In the Vines

by Shannon Kirk

  Oh, that’s good. It’s a song.

  Cate’s face is so super swelled in sickness. What’s the medical term? Oh yeah, disgusting fuck face. And she’s in a little coma, poor lassie. Poor lassie, what a word! But she’s like Johanna Banana, so sad, boo, sad. I dump her crap diaper in the trash, shove nutrition shit in her feed tube.

  Good thing, oh, good thing, you should thank me, you bitch, I was trained for so many years. I know how to synthetize the synthetic nutrition stew they pump into coma victims, except my cocktail is real. So fuck you, here’s the liquid breakfast you don’t deserve.

  I move Cate, bitchity bitch bitch bitch, to her right side, prop her back with perfect pillows. Need to make sure she doesn’t get bedsores and make me deal with an infection, like five months ago, when I dragged her from the basement floor and she was a hair away from gangrene and well within a serious and relentless skin fungus that took fucking months to clear. But she won’t get the physical therapy on her joints, like my baby sister girl, my sweet Johanna.

  I scowl at the necklace around her neck, but it stops me.

  I must be good.

  Johanna’s orange beach-glass necklace. I had to take it from Jo-Jo and give it to the bitch so I wouldn’t choke the bitch out, so I’m reminded to be good. I know Johanna would be disappointed in me if I murdered her. I must be a nurse. I must make Johanna proud of me. Be good. Maybe then someday if I get this all right again, Mop can come back and love me.

  Kent is “still dead,” like you wrote on his chart yesterday morning. Go ahead, after treating this bitch, check again on today’s rounds, and write it again. Write it every day, because that’s his assessment, and his prognosis won’t change.

  Is he really dead?

  Yes! Focus, idiot!

  I know, I’ll sing the disgusting fuck face my new song!

  “I whistle in the thistle, and I stop at the rock.” This is better, much better. I sing and it makes me not think. Okay. It. Is. Good. This is a good song.

  “Da, da, da, dadadada.” I’m good at mouth drums. “I whistle in the thistle, and I stop at the rock . . .”

  I’m almost done with the morning’s rounds! Whoopee! I’ll save checking on Kent until this afternoon, when it’s dark. Because it’s Christmas tomorrow and I’m busy, busy! Time for me to wrap Johanna’s presents! Whee!

  I’m flying like a bird through my winter lawn, into the foyer, down my hall with the bird in vines wallpaper, to my kitchen, and ah, there’s the presents I made for Johanna . . . a sea-glass necklace (I need to replace her beloved orange one), a painting of the sea, and a candle holder set made from our favorite bordeaux wine. Made in my barn, just for you, Johanna. Now I wrap! And more coffee. Yeah!

  Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. Christmas is tomorrow. Do they expect me in Rye? That letter from my lawyer telling them to stay away and leave me alone, will they listen? Obey? Oblige? But I think, yes, where is it? Fuck. Yup. My lawyer forwarded me a letter from Mop. Lawyer told them they can only send things to me through her.

  “AHHH!” I’m screaming. Can the neighbors hear? Calm down, there are no neighbors around. Wilsons are still in Costa Rica; they’re there another year at least. Their house on timers, and whatever. The closest other neighbors are so long off, through twisted trails. Relax.

  On to Christmas presents!

  Whee!

  A little over one year ago—A rainy June day

  Damn. It’s raining today. This is a down day. No light. No shine.

  But it’s June! And if it was sunny, like yesterday, which was an up day, and I thought, oh, fuck, I thought I could make it last. If it was still sunny, I could sit again with my flowers, smell the air around them, lick the wind of its salt and sugar. And now today, the rain, the dark corner in my bedroom, I will sit there, shadows covering me, and it will be safe. Here I go. Rounds are done. Three hours until next rounds and physical therapy.

  I sit in my corner. Dark around me. Huddle knees to breasts, and if I moan, my voice drowns out Kent screaming from the basement, calling for me.

  He’s not calling for you, he’s dead.

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” I’m moaning, okay, so neither one of us can tell if he is calling out or not. Let’s not fight today.

  Neither one of us? I’m you, and you are me; we’re not us, we’re the same.

  Okay. Stop. Sit in the dark and try to nap.

  In my kitchen, didn’t I leave a green vase of pink peonies? I did. Yes, yesterday. If I bring those to Johanna, maybe that will lighten my mood. Your mood. My mood.

