by Andrew Yake
There is a different side to this beautiful mind that I do not let many people, or any really, in on. I have a dark hobby that involves text books of a very different kind. Of course, this hobby has kind of opened up some doors that I am not sure that I like having open. For example, the nightmares are getting worse and I do occasionally hallucinate seeing my mother. I could be wrong. I may have actually been seeing and speaking with her, but this would lead to a much darker conclusion. Things that go “bump in the night” are real. I am not sure if I am ready to deal with that that reality just yet. After all, these things that are a part of the reality that I am sure of, make me rather socially awkward as it is.
Having a more mature sense of self and above average mental capacity does come with some perks. It can make mingling with those who are in school with me at college very fun. If for no other reason, I get to have conversations that are stimulating and can turn very funny when I say something that makes people uncomfortable. You should have seen it when I started talking about anal sex when discussing a patient with a perforated intestinal wall. I remember thinking that was highly amusing. While this type of joking is fun with my class mates, my Dad has never been comfortable with me making jokes of this nature around him. I came to realize during my musings that my father was still staring at me.
My middle-aged father, Greg, looks at me sternly as he continues to cook at the stove. His dark brown hair is parted in the middle and is stylishly longer on top and closely cropped as it tapers to his collar. It is slightly graying on the sides now and his closely trimmed beard is stripped with gray on the chin. He seemed to exude confidence and prosperity. He almost always seems to hold the posture of a career military officer. Many of the female students (and some teachers) have commented on how handsome my dad is. Although, it was the last thing that I usually wanted to hear, I have to admit that my dad does look good for his age.
“It looks like you were hard at work again last night.” He scrapes some eggs from the pan onto a plate that already had pancakes and bacon on it and then he places the plate down in front of me after scooting my text book off to the side. “Do you want me to drive you to the campus today?” He asks me this as he sits down to the table beside me.
His question makes me feel loved. He always did have a very nice way of putting my mind at ease during troubling times. After my mom died in that crash it had just been the two of us. Well, us and the Nanny that he had hired to help out around the house. “Nanny” seems to be a misnomer seeing as the Nanny was 6’2” and an ex-Army Ranger. His name is Dan. I love how my father has always taken care of me, or at least tried. It has been rough on him too. He never seems to have time for himself, between work and spending time with me. It occurs to me that he may not wish to have time to himself. I, more than anyone else, can attest that the mind is a frightening thing to be left alone with.
Fortunately, he does not often have time to contemplate all that he has lost due to his job as the chief of neurosurgery. I guess smarts run in the family, because he is very good at his job. I was even able to have an internship under my father for a semester. It was hard at first because none of the other doctors took me seriously. It was like it was a constant ‘bring your daughter to work day’. I still remember the look of pride on his face when I stood up for myself during a consultation and schooled one of the other physicians. This is one of the many memories that I cherish about medicine and being with my father.
“Um…” I take a bite of my bacon as I contemplate his question. “Sure, I mean if you don’t mind waiting for me to change.”
Dad takes a sip of his coffee and smiles. “Do what you have to do. I will be leaving at exactly 07:00.” He winks as he places his cup of coffee on the table and pours some coffee into a travel mug for me. I know that his time requirements are no joke and that he will leave with or without me. I glance at the clock. It’s now 06:35. I quickly take a few big mouthfuls of food and grab the remaining strips of bacon from my plate before I head to my room to shower and change in record time. I do not wait for the water to warm up before I jump into the shower. Fortunately, my hair is not too long so it doesn’t take long to wash, but it is still long enough that I can put it up in a ponytail. This means that I know that my hair will be damp when I get to class.
The cold-water washes over my bare skin and I will myself into believing that the water is getting warmer as I quickly wash myself. I think back to that night again while I am cleaning myself and feel my leg ache once more. The vision of my mother returns to my mind. I can almost smell her perfume over the smell of the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I hear her voice now softly talking to me, but I cannot seem to make out what she is trying to say. The cold water makes my right leg hurt worse. I feel my joints stiffen. It is time for me to get out of the shower. I quickly rinse off and get out of the shower and there, once again, is my mother standing before me. I can see her mouth move as I am frozen in place, naked and unsure what to do. Am I awake? Is this real? I see her mouth move again and this time I hear her voice lightly as she takes a small step forward.
“Be careful.”
Then she is gone. I reach for my pills that are above the sink. I pop a Vicodin into my mouth to distract myself from my leg pain. I know it is possible that prolonged use of narcotics can cause hallucinations, but this did not feel like it wasn’t real. Then again, most patients that I have seen that do hallucinate really believe that what they are seeing is real. I muse as I pulled on some underwear, grab my kaki cargo pants, and tennis shoes.
They were cute despite being a guy’s style of clothing. I put on a deep red V-cut tee-shirt that accented my feminine form. Lastly, I put my pills into my right front pocket and put my hair into a tight pony tail as I grab my jacket and head down stairs. I look at the clock as I hurry into the kitchen to gather up the remainder of my things. 06:58 Hot damn I am good. I feel the drugs pumping through me in a very comfortable way. I rush out the door and feel the cool wind blowing upon my face with the early morning sun. The cold feels good on my skin and braces me for the day.
