Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting we cut our subsidies to our mothers.”

Alan knitted his brows. “Where will they go? They certainly can’t afford Alexandria Acres.”

“I’m not suggesting that we don’t help them out. I’m just suggesting that they go someplace less expensive. There are reasonable state-run facilities.”

Alan twisted his face in horror. “Have you ever been to a state-run retirement home?”

“Have you?”

“Yes. My uncle Chester was in that place in Manassas. It smelled like death, the food was awful, and, even with people dropping like flies, it was overcrowded.”

“Well, we’d have to find a decent place.”

“I’m against it. They don’t have many years left. It’s our responsibility to take care of them.”

“You’re afraid to tell your mother, aren’t you?”

Alan flushed scarlet. “It’s not about that. It’s about doing the right thing. Plus, it’s really convenient having them in the same place. What if we move them, and they don’t want to live at the same place?”

“So, we’re supposed to bankrupt ourselves to take care of our eightysomething mothers?”

“If we have to.”

Naomi frowned. “Well, I’m against that.”

“Let’s give it some more time.”

“Fine, but if your mother makes another racist comment, I’m walking out.”

“She’s from a different time.”

“I don’t care.” Naomi turned from Alan and gazed out the window.

The autonomous sedan exited 495 South, turning onto Braddock Road. Naomi, knowing they were getting close, dug in her purse and retrieved her makeup mirror. She opened the mirror, checked her face and hair. Even at fifty-two, her dark skin was smooth and even. She wore little makeup, just a little to accent her eyes and her full lips. If it wasn’t for her close-cropped gray hair, she could pass for thirty.

The sedan idled in front of the high-rise. An ambulance parked in front of the emergency entrance. Naomi stepped from the car, waiting for her husband. Alan exited the car, all gangly arms and legs, like a human spider.

He held a bouquet of roses for his mother. It wasn’t her birthday, but Alan often brought her gifts. Now the ritual was expected, his overtures rarely eliciting a positive grunt much less a thank-you. Alan offered to pick up flowers for Naomi’s mother as well, but the old woman wasn’t interested in watching something else die. As they walked through the automatic doors, the car drove toward the parking area.

Inside, the lobby was marble floored and nicely appointed with leather couches, a massive fireplace, and fresh flowers. Alexandria Acres was one part hospital and one part high-end hotel. Residents had to be buzzed in and out, as did their guests.

Naomi and Alan approached the front desk and waved their hands over the chip reader. The receptionist checked their credentials, smiled, and unlocked the door leading past the lobby. They took the elevator to the eighth floor, then walked to room number 852.

Nurses and orderlies walked along the halls. The eighth floor was a monitored floor, for residents who couldn’t live without help. Six months ago, Naomi’s mother, Bea, was on the twenty-second floor in an independent apartment. However, after she was found roaming around the city of Alexandria in her bedclothes, she was moved to the eighth floor.

Alan set his flowers on the floor just outside the room. Naomi knew he didn’t want to explain that the flowers weren’t for Bea. Naomi knocked on the door and stepped into the room. Bea sat upright on the inclined bed, streaming some old movie. She was a tiny woman with a prune-like face.

“Hi, Mom,” Naomi said, approaching the hospital bed.

Bea squinted at Naomi, as if trying to place her. “Oh, hi, dear. What are you doing here?” She turned back to the screen and said, “Genie, pause the movie.”

“Movie paused,” a female voice said from the speakers, the movie now stilled on the screen.

Alan entered the room.

“Alan and I are here to visit. I told you that we were coming.”

“Hello, Bea,” Alan said with a wave and a grin.

“Alan, honey. Look at you,” Bea said. “Either you’re getting taller or I’m getting smaller.”

Alan chuckled. “I think I’m too old for growth spurts.”

“Well, sit down. Stay awhile.”

They moved two chairs near her bedside and chatted for the next hour. She was having a good day.

“Well, thank you two for coming to visit,” Bea said, as the conversation fizzled. “I do cherish our time together. If you talk to Joshua, make sure that boy comes to see me. I can’t remember the last time I saw your brother.”

Naomi and Alan gave each other a pained look.

“Mom, Joshua died in Syria almost thirty years ago,” Naomi said.

Bea scrunched up her face and looked away. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed the corners of her eyes. Finally, she turned back to Naomi and Alan. “Of course. I remember. Sorry.”

They hugged and said their goodbyes. Alan scooped up the flowers from the floor, and they rode the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor. On the way, he sent a text to his mother, letting her know they were in the elevator.

At room 2413, Francine greeted Alan with air kisses and a distant hug. Naomi received a curt handshake. Francine was a tall, thin woman, with the posture of a finishing-school valedictorian. They sat around the dining room table, sipping tea, the roses in a vase.

“How are things on Capitol Hill these days?” Francine asked Naomi.

“Change is slow, but I think it’s coming,” Naomi replied.

“Change isn’t always for the better. A lot of change happened in my lifetime, and most of it’s been bad. I remember when people were proud to be Americans. Now everybody is from some other place. Why do they come here if they like their country so much?”

“Immigrants should bring their culture here, and we should embrace it. We’re lucky to have the best people from all over the world.”

“Come on. This isn’t the campaign trail.”

“Now, Mom. Be nice,” Alan said.

Francine waved her hand, dismissing Alan. “Naomi’s a big girl. I’m sure she can handle a little debate. If she can’t handle an old lady, what will she do with those snakes in DC?” Francine looked at Naomi. “You’re not one of those offended liberals, are you?”

“Depends on what you say,” Naomi replied, sitting ramrod straight, her dark eyes narrowed at the old woman.

“See? That’s the problem with all this speech control. It’s fascism. That’s what it is. We used to have freedom of speech in this country.”

“We still do, but there are restrictions. You can’t incite violence, and you can’t use hate speech.”

“It’s the most ridiculous thing.”

“The legislation has really helped marginalized groups and people of color,” Alan said.

“It’s a bunch of white liberal guilt,” Francine said.

“Do you think people should be allowed to use the N-word?” Naomi asked.

“Black people use it all the time.”

“People of color,” Alan corrected.

“There has to be context too,” Naomi said. “People of color do use that word, but more often than not it’s to take away the negative power of the word. It’s about overcoming the oppression of the word. In general, it’s not a hateful context.”

“And who determines the context and what’s hateful and what’s not?” Francine asked.

“Ultimately, a judge and a jury.”

Francine shook her head. “That’s the problem with this country. We used to work hard. We used to build things and win wars. Now everyone’s too busy being offended by words. What happened to sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me ?”