Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction Vol. 2

by G. Wayne Miller

  “Herbert?” she’ll say. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mother,” I’ll answer. Dr. Morton has said it would be unwise to correct her. So I play along, pretending to be you, until her poor decaying mind has moved onto something else.

  Dr. Morton is keeping on top of the situation. Everything he sees only confirms his diagnosis.

  Senility. Alzheimer’s, as I am told the specific diagnosis is.

  What loathsome words, Herbert. Even the feel of them on one’s lips is detestable. I wish there were some drug, some treatment, some magic wand to wave to reverse this curse. I’d spare no cost or effort in pursuit of it! But modern medicine, which does so much for others, can do precious little for these tortured souls.

  Enough of our troubles. The summer went by so fast here I barely knew it was gone. The old-timers say that means we’re in for a cold winter, but what do they know? I’ll await this year’s Old Farmer’s Almanac for my predictions.

  I know the demands of practicing law in New York are great, but I do hope you can soon find the time to pay us a visit. You always were her pride and joy, and it’s going on a year since last we had the pleasure of your company.

  Love to Mary and the children.

  Dearly,

  Sis

  October 12

  My Dearest Herbert,

  Mother slipped today attempting to negotiate the front hall with her walker. I found her in a heap on the floor, moaning and clutching her hip. I was sure, at first, it was broken again. They had to take her out in an ambulance.

  What a time we had in the emergency room before Dr. Morton arrived. I have to assume, based on their performance, that nurses and orderlies no longer receive training in bedside manners or common courtesy. Such rudeness! And when they discovered we are without insurance, why, they looked at me as if I had two heads! Thank the Good Lord I had the presence of mind to bring cash with me, and could demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt that we were perfectly capable of paying. Otherwise, they might actually have turned us away!

  As it turned out, the X-rays showed nothing serious (she had bruised her hip, not broken it, thank heavens), but they admitted Mother nonetheless for a period of observation and rest.

  No sooner did they have her up to her room than she began her screaming.

  I needn’t burden you with details of what ensued, but it was not an afternoon I shall fondly remember. As a result of all the hullabaloo, the hospital insisted that a neurologist be called in. He’s expected tomorrow morning, and Dr. Morton tells me we should have his report and test results in a day or two.

  I’ll let you know ASAP.

  Dearly,

  Sis

  October 14

  Dear Herbert,

  Dr. Thomason, the hospital neurologist, met with Dr. Morton and me for more than an hour this afternoon to discuss the implications of what he believes Mother has: indeed, it is Alzheimer’s disease.

  I gather from Dr. Thomason that it differs in certain respects from “ordinary senility.” As Dr. Thomason rather grimly explained, an autopsy of the deceased’s brain clearly shows a different damage than that caused by hardened arteries. The only definitive diagnosis, they assert. Well, i can certainly wait for that.

  Poor Mother. She deserves so much better than this.

  According to the doctor, Alzheimer’s can affect behavior in almost unimaginably diverse ways. It is a devilish affliction, Herbert, unbelievably cruel, like some sort of Pharoah’s curse. Patients are prone to sudden angry outbursts; emotions, it seems, are progressively under less and less control. Memory fades. Even the most simple tasks, such as dressing, become too much. Hardly unusual, Dr. Thomason said, are what he rather clinically called auditory hallucinations. Mother’s conviction that something inside her head is gnawing would fit that category.

  “Before, was she afraid of mice?” Dr. Thomason asked.

  ‘Terrified,” I answered truthfully.

  “Rats?”

  “Oh, my, yes. Father had traps everywhere to keep the place free of rats, mice, squirrels, raccoons.”

  “Rodents.”

  “Exactly. Insects, too.”

  Poor, poor Mother.

  There is no treatment for Alzheimer’s, no cure. God, how I wish there were. It hurts so terribly, to see Mother this low. Truly, my heart could break. The mere thought of it, and once again I am crying

  (later)

  Say a prayer for Mother, would you, Herbert?