  I’m leaving this corner. Going for the vase in the kitchen.

  Yeah! Here they are, on MY kitchen table—not yours, Cate Dranal, fuck you for sitting in here—and ah, these pink petals smell so sweet, I’m going to draw this heavenly sugar scent up into my brain.

  Okay, flowers, come on now, Johanna needs to smell you.

  She’s still not talking to me, her eyes still closed, she’s still sleeping. I keep the nutrition and her hydration always constant, always good. She won’t groan in her sleep when we do our three hours of physical therapy today, because the flowers will make her happy. It’s me moving her muscles for her, and it’s work for me, yes, but also, even though she doesn’t realize, work for her.

  Here now in Johanna’s attic, I watch her breathe the scent of the peonies. How long? Don’t know. But a noise and a darkness below are calling to me. I can’t ignore the noise any longer.

  Okay, I’m sorry, but Johanna, I need to go. It’s a down day, darling, and you know what, you enjoy the flowers, okay. I’m going back to the dark corner in my bedroom to hold my knees before he starts screaming again or my throat swallows my face. I’ll use the hall stairs down, because I need to check something in Mop’s room. There’s a noise coming from there. Remember how Mop used to call out to me for water late at night, “Aunty, Aunty, Aunty”? I miss her sweet voice. I think she’s in there calling for me, “Aunty, Aunty, Aunty.” No, no, no! Johanna, NO! She can’t come visit us. No! I don’t think Mop’s really in her bedroom, but I’ll go check. Okay, love. Now rest. Enjoy the flowers.

  What is this noise coming from Mop’s bedroom? Scratchy, whiny. Stop!

  I’m closer now, down the hall stairwell to the second floor, not the stairwell in my bedroom, where I wish I could descend, straight to my dark corner. But this noise. I heard something faint this morning during rounds, but thought it was wind through the eaves. Now it’s louder. I really don’t want to look in Mop’s bedroom, the place where Cate laid out Kent, dead, on Mop’s bed. No! If I walk really slow past the doorway, maybe the noise will stop and Kent’s body won’t be in there again, dead again. But I need this noise to stop!

  I’ll pause here, outside Mop’s room, and look in.

  There’s Mop’s bed. Covers made. Pillows fluffed. Dust covering the dresser and desk. No one inside. But now that morning noise that grew louder is heard in a crystal clarity, ringing, singing, each syllable enunciated as a slap or morphed and scratched. All while I stand here staring in, hearing all, but seeing nothing.

  “Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty . . .” over and over. It’s like this morphed sound of Mop calling for me that drops into a modulated, demented voice and then a record scratch. Here it comes again, calling to me straight from her empty pillow. “Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty . . .”

  I don’t see anything or anyone in there. Right? Okay, breathe in. No Kent in the bed. But that noise! That calling! Is that him?

  Oh my God, please stop! Blink your eyes! See nothing!

  I can’t step into this bedroom again. No more blood down my legs. All that started in this godforsaken room. Maybe the calling for “Aun . . . ty” is from my dead child, screaming from the grave, which was no grave, was flushed down the toilet once the mass passed. Maybe that child is mocking my love for a child who is not mine, is my sister’s child. That must be what it is. My child laments from the sewer, angry that I love another child, who lives.

  “Aun .
. . ty, Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty . . .” It calls so loud and scratchy, demented, raking through my clawing hands, which cover my ears. I’m down on my knees in auditory pain.

  I have no right to love my sister’s daughter like she’s my child. I have no right to love anyone. Look what happens when I do.

  “Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty . . .” Sweet voice—to modulated demented—to record scratch.

  STOP! I stand up and run.

  I’m storming in the barn. Grabbing wood and a nail gun. I’ll board that damn room up, and the noise will stop.

  Okay, calm down, breathe. It’s okay, okay. You are okay. You are cradling everything you need. Remember what you learned in medical training. Remember! If you’re feeling out of control, take decisive action. You can do this. Calm the fuck down!

  I storm back up my stairs. I balance the loaded nail gun on top of two armloads of wood.

  “Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty . . .”

  Stop mocking me! Stop mocking me!

  I’m sorry, baby! I am! I have to do this.

