Phantom Memory

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

The skilled-nursing facility was huge, hot, and horribly decorated. The pink paisley wallpaper, the dusty corners, and the yellow-stained running boards. Beige couches with the imprint of the last person who sat there. Spinning fans overhead, always on.

Dennis waited outside his mother’s room in the hallway. He looked down the hallway to the left. Then to the right. The hallway went on for at least 10 more doors then disappeared around a corner. The door in front had a douglas fir wreath. It was May.

The door to his mother’s apartment opened. It was the nurse.

“It was great chatting, Mrs. Williams,” the nurse said. “I’m going to talk with your son now, okay?” The nurse shut the door. Dennis thought he could hear his mother grunt or moan in response. He stepped towards the door. The nurse kept her hand on the handle.

“How’s she doing?” Dennis asked.

“She’s comfortable,” the nurse said.

“What else?”

“She needs to drink more water. She’s dehydrated.”

“I’m guessing diet soda doesn’t count as water?”

“Afraid not.”

“That’s about all she drinks.”

The nurse took her hand off the door handle. She crossed her arms.

“Mr. Williams, I—”

“Please. It’s Dennis.”

“Dennis. This isn’t working right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother is struggling. The loneliness, talking to herself, not talking to the others, refusing to eat or drink. This is regressive behavior.”

“What can you do?”

“We have her at the highest level of care we can offer.”

“And it’s still not enough.”

“It’s not enough. I encourage you to spend time with her, as much as you can. It’s a disease that affects everyone in the family. The more the whole family can be here and support her, the better.”

Dennis looked down the hall, over the nurse’s shoulder. An elderly man with a walker shuffled towards them. Dennis could hear the man’s shallow breaths, his diaphragm heaving each time he lifted the walker. Stooped over. Bald head pointing in front of him like a blunt spear tip, charging slowly into the hallway.

The nurse smiled at Dennis. She turned and walked down the hall toward the old man. She started saying something that Dennis couldn’t hear. The old man lifted his head, revealing a thick, wrinkled, smiling face.

The inside of his mother’s apartment was spartan and hotter than the rest of the facility. It smelled like the inside of a multivitamin bottle. Stale, organic, concentrated.

“Close the door,” his mother said in her gruff British accent. “You’ll let the cold in.”

His mother, Doris, sat in a large recliner.

“Ma, it’s a little warm in here.”

“Well, the concierge said it was a nice temperature.”

“That’s what you’re calling the nurse these days?”

“Nurse? Heavens. No. We’re just stopping over before we head to France.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

“Where’s your water bottle?”

Dennis looked around for the bottle. He moved into the kitchen. Opened the cabinets. He swiped a finger across the top of a plate. Dust was caked on his fingers. He tried the bowls. More caked dust on his fingers. He grabbed a glass. Rinsed it and filled it with water from the tap.

“Did I ever tell you about the Angels of Mons, dear?” Doris asked. Dennis placed the glass of water in front of his mother. He sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the room.

“It was a story my father told me,” she continued. “When he was in the Great War he was saved. They were fighting the Germans and it was all a terrible affair. Really, truly, terrible. But my father, your grandfather volunteered before he could be drafted.

“And he didn’t think they could win. They moved out to Belgium, which is a beautiful country. I’ve never been. But he told me it was at the beginning of the war.

“It was in Belgium that your grandfather held the line. They dug in at Mons. He told me they were outnumbered. Completely overwhelmed by the Germans.

“But the angels came. The spirits from Agincourt. Phantom bowman loosing arrows at the enemy. You can see it, can’t you? Whoosh!”

Dennis laughed at his mother’s pantomime.

“Did they win?”

“Of course. How do you think I was born?”