Deprescience
(a short, short story)
As a child, our son Timothy told his teachers he was
adopted. During adolescence, he wailed in misery, certain that his best friends
had moved away. By age twenty, Timothy’s grief sank into glum desolation, and
he would lie on the bed all day, bemoaning an imaginary poverty. None of his
therapists could free him from his flawed perception of loss.
Saying, “sign up or move out,” my husband Bill and I finally
pushed him into enrolling at the community college, where he takes literature
courses. Now in his early twenties, Timothy sits at home reading novels or
staring into the tropical fish tanks.
One Friday afternoon when I came home from work, I found him
eating a bowl of ramen noodles at the breakfast counter.
“How’s your day been?” I asked.
He pushed a paper toward me across the counter. The letter
“A” and the word “Incredible!” were scrawled in red across the top.
“You won’t want to read it,” he said in a monotone. “It’s
the same stuff about my family and friends who disappeared.”
I had stopped arguing with him years ago — stopped telling
him in hysterical terms how we were his natural parents, that his memories were
false, that he had not been robbed of a fortune and no one had abandoned him.
“Writing is a healthy outlet for you, Tim,” I said.
He gently cleared his throat. “I suppose.”
“I’d like to read it.”
He just shrugged his shoulders, slid off the stool, and put
his empty bowl into the dishwasher.
“Your dad and I plan to see Grandma Ostenson tomorrow at the
hospice center,” I said. “She won’t be around much longer. Will you come with
us?”
“Grandma Ostenson? Why? I never visit her.”
“You won’t have another chance.”
“I mean, I don’t even know her.”
“My mother was troubled,” I said.
Tim blinked like he usually did before an emotional episode.
“She’s barely aware. She’s going to die when we get there, anyway.”
“You’d be keeping us company.”
He looked at me with something like pity for a needy
stranger. “Yeah, I would be.”
“Do you have plans for the weekend?”
He whisped air from his nose at my absurd question.
“Well,” I said, “I’m putting my feet up for a few minutes
before I start supper. What would you like?”
“Nothing. But thanks.”
I took Timothy’s paper upstairs, thinking that I’d fall
asleep during the second paragraph, but I didn’t. Instead, I moved to the
window for better light. Ever since he was little, Tim had communicated his
delusions, but never with such realism, and never with any rational
perspective.
The prompt had been, “Your fountain of joy.” Tim had written
about a wife and children, a career as a novelist, acclaim from intelligent
readers, pleasure in research and storytelling, satisfaction in hard physical
work, and purpose from sharing life with others.
But the ending of the essay… The last paragraph said, “Only
recently have I realized that the memories exist merely in my head, fixed there
forever, as if a malicious scientist planted them to torture me, which means
they will never give joy, but will always burden me with the pain of
separation. My hope is that someday the pain will subside.”
#
When we arrived at the hospice, Mom was propped up on
pillows; her eyes were open and her breathing was labored. After a while, she
said, “It’s nice to see you.”
I babbled on as if she understood every word. Between her
cat-naps she appeared to enjoy our company, especially Timothy, who sat next to
her. When I mentioned his paper, she said, “Read it to me, please. Read it
all.”
“Sorry Mom, we didn’t—” Bill said, but Timothy was pulling a
copy from his pocket.
As Tim read, her mind seemed to open like an evening
primrose and when he reached the end, she said, “I remember that story… I’ve
seen it before.”
“What do you see, Grandma?” Tim said.
She fumbled and took his hand. “Timmy?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Dear child, it’s a gift. Those people and experiences you
feel are gone—they’ve not come to you yet. Your memories aren’t memories.
They’re visions of your future. I had the same condition.”
“We’re clairvoyant?”
She nodded faintly. “Until I resigned myself to loss, real
or not, I couldn’t be thankful for the present… for the people in my life. I
prevented my joyful future. Accept your losses, baby, even self-inflicted ones.
Give and receive love.”
She drifted into unconsciousness again and then stirred enough
to say, “I wish I’d known you, I could have told you before. But, I’m glad… you
came to visit.”
Timothy looked at his grandmother and blinked rapidly, her
words working in him, maybe re-forming his life as we watched. He then gathered
his father and me into his arms and cried unashamedly. We wept with him. At
last when all this new grief was purged, we saw that my mom was gone, her
breath stilled, her face serene.
We watched in silence until Bill said, “Tim, go tell them at
the desk, okay?”
After Tim rinsed his face and left, I asked Bill, “What do
you think about the family gift?”
He touched Mom’s hand and sighed. “I’m not sure. You don’t
have it.”
I walked to the door. Down the hallway, Tim was leaning
against the counter at the nurses’ station.
A minute later he returned, his face wearing an allusion to
a smile. “They’ll be here soon,” he said. “No hurry.” Another silent moment
passed until Timothy said, “What’s the name of the duty nurse? The young one.
Brunette.”
“Margaret,” I said. “She’s vivacious, isn’t she?”
“She looks familiar.”
“She likes good literature, Tim,” my husband said.
Timothy blinked and said, his voice caught between a sob and
a laugh, “Yeah, I know.”
END