  And while you’re at it, a quick one for me, too?

  Best,

  Sis

  October 21

  Dear Herbert,

  Hallelujah!

  Mother was discharged today. At Dr. Morton’s suggestion, I have retained the services of a young lady to assist us until she is back on her feet.

  This gnawing business seems to have subsided somewhatand the pills they have prescribed for the pain in her hip would seem to be responsible. Please don’t think me balmy, but I’d almost rather suffer her tirades than to have her as she is now. unspeaking, unmoving, so heavily sedated as to be barely awake. Fortunately, as her hip heals, they shall be cutting back on her medicine.

  For her convalescence, I have moved Mother downstairs to Father’s old suite in the East Wing; I fear that stairs will be too much for her for quite some time yet. I had Suzy, the lovely young lady, box all of his hunt ing trophies and various trinkets from his African trips and place them in the cellar. Then I had her get a cot down from the attic and move it into the library. There I shall sleep until Mother is able to return to her room.

  Received your letter of 10/17, and profoundly regret that you shall be unable to visit until after the first of the year. I can only say that you will be missed monstrously.

  For Mother,

  Sis

  November 23

  Herbert,

  Thanksgiving evening.

  The dinner has been all cleared away, the dishes are rattling about in the dishwasher, and Mother is finally (if uneasily) asleep. Laboring since before daylight, I managed to pull together our usual feast (candied yams, chilled cranberry sauce, turkey with chestnut and raisin stuffing, butternut squash, mincemeat and pecan pies, etc.), but Mother wouldn’t touch a bite Of it. Not even with a drumstick, her favorite from days of yore, could she be tempted.

  “Feed it to the rat!” she shouted, waving it by her ear.

  “Mother!” I protested, nearly choking on a boiled onion.

  “And why not! Maybe the damn thing is tired of eating ... my brain cells!” she said, laughing most hideously.

  “Mother!’

  “Maybe it would like a holiday treat!” she screamed. “Little turkey, little ratty?” she cackled.

  “Mother, I insist,” I demanded, reaching for the drumstick.

  “Get away, you fiend! I know about you and the rat! You can’t fool me! I know who your master is! You, in league with him! But you shan’t get me, no sir! Shan’t get me!”

  With effort, I was able to wrestle the drumstick out of her iron grip. What followed was the most horrible spewing of invective. Dr. Thomason told me to ignore such outbursts, as they are not really directed at me (or anyone), but that is difficult advice to remember caught in Mother’s crossfire.

  Wish I could be more upbeat.

  Perhaps it is the weather, which has been drizzly and foggy, with temperatures hovering near freezing.

  Yours,

  Sis

  December 26

  Dear Herbert,

  Snowed two days ago, a 14-incher that caught the weatherman by surprise, and so we had a white Christmas after all. The only thing missing was the tinkle of sleigh bells!

  Mother wasn’t up to getting out of bed, so Suzy and I lugged a small spruce from across the back field into the East Wing, decorated it, then spread presents underneath it. With assistance, she was able to open a few. I must tell you how she appreciated your slippers and bathrobe! In red, her favorite color, no less!

  No outbursts yester
day or today. How lucky we were. The Virgin Mary must be watching over us.

  Season’s best, Your loving sister

  January 14

  My Dear Herbert,

  Your accountant visited today, taking notes of the furnishings, Mother’s art collection, her china and silver, even Father’s wine cellar. He seemed quite surprised at all that Mother has crammed into this old place. In advance, thanks once again for doing our returns. I never was very good with figures.

  Some good news, however slight. Mother is able to get up and about a bit again with the assistance of her walker!

  On a less positive note, her gnawing complaints have intensified. I caught her with a dinner fork scratching at her ear this morning, and what a howl of pro test when I took it away. Suzy has been wonderful throughout everything, and I have taken it upon myself to give her a raise. In her lucid moments (which have grown distressingly scarce), Mother shows a genuine fondness for her.

