Infected

Mama

"Mama?"

I'd always called her that. From day one she was never Mommy or even Mom, she was Mama. But today saying the word tore me apart. It's the kind of pain that you feel when you've lost hope, when there is no answer for what is happening before you. You resort to saying the words that may change everything, bring things back to the way they were.

The doctors thought that by calling her familiar names she would gain some awareness but it hasn't worked. Just like the cocktail of pills they couldn't guarantee that their methods were really the best solution for her.

I rub my face, irritated by her lack of acknowledgement. My mother sits across from my seat in the private visiting room, staring at the wall behind me, her once crystal clear hazel eyes now glazed over from pharmaceuticals. She doesn't give off the appearance of a psych patient, then again no one does, but she looks the same as the day she was placed here. She still has her laugh lines etched around her full lips. Her hair, though dry from the lack of proper care, is still wildly curled, stopping just at her shoulders.

I lean forward and wave a hand over her face. She doesn't react, eyes still dazed and fixed on the wall. This is a new symptom to add to the ever growing list. The last time I visited she could speak, telling me memories of Dad but unable to conjure any about me. She'd lost any association with me the moment she was admitted.

"Mama, come on. It's me, Ellie." I whisper. The doctors are on the other side of the two way mirror, taking notes of our interactions, trying to find hope in an otherwise hopeless realm of psychopathy.

I take out my last resort, a letter my dad had written when they were dating. I unfold the worn down paper, reciting the lines perfectly. last time this worked, maybe it'd be no different now.

"Dot..." I begin glancing at her face. This was my dad's nickname for her, she hated her full name just like me. "It's hard to believe we will be together again after so many months. Now I know what they mean by distance and the heart. It drums to the thought of having you in my arms again. I look at the carnations that bloom outside my window and can only think of how they pale in comparison to your beauty. My sweet Dot...."

Mama makes a sound, it's small, barely passing her lips as a sign of recognition for my father's words. He was a poetic man, always wooing her with his unique way of showing love. It was like the fairytales they'd read to me at night.

Dad's funeral was a month ago today. Mama would most likely never know that her husband had left the earth. I had her transferred to a new facility, far from Texas and closer to me. Massachusetts assured me it was the best option for her. They offered recreation and plenty of sunshine for the residents, they even told me about the plots of dirt they reserved for whoever wanted to use them. I came by today to see how her progress was, but the move must've put a wrench in her recovery, or whatever bullshit excuse her psychiatrist was trying to feed me.

I fold the letter and put it in my jacket. Tears dance on the edge of my eyes, blurring her emotionless face.

"I love you." I say, leaning forward to give a kiss on her forehead. She smells like her shampoo, lavender and rosemary. I stand from my chair, clearing my throat and wiping my eyes. "I'll see you soon Mama."

She doesn't respond.

I softly close the door behind me and prepare for the trio of doctors to ask me if there was any change in my mother.

Dr. Mitchell, one that seemed too old to be treating anyone's psyche, is the first to ask, "How did she seem Lorelei?"

"She's mute Mitchell, what more were you expectin'?" I drawl. I hadn't gotten a hold of my accent yet, and it still found its way into my voice when I was annoyed or speaking to my mother.

"Did she respond to the letter?" Dr. Lennox, a pudgy man with aggressive rosacea, asks.

"It's the same letter I read to her in Texas. And I've been reading it for years."

"But it's hindering her recovery Lorelei. If she doesn't speak then how will we know her levels?" Dr. Olsen states. If you could turn a dung beetle into a man, you'd get Tyler Olsen. He's a younger doctor, and why he chose to work in a high security psychiatric hospital is beyond me, even if it was in the wing meant for less violent patients. Maybe it's to fill that stupid head of his with hot air. He always had issues with my indifference to my mother's state. Once you've been through dozens of doctors who were so lost in her symptoms that they couldn't even tie their shoes, you lose respect for one's who try to boss you around.

"You know what might help is having her go outside." I suggest, my lips turning into a hint of a sneer. "She used to garden, I brought some safe supplies for her to use. Why don't you try that out for size instead of shoving more pills down her throat."

"Are you suggesting we're just doping her up?"

"I'm suggesting that there is more to do than just medication. She's not budging with talking. Maybe she's uncomfortable, it's a new place for her. The change in scenery could be making her unstable."

Dr. Lennox pushes his glasses up with his chubby finger, "We'll try that out. Thank you Lorelei."

"Are you going to be playing again today?"

"Sure." I walk though the men and head towards to common area. On the far wall is an upright piano, made out of yellowing oak and scratched to hell. I take a seat and toss my hair over my shoulders, clearing my view of the stained keys.

I play a somber tune, reflecting the mood that was plaguing my head. 

"Ex-excuse me."

I turn my head, still moving my fingers along the piano. It's a young man, with dirty blonde hair that's buzzed short. His blue eyes sparkle at me with a nervousness you'd see in a child.

"Do you know Over the Rainbow?"

I nod and tilt my head over to the seat near me, changing the chords to match the song he wanted to hear.