I reach the car door and open it. “Damn again!”
“Ally! LANGUAGE!”
“Sorry Dad. I forgot my coffee. I will be right back.” I drop my bag into the back seat of his Town Car and start to head back in.
“Ally. I have your coffee right here. Get in.”
I smile as I turn around and get in the car. Dad smiles at me and shakes his head. I smile back. “Thanks Dad. You rock!”
“Hey it is not always easy being this awesome. It takes a lot of effort and getting down with the new kid lingo…” He starts backing out of the driveway. We are in the street and now facing the direction we need to go. I watch as he slides the gear shift into the drive slot. We start moving. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to look up what “Netflix and chill” really means?” He tosses me a sideways glance with a sly smile on his lips. “I cannot believe that you told me that I needed to find a girlfriend to do that with last week.” He laughs. I cringe.
“Yeah, well you were cramping my style.” I say in the most annoying Valley Girl accent possible in order to cover up how horrified I am that he actually looked up the meaning of what I had said. “Don’t you know that on Friday nights girls like me enjoy studying ahead in our classes?!”
“My bad. Here I thought that I was trying to get my little girl to relax and watch a movie with me. I had no idea what a bad influence I was being on you.” He smiles, but I can tell that there is a touch of sadness behind it. I immediately feel bad for pushing him away the other night, but I was in the middle of my extracurricular studies and I did not want him to see what I was reading.
“I am sorry if I hurt your feelings Dad. I will make it up to you tonight, provided you don’t actually have any female companion that you will be spending time with.” I cringe inwardly because I know that I am lying to my own father. I have plans that may take me away for a while and I know it will hurt him. I would rather not
hurt him, but I cannot risk getting him hurt with my extracurricular studies. So, I lie. I hate keeping part of myself hidden from him, but I doubt anything good would come of me asking him to a séance.
“Would you stop worrying about my love life and worry more about yours? Oh, by the way Dan will be picking you up after classes. You have your cell with you right?”
I reach into the front pocket of my jacket and pulled out my cell and show it to him. “Of course. Never leave home without it.” I grin at him. “And what are you talking about?”
“Huh?” My dad glances over at me momentarily.
“My love life? I don’t have one. I am only 15.”
“As odd as it may seem, I do actually care if you have a life outside of school and I do want you to be happy. I don’t want you to ever think that you need to shield me from that part of your mind.”
“Dad…” I groan, “I don’t like boys my age. I mean some of them look good, but then they go and open their mouth and I lose all interest.” I look down at my hands as I speak. I know that I want that for myself and that my Dad has a valid point, but I have never made time for that. I am willing to bet that it is for the same reason that my dad does not seem to make time for it either. I saw what my Dad went through when my Mom died. He basically shut down from the rest of the world except from me. It was as if a big part of him died with my mom. I noticed how he has not even attempted to be with another woman since. I do not ever want to go through the pain that I know he went through. He did his best to shield me from those emotions, but I could tell that they were there. The strange thing was, I also noticed that he stopped drinking after the accident. Most other people that I know and that I have read about end up drinking more after a big loss to fill the void, but not him.
The time fly’s by as we listen to my father’s favorite station. Classic rock, of course, is what’s on the menu this morning. I could picture him listening to these songs with mom when they were younger. It is one of the only things I don’t think changed after her death. When the song, “Carry On My Wayward Son” comes on we both smile and start singing along with Kansas.
The traffic was awful, but this is to be expected. New York City is not known for good traffic, but fortunately we actually don’t live that far from the hospital. Mount Sinai is home away from home for me and my dad. I guess that could be said for many people who work or are in school here, but I don’t care about them. As far as I am concerned it’s our house. It may have taken longer today than usual to arrive, but the drive with dad more than makes up for it.
The car pulls into the hospital parking garage. The school that I attend is part of the teaching hospital here. So, obviously I enjoy the days that I get to be in the same facility where my father happens to work. It is early for my class and he is on time for work. This gives me some time to enjoy simply being here. After he parks the car, we get out and I grab my bag. “I love you Dad. I will see you later tonight.”
He walks with me and leans over while we walk to put his hand on my shoulder. He leans down further while walking and kisses me on my head. “I love you too Shrimp.” I give him a kid-appropriate jab in his gut and smile. Then we part ways as he goes to one elevator and I go to the opposite side of the garage to enter a different elevator.
3
Zachariah
The first moments of consciousness hum through my ears along with the abrasive sound of my alarm clock. I reach over and lightly press the button that turns off the alarm. I still hear the TV going in the living room. No doubt my mother has fallen asleep again in front of the TV. I stretch out on my twin size bed that barely seems able to hold my tall frame. I am only 17 and already 6’3”. This, of course, comes with many advantages like having an incredible reach and towering over many of the others at work and in class. I am not just tall, I also have the body build of an athlete. My size is fortunate for where I live. It has helped me be left alone when it comes to people being aggressive. Well, except for one person, but I have never counted her. Well-muscled or not, no one messes with my mom.
