug
Mommy
before she completely slips away, but, like always, I know in a few hours
Mother
won’t remember a single word of our conversation. I back away from the kitchen table and resume the position of address.

“Oh, Jesus!” Mother snaps. “Now look what you’ve done! I’ve got to drive my boys to school! Forget the dishes; you can finish them after school. And listen up: I don’t want to hear a peep from any of those nosy teachers today, so you keep that carcass of yours the hell out of trouble! You got me, mister?” Mother raises her voice to her usual evil tone.

“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter.

“Then get the hell out of my house! Run!” Mother bellows.

“What about lunch … ?” I ask.

“Too bad. You took my time, then I take your lousy sandwich. You’ll just have to go diggin’ for food today. Now get the hell out of here! Don’t make me get the broom! Now run!”

In a flash I race through Mother’s house. I can hear her evil laugh as I slam the front door shut before sprinting off to school.

Minutes later, after running to school at top speed, I stagger into the nurse’s office with my hands slapping on my knees. With every breath I take in, the muscles around my throat tighten. An enormous pressure from behind my eyes begins to build. I slap my knees as if that will somehow make air rush into my lungs. The school nurse spins around from behind her desk. My mind fumbles to yell, but I cannot form the words. But I try again.
“C-a-n-’t b-r-e-a-t-h-e!”
I finally sputter, pointing at my neck.

The nurse leaps up with lightning speed, grabs a brown bag, turns it upside down spilling its contents onto the floor, and kneels down in front of me. Through my tears I can see the terror in her eyes. I want to cry out, but I’m too scared. The nurse pulls on my hand, but I slap her away as I continue to pound my knees. The more I try to draw air into my lungs, the more the invisible bands tighten around my chest. “No!” the nurse shouts. “David, stop it! Don’t fight it! You’re hyperventilating!”

“Hipper ventle … ?” I gasp.

“Slow down. You’re going to be fine. I’m just going to put this bag over your –”

“
Nooo!
I can’t … won’t be able … to see. I … have to see!”

“Shh, I’m right here. Close your eyes and concentrate on the sound of my voice. Good. Now slow down. Take tiny puffs of air. Breathe through your nose. That’s it,” the nurse whispers in a soothing voice. With her I feel safe. “That’s much better; tiny breaths. Reach out, take my hand. I’m right here. I’m not going to leave you. You’re going to be fine.”

I obey the nurse and shut my eyes. As the nurse places the bag over my face, I can instantly feel warm air circulate. It feels good, but after a few breaths my exhaled air becomes too hot. My legs begin to lock up. By accident I jerk the nurse’s hand.

“Shh. David, trust me, you’re fine. You’re doing better. Much better. That’s it, slow down. See? Now, lean your head back and relax.”

As I tilt my head backward, a rush of air escapes from my mouth. The pressure is so intense that I fight to keep myself from throwing up. I rip the bag from my face before my legs buckle, and I fall to the floor gasping for more air. Within seconds the bands around my chest begin to ease.

After a few minutes, the fire from inside my neck begins to cool. “Here,” the nurse says, holding a glass of ice cubes in front of me, “take one of these to suck on.”

I try to pick up a piece of ice, but my trembling fingers cannot grasp the cube. Without a second thought the nurse reaches into the glass and picks one out. “Open up.”

I lower my head, trying to hide. The moment I do, the searing pain returns. “David, what’s wrong? Come on now, open up,” she instructs in a more commanding tone. I close my eyes. I know what’s coming next: questions.
I’d give anything to avoid another round of questions.
All they do is make everyone at school upset and somehow Mother always finds out. Whenever the principal has called Mother, the staff at school would see the results the next day. As I continue to avoid the nurse’s eyes, I fantasize about crawling into a corner so I can disappear.

I slowly open my eyes when I feel the nurse lift my head with her fingers. Her face turns chalky white.

“Oh … my … Lord! What in heaven’s name happened to your neck?” the nurse exclaims as she peers from side to side.

I wring my hands, hoping she’ll drop the subject.
“Please!”
I wheeze.
“Let it go.”

“
The side of your Adam’s apple is so swollen!” The nurse flies away to snatch a tongue depressor from one of her glass jars. “Let’s have a look. Open up.” I let out a raspy sigh before obeying. “I need you to open just a little bit wider. Can you do that for me?” she asks gently.

“Can’t,” I whimper. “Hurts too much.”

At last the nurse allows me to close my mouth. Again, I try to avoid her stare. I bury my trembling fingers in my lap. She shakes her head before standing up and grabbing her clipboard. Every school day, for over a year, the nurse has inspected my body from head to toe before documenting her examinations. Now she mutters to herself as she scribbles her latest findings. Kneeling back down, she delicately massages the palms of my hands. I bite my lip in anticipation. The nurse stares into my eyes as if not knowing what to say.

Now I’m really scared.

“I’m sorry, David,” she says as tears seep from behind her glasses. “I was wrong. You weren’t hyperventilating. Your, ah, your larynx … your epiglottis is swollen and your trachea is inflamed. What I’m saying is: this is why you are having trouble breathing. The opening to your throat was cutting off your flow of oxygen. Do you understand?”

I take a moment to visualize in my mind the nurse’s meaning. I don’t want her to think I’m stupid.

“When did this happen?” she asks.

I look away from the nurse’s gaze and stare at my shoes. “I was, uhm …” I fumble for the exact wording to Mother’s cover story, but my brain still feels trapped in a fog bank. “I was … I fell … I fell down the stairs.”

“David?” she replies, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s my fault!” I snap back. “I was wrestling and I got out of control and my brothers –”

“Poppycock!” the nurse interrupts. “You mean your mother knew of your condition … and she still made you run to school? Do you realize what might have happened to you? For goodness sakes, you could have …”

“Uhm, no, ma’am. Please, I’m better now. Really, I’m fine,” I say as softly and as quickly as I can, before the burning sensation returns. “Please! It’s not her fault! Let it go!”

The nurse lifts her glasses to wipe away her tears. “No! Not this time! I won’t let it go. I’ve had enough. This is the last straw. This has to be reported to the principal. Something has got to be done.” She stands up and slaps her clipboard against her leg as she marches for the door.

“No! Pleeze!”
I beg. “You don’t understand! If you tell, she’ll –”

“She’ll what?” The nurse spins around. “Tell me, David, tell me so I have something, anything, to go on! I know it’s her –we know it’s her – but you’ve got to help us, to help you,” she pleads.