  Hear Mother calling now, and Suzy out on errands.

  Must run.

  Sis

  February 12

  Dear Herbert,

  A terrible, terrible thing has happened.

  I have just returned from the hospital where Mother has undergone emergency surgery. She remains at this hour in serious condition in the intensive care unit, her prognosis a day-to-day proposition. Dr. Morton is not optimistic.

  I was in the library when I heard the screaming.

  Not her ordinary screaming (don’t think me callous, but I’ve become inured to that), but the most demonic, blood-chilling yowling I have ever heard. It was coming from the kitchen.

  I ran there immediately. Mother was seated at the table, holding a power drill to her head.

  Herbert, she had plugged it in and was boring into her ear. I tremble even now, writing this. The blood ... glistening, ruby-colored, and smelling of copper ... like one of Father’s deer after the hunt. I get sick all over again describing it. It was splattered and sprayed everywhere — on the table, the floor, the walls, Mother’s philodendrons and one of her oils.

  But that wasn’t the worst The worst wasn’t the crazed grin on her bloody lips. The worst was what was coming out of her mouth in an almost unintelligible voice:

  “I’ll get you, you little bastard! You can’t hide from me any longer! Come out and face the music, you fucking shit!”

  Yes, those were the very words she used

  It was then that I noticed she held, in her, other hand, a meat cleaver, with which I suppose she sought to slay her demon. To that point, I had been frozen in utter panic and fear. Somehow, Herbert, I got the drill and the cleaver away from her without further harm to her or me.

  But the blood, Herbert, the blood.

  I don’t know where this will all end. I am tired, dear brother, and more than a little afraid.

  If ever there was a need for, prayer, this is it.

  Sincerely,

  Sis

  February 15

  Dear Herbert,

  Mother slightly improved.

  Her wounds, while horrifying to the untrained eye, proved not to be as extensive as first thought. She has lost hearing in that ear, but the drill did not penetrate the skull, as initially thought. Dr. Morton is hoping for her to be home within a week.

  Now, as the shock subsides, I chastise myself endlessly for not cleaning out the closet where she found the drill. One of Father’s old saws was there, too. Can you imagine if she had found that instead? How could I have been so careless? So stupid?

  Oh, Herb. Prayers for us?

  Your sister,

  Ruth

  February 27

  Dear Herbert,

  Mother’s birthday today.

  Don’t ask me how, but I managed to fit all 88 candles onto the top tier! Mother, I fear, had no idea what the cake was for. She has not spoken since the incident with the drill, and her eyes have taken on a frighteningly glazed look.

  Outwardly, at least, she is recovering from her wound. I change the bandages twice daily, paint her ear with that foul-smelling ointment Dr. Morton prescribed, and try to make her as comfortable as possible. She is still bed-ridden and very foggy, although no longer complaining of gnawing.

  All for now,

  Sis

  March 2

  Dear Herbert,

  Nothing good here.

  Mother speaks only occasionally now; mostly it is incoherent or obscure speech. I honestly doubt she knows who I am now. Or you, for that matter. Her Alzheimer’s, Dr. Thomason said, seems to have taken an unusually fast and deep course.

  “You don’t have me yet, you fucker,” she’ll screech, making a feeble attempt to scratch her ear. Her language — you know as well as anyone how prim she always was.

  “She must have been terribly afraid of rats,” Dr. Thomason said.

  “She was.”

  ‘This goes deep, deep into her innermost fears.”

  (You remember, don’t you, Herbert, how terrified she was? How often the exterminator was out? How father would ridicule her? This, of course, before he himself lost command of his faculties.)

  At Dr. Morton’s suggestion, we have tied her hands so that she cannot poke at her wound.

  I don’t know quite how to put this, Herbert, but if you don’t visit soon I fear ... you will be too late.

  Please do consider it. If not for Mother, then for me.

  Yours,

  Sis

  April 5

  Dear Herbert,

  We are losing her.

  For three days, she has not eaten. Even her attempts at scratching have stopped. I fear the end is near.

  In my more philosophical moments, I understand it is all for the better, that her existence of late has been a living hell. I know that her final reward awaits her, and that she, more than anyone deserves eternal bliss. I know that hers was a good life lived charitably and honestly.

  I know all this, and yet I am saddened beyond words. Poor Mother.

  If only...

  But there are no more “onlys.”

  In sadness,

  Sis

  April 22

  Dear Herbert,

  I was not sufficiently pulled together on the telephone this evening to tell you the full circumstances of Mother’s death.

  I shall make a stab at it now.

  Suzy, who had the day off, had been gone an hour or more. I was in the front parlor, alternately reading and dozing in the sunlight, when I heard Mother. Long since, I have developed an ear for her every sound, but this was one she had not made before. This was a gurgling, such as is made when a clogged sink is opened.

  I rushed to her room.

  She was as we had left her, on her back, all but her neck and head covered by a quilt, oblivious to her surroundings. At first I thought I must have imagined the sound as there was no evidence that she, at least, had been its source. Then I heard it again. Looking carefully, I saw slight movement about her lips, curled slightly open to reveal her teeth. As I watched, unsure what was unfolding — unsure what to do — her teeth slowly parted, as if to speak.

  But she did not speak.

  Her mouth continued to open, and then, preceded by a small volume of drool, blood began to gush freely from her mouth. It flowed over her tongue, past her lips, dampening her quilt, discoloring her chin. Blood, and more blood. I was panicked, of course. My head felt light, the room suddenly too warm. In the midst of her bleeding, her head began to thrash violently. Her nose turned up, and her eyelids began to flutter, and then — then, in the midst of this epileptic nightmare — it crawled out of her mouth.

  I say it, Herbert, for lack of a better term. Never have I seen, or heard or read of, such a thing. It was the size of a small mouse. It appeared not to have fur, but rather a colorless, moist skin resembling the underbelly of a common newt. If it had eyes or ears, I did not see them. I saw only legs, and a snout, lined with teeth. If the devil keeps a pet, this surely must be it.

  I know what you must be th
inking. I would be thinking it, too, were this narrative yours. Please be easy on me, my dear brother, as this is a most trying time. I cannot describe how distraught I am. But I assure you, as God is my judge, I was not seeing things. As I watched in total terror, this ... this... thing crawled nonchalantly across the bed, dropped to the floor, skittered across to the closet and disappeared inside.

  I don’t know, how long I stood there, frozen, unable to collect my thoughts. I only know that when I finally dared to close the closet door, and cover Mother’s face with another quilt, and call Dr. Morton to tell him the awful news (not about what I had seen, of course), the sun had nearly dropped behind the horizon.

  I need your prayers.

  Expect to see you at the funeral. Of course I’ll call with details as soon as I have them.

  In deepest grief,

  Sis

  April 27

  Dear Herbert,

  Terribly disappointed you were unable to return to the house after Mother’s funeral this a.m. Most of Sugar Hill came back, and while the mood was far from festive, it was not absolutely grim, either. Among those who knew her the best, I think there is an unspoken but very real sense that she is better off now.

  In all the confusion, I have forgotten to tell you what happened to ... it.

  The day of Mother’s death, as I have already related, it disappeared into her closet. Sometime during that night (after Mother’s body had been taken away, but well before dawn), I summoned the courage to load one of Father’s shotguns and open the door. I expected it to scurry toward freedom, at which point I was prepared to destroy it, even though my heart was in my throat. But nothing emerged. It apparently had eaten its way into the walls, for I found signs of fresh gnawing in the plaster.

  I spent the rest of the night frantic with worry. I could not sleep; not even warm milk would help. I was already overwhelmed with grief, and now — this thing, loose somewhere in the house.

  Finally, I seized upon a place. I would get on of the old Havahart traps Father used to set, and I would bait it with a piece of meat. This I did, leaving it in Mother’s closet that morning while I went off to make the funeral arrangements.