Being built like a star athlete has some disadvantages also. There is the occasional prick that wants to prove how much of a badass he is by picking on the big guy, me. There are also the different athletic departments. I have often been approached by coaches asking me if I would like to compete in sports, but I never had any interest in such things. No, I have always been more interested in making sure that my grades stayed up so that I could get into a good school, or any school for that matter, and to do that I need to get scholarships because school is expensive. I have always been interested in the combination of medicine and technology. I have been considering becoming a psychiatrist so that I could research some ideas I have about the electronic impulses the brain has and how they affect mood. I have always had a knack for sensing the emotions of others, but I attribute this to the different smells that people have with any given emotion. I don’t know how to explain it. It is just one of those things I have always been able to do. It helps that I have the brains to go into any field, but I do not have the wallet to match my desires. Go figure, isn’t that always the case. Nothing ever seems to go easy for me. I have had to work full-time to make sure that me and my mother continued to have a roof over our head and food on the table. My mom makes money, but it seems to evaporate.
I sit up in my bed and silently listen to the ambient city life sounds of yelling and traffic outside my window. The Bronx is a rough neighborhood, but I call it home… for now. I did not always live here, but for the last 5 years I have gone to school here and called this small room home. What happened 5 years ago? My dad happened. He left and took my mother’s love for life with him. He is a bastard and that is all I have to say about that. My mom would smack me and has smacked me for suggesting this, but she is blinded by love. She insists that he was taken away against his will, but that is hard to believe when all of his stuff was gone when he disappeared.
I can call any place that I am in that moment home. I have learned a lot about survival and this tends to make it as easier when I am on the streets. But, truth be told, I could survive in the wilderness just as easily. I love working on computers and have a job in Manhattan doing just that, but I am just as comfortable camping. I was able to gain this comfort level by having the drive to stay away from my home. Basically, I do my best to stay away from home as much as possible. It is too difficult to stay on my mother’s good side and deal with all of the drama that goes along with my home life.
I spring out of bed and open a dresser drawer to grab a crisply folded white tee-shirt as I contemplate these things. I smell the clean fabric as it slides over my face and then I grab a fresh pair of pressed jeans from the drawer below and pull them on. I open the top drawer to grab a pair of socks. I choose the black cotton ones. I close the drawer and return to my bed. I make the bed quickly and expertly. In moments, the sheets and blanket look crisp and as if this bed could be shown in a magazine for OCD anonymous. Being hyper organized is one of the only ways that I have been able to cope with the relative clutter (emotional and physical) that my mother leaves in her wake.
I go to the foot of the bed and grab my black leather steel toe work boots. I lace them up. Now I take two paces from my bed to my small closet and pick out a crisp white button up shirt with my name sown onto the right breast pocket. I also grab my brown Caterpillar jacket and my book bag from the closet floor. I close the door to my closet and turn to regard my bedroom one more time before opening my bedroom door. Everything is in its place. Everything is in order, neat, clean, pristine. I run my hands through my short slightly longer than crew cut hair, breathe out slowly to brace myself for the mess that is to come, and then I open the door.
The smell is what hits me first. The smell of two-day old Chinese food sitting out and trash that never seems to have an end, mixed with stale cigarette smoke emanating from a make-shift ashtray. My mother lays sprawled out on the couch. She has passed out again with beer bottles littering
the couch and the table in front of the couch. Her clothes are stained and she is still in her grimy work jeans and button up blue work shirt that is completely unbuttoned and laying open revealing the wife beater tank top that she is wearing. This, too, is also stained and grimy. Her appearance is in stark contrast to my own. Her black hair is long and unkept with a scruffy appearance that is not often seen on women. She looks younger than she actually is until you look at her eyes and see that time is catching up with her. She works at an auto shop when she isn’t drunk, but mostly she simply does not ever seem to care that she looks like a homeless alcoholic mountain woman who stole somebody’s working clothes. I have seen her get dressed up before. She can look amazing, but it seems that those days are gone now.
I am caught between admiring her for working hard and hating her for taking out her frustrations on me when she gets depressed and angry. Unlike other women, when my mom gets depressed she gets violent, but who would believe that my sweet looking (she cleans up nice) petite mother could break my bones by grabbing my arm and squeezing really hard or that she is freakishly strong and can lift things that are way too heavy for most men. I sigh and start cleaning up quietly and collect the previous night’s trash and bottles. Damn she can drink! I make sure to get rid of the old food that had been left out and then I head out the door after grabbing my book bag that I had set down while I was cleaning. As I head to the big trash bin outside, I notice one of the other residents, a black man with graying hair and a kind smile. I nod a salutation to him. “Good morning Hank.”
“Hey boy, you stayin’ out of trouble?” The older man called out to me.
“Of course. Can’t say the same for my mom.” I say this as I heft the bag of trash into the large green metal trash bin and turn to face Hank.
“Yo’ mom works hard. You just need to take good care of her and you best not sass her. Hell, if I ever sassed my mom she would have put the fear of God in me!” Hank shifts his weight slightly and raises his hand to take another drag off of his cigarette. “You best respect your elders’ son. That’s what my momma taught me.”