  I’m turning the corner of the hall, see Mop’s room on the side, lit by the dim outside. Rain pricks at her windows. I can do this. I have to do this. You can do this. Go.

  Slam! Board one, crosswise over the doorframe.

  Nail gun, loaded and charged.

  With a metal pop, I sink the first nail.

  “Aun . . .”

  That’s right. Already your voice is muffled. This was a good idea.

  I can’t wait to finish and return to my dark, down-day corner.

  Johanna, from her deep sleep, begged for Mop today. I know. She did, right? I’ve been all day in my corner thinking on this and on the screeching I boarded to block from Mop’s bedroom. I walk past Johanna in the attic. I walk past her turquoise chair in the corner of the Mermaid Library. I walk to her ruined cottage, standing in the pricker bushes, looking at a hole.

  My God, I kept Johanna separate from Mop, but I didn’t mean to. Did I mean to? I kept her in a corner when we read in the center. I kept her in a cottage when we slept in the house. I keep her in the attic while we live out here in the world. I keep her to myself and away from Mop, so I can keep their love separate for me, but pull when I need. I need help.

  No, you must fix this on your own. Go back to your room, go back. A whistle of wind in the trees, is that Kent calling my name? Yes, it might be. Yes. No. He’s dead. I’ll go check.

  Aun . . . ty, Aun . . . ty . . . no!

  Not again!

  Three months ago

  The bitch in the barn with no muscles just woke up! Just now! This minute! She startled me as I moved to put new sheets in her cabinet. Wow! She’s screaming at me, but she can’t see anything. Her vision is blurred and her eyes mostly shut. She’s trying to lift her head, but she can’t. She has no muscles left.

  Wow!

  Doesn’t this mean Johanna will wake up too?

  Only one thing to do with the bitch.

  I reach under her bed. Extract a vial of pentobarbital, jam a quarter round in her neck, and race up to see if my Johanna is emerging too. I hope this vial’s potency hasn’t degraded over time. I’ll monitor.

  Johanna is somewhat waking, too, I think. To be safe, I’ll chain her leg to the bed so she doesn’t stumble around and fall down the stairs when I’m not watching.

  And still, that garbage human in the barn gets to wake up in a more definite way than my precious Johanna? No!

  No song for the bitch today! I will not sing for the bitch today, or play my mouth drums. No! No, no, no. Not fair. I whistle in the thistle, nope. Not for her today. How many times has she heard that song, every day for close to two years? She loves the number three. Maybe I’ve sung my two-line with drums song for her three million times. And she’s addicted to it, that’s why she woke up, because she’s dying to sing along. Well, no, no song for you today, bitch. Go back to sleep.

  Does pentobarbital’s effectiveness degrade over time?

  Did it work?

  I should know.

  I was a nurse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  AUNTY

  Yesterday

  “I whistle in the thistle, and I stop at the rock,” I’m singing to her. Did she flinch at my voice? I sometimes suspect she’s awake. Perhaps she fakes her condition? I wonder if I should jam another dose in her neck to be sure.

  Checking her body under her white linens, which she doesn’t deserve, I see only the typical twitches her body makes, driven by her central nervous system, but not by intentional command, I think. You could be wrong. Telling yourself things you want to believe. Stop. Hurricane Angelo is going to hit hard. I need to test the generator to ensure this side room retains energy.

  There goes her fluttering hand, rippling her covers, like a flustered mouse trapped in a pocket. Her breathing rattles as normal, check. Her pupils jump beneath closed lids, check. Her blood pressure, stable. Her pulse, steady. Check, fucking check.

  This room in my barn smells of sweat today—this is new.

  Is she awake?

  No movement. No, can’t be. Maybe, yes.

  That is sweat. Definitely a heavy wetness on the air, denser when I sniff her pits. Her hospital dressing gown is damp. Shit. Now I’ll have to rotate and change her. Bitch.

  This is the part I hate most about caring for this beast. I unchain her so I can move and roll her over, make sure she gets no bedsores, and prep to change her dressing gown, also deal with her catheter. This is a vulnerable time: she’s unchained, but I’ll work fast. It’s absurd to think I’m vulnerable. She’s in a drug coma. But is she?

  Is she?

  The light in here is natural day. I haven’t flicked on the overhead, no need. I prefer the mellow amber, as God intended indoors and out. An even, sedate amber, yes, is nice, but it is ruined by the stench of her sweat. So now it feels like dead amber.

