Helen Phillips - Some Possible Solutions

Yet these distinctions between the old — perhaps they are mostly imagined. In truth they are lined up there in the hallway like one enormous, indistinguishable beast that smells of urine and overcooked fish.

Passing them is like passing down a gauntlet. We cannot decide if it is better to avert our eyes or to smile. We cannot tell if they are staring at or through us. Do they know that they are old, and that they stink?

It’s like something from a fairy tale: Once upon a time, in the castle of the ancient ones. At least this is what we try to tell ourselves.

* * *

My sister doesnot exactly belong here. She is five decades younger than the others who live in the rooms lining this hall. Yet she is retarded enough to fit in. (Please don’t use that word. Please don’t even think it.) Yet she is (handicapped? disabled? crippled?) enough to fit in. Yet she is ________ enough to fit in. Like them, she cannot walk. Cannot feed herself. Wears diapers. Sickens easily. Is prone to fatal pneumonia. Because she cannot talk, we have nothing to await aside from her smiles. This can cause boredom, impatience.

Yet she is magical enough to fit in. Yet she is mystical enough to fit in. A beautiful anomaly in the stinking castle of the ancient ones.

Before she was quarantined in her room, the old folks fawned over her, or so the nurses tell us.

* * *

Once upon atime, a beautiful young woman married a handsome young man. They had a splendid baby girl, but the baby was cursed.

Here’s what happened: the baby girl was born normal — perfect, precious, flawless, adorable, charming, cute, cuddly, lovely, sweet, dear, darling, delightful, beautiful, winsome, bonny — but just before her first birthday she forgot the few words she had learned. Her legs went limp. Her eyes crossed. Her hands wrung. Her tongue lolled.

It was difficult to get excited about the offspring that followed.

(A medical explanation, please? Eventually the girl was diagnosed with Rett syndrome. Reye’s syndrome? No, Rett syndrome. Tourette’s syndrome? No, Rett syndrome . Like Rhett Butler? Sure, minus the h . I’ve had Rhett syndrome my whole life! So, what is it? A neurological disorder occurring in one in twenty thousand live female births. Only girls? They’re born completely normal, then stop progressing. Life expectancy? Unknown. Likely causes of death? Pneumonia; compromised lung function due to scoliosis and difficulty swallowing.)

* * *

Now, my husbandand I are identical to what my parents were then. Just as beautiful, just as hopeful. Newlywed . A buoyant word.

I have no appetite here.

It smells like pee. My hair smells like pee.

It could happen to us.

We wish to bestow upon my parents a possible night from three decades ago. Make them young again. Put them on our cheap sun-stained couch. Wrap them around each other. Interweave their fingers. On TV, a black-and-white movie. In mugs, thick hot chocolate. October darkness beyond the window. The warm weight of an Indian blanket.

Her favorite movie: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers .

Her age: 29 years, 26 days.

Number of calories consumed today: 225.

Description of solid waste produced today: One marble-sized, green-brown.

Description of liquid waste produced today: Two diaperfuls of dark yellow urine.

* * *

At the Vietnameserestaurant, ravenous, the four of us raise our water glasses.

Gloriously we celebrate minuscule miracles: the consumption of over 200 calories, the emergence of a tiny turd, the upturn of half the mouth in a ghost of a smile.

A spring roll. A vegetable pot. A peanut curry. Brown rice. All so easy to eat. We have no trouble chewing anything and no trouble swallowing it either.

Then my father says: “No parent should have to prepare for the death of a child.”

His head heavy in his hand, his elbows at odd angles on the table.

A glass of beer, close to empty. The beer flat, ungolden, mostly saliva.

My mother misplaces her expensive sunglasses at the Vietnamese restaurant. At a time like this, such a loss should be a matter of indifference, yet instead it contributes to the sensation that soon absolutely everything will be lost.

* * *

My husband andI insist on spending the night. My parents must be relieved; this is why we have come, to relieve them. The nurses wheel in a small bed. It has a pink polyester coverlet. We have to wear long sleeves to protect ourselves from the scratchiness of this coverlet. We have to sleep on top of each other. Every two hours they come in. They check the IV. They make sure she hasn’t fallen out of bed. Not that she could. It affords her a certain dignity, that they treat her as though she might be capable of propelling herself out of bed.

Help : the lady across the hall stays up all night just to say it.

My husband whispering: The sound of your sister’s limbs rustling against the sheet. That’s the same sound as anyone’s limbs rustling against a sheet. In the dark there’s no difference between her and you.

This should be called the Death Care Center.

God it’s hot in here isn’t it?

Actually I’m cold.

* * *

The morning nursesays the night nurse said she’d never seen two such beautiful young people sleeping.

* * *

My husband andI escape to the grocery store across the highway, where we stand at the magazine rack flipping through shiny magazines, entranced by the glimmering faces. We have to rip ourselves away.

* * *

Upon our returnwe pass through the gauntlet of old people lined up in the hallway after breakfast.

There go the young ones, the dead man says.

The others nod; or perhaps they don’t. God it smells like urine.

Maybe it is not that they are a gauntlet but rather that we are a parade.

In my sister’s room, the sunflowers have blown over in a midmorning wind. Water all over everything. The floor treacherous. In bed, my sister kind of smiles.

On the TV, the climax of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Come on, everyone! Milly — Milly’s havin’ her baby!

* * *

Helen! someone issaying out in the hallway. Helen! But this person, thank god, is not talking to me. Helen! Come back! This way! Your room is this way, not that way! Helen glides slowly past the doorway with her walker. Her head stooped over to rest atop her low breasts. She is wearing a tracksuit of forest green velveteen, a material that belongs in a fairy tale. This way, Helen! This way! I am comforted by the kindly, persistent nurse who keeps repeating my name. Bless that nurse, and bless Helen.

* * *

My father’s exhaustionexpresses itself as a bony lump on each shoulder, his skeleton beginning to show.

My mother’s exhaustion expresses itself via the capillaries in her eyes, which are, quite literally, bloodred.

I wish they were my own two children. I would bake them pies, put them to bed.

And the boredom. A half-teaspoon bite, wait forty-five seconds, watch for the swallow. A half-teaspoon bite, wait forty-five seconds, watch for the swallow. An hour and a half for the consumption of 200 calories. Don’t underestimate the tedium.

Walking around the nearby lake we see two boys throwing rocks at ducks. We see lake grasses that are red, purple, orange. We see a man torturing three fish. There’s nothing wondrous in life.

An error in the feeding process could be fatal. The pathways inside her are frequently confused, the muscles of the throat slow to react. Food slips easily into her lungs, where it rots.

* * *

Across the highway,a National Historic Landmark. A covered wagon, a homestead. Our shy tour guide barely dares speak a word. In the main room we run our hands over the huge logs. We learn that originally mud and honey were used to seal the cracks — replaced now, of course, by concrete. There are many large stone fireplaces, and an entire room devoted to the craft of spinning wool. I attempt this, a girl in a fairy tale, gingerly, my foot on the pump and my fingers on the wheel, trying to please the softly smiling tour guide, trying to please my father, my husband, trying to make this day feel normal, delightful, this tour something more than a distraction.