A Strange Illness

I go in and clean around her. That’s what I do. I don’t have time to ask her why she’s lying like that. She’s not, uh, uh, physically sick, I know that. She’s on the bed, and she