  This psycho ruins everything.

  Is there anything worse than having to change her vile catheter? Nothing. Why do I do this to myself? I should stop feeding her, put a pillow over her blob face, bury her behind the barn, as I planned, along with . . . Fuck this. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now, months. Mop hasn’t noticed the two-people grave I’ve been digging out behind the back of the barn, beyond the hedge of brambles. The bitch needs to go. But Mop has seen her. Mop will ask questions. Mop is a problem. When she’s back from Cape Cod, I need to deal with her.

  I guess I’m gone now. A different person. Lost to who I was. I’m a plotter, and for no reason.

  No. Stop. Fight. You can be better again. Mop will help you.

  Maybe Mop wants to turn me in. Does Mop want to turn me in?

  If Mop turned you in, you’d get the help you need. This is no way to live.

  I’m staring at the wall in the side room, the side with the boarded window. Dipshit bitch is still out cold, but I swear she flinches when I touch her. I’m almost sure she’s faking. I need my instruments by the boarded window. I’ll test a few things.

  I move around the foot of her medical bed, stand before the boarded window.

  What’s that? Was that flashing outside? So clear, the flashes cut through a crack in the boards and through this sedated amber room. White on yellow.

  I’m peering through cracks between boards. I can’t see much at this angle and with such little space for viewing, but as I squint to perfect my limited vision, I’m sure. Yes, indeed, from high in my house, in the attic where Johanna sits in the rocker, yes, there come flashes of light.

  Johanna is signaling her flashlight “I love yous”? To whom?

  I look closer, squinting and squishing my face for vision of my front door through this crack.

  Mop. My God. That’s Mop, looking up at the attic from outside! She’s back from the Cape early. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. She’ll find Johanna! She’ll never understand. I need to get there, explain.

  “Hey, bitch,” comes her voice behind me.

  She wa
s awake. She is awake. Oh, shit, she’s awake. She’s still unchained.

  “That’s right, bitch. You heard me,” she says to my back. I’m wedged between her on the bed and the window, which I face. She should be unconscious in the hospital bed. She’s unchained. Oh God, no, she’s unchained.

  The sheets scratch the still air with her quick movement on the bed. The bed shakes, metal scratching the floor. Sounds like she’s positioning and steadying herself on her knees.

  “You fucking bitch. Yeah. You bet. I’ve been awake for months. Exercising my muscles when you’re not here. Been waiting on a perfect time, when I’m unlocked too long and you’re distracted, and here’s my chance.”

  As I turn, she jumps from the bed and out of the room.

  Gray clouds in my mouth. I can’t breathe.

  I round the end of the bed and realize I stalled too long in gray clouds. She’s returned, and she’s armed.

  The hatchet swings, thwack, hits my skull.

  I’m falling, hit the rails of the hospital bed along the way.

  Unsure of my injury, I’m seeing only black and warping light.

  What a merciful release, my insanity fades and sanity is attained in this white, white light. What drips from my brow, what liquid cascades down, I do not care.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  MOP

  Present time

  Everything fell apart fast after the woman in the barn entered the attic with Aunty’s hatchet, bloodied. I don’t know how she knew to find my companion and me here—perhaps she heard us. Maybe Aunty narrated to her as she attended her rounds, giving away her sister’s condition in the attic. Aunty doesn’t realize how she talks aloud, her inner thoughts.

  I also didn’t then know where Aunty was, or what this woman did to her with that bloody hatchet. The woman entered, blood splattered on her white-and-blue dressing gown, eyes wild and crazed, and demanded I unlock my mother’s ankle from the bed. She held the hatchet over her head as her motivating force.

  If I were to believe in such things, I might believe that the witchcraft that raised my mother’s body from the sea came with consequences, such as attendant evil as embodied in this bloody, hatchet-wielding woman. Like in Pet Sematary when the dead child rises from the grave as a tricked blessing, for he’s depraved and soulless and slices Achilles’ heels, literally and figuratively. But I don’t believe in such things. I don’t accept, today, one day later, although she lies upon my legs passed out, the hurricane rioting above, that this companion of mine is my mother. She is awakening, out here in the hurricane, a day after I found her. She arches her torso like she’s posing cobra in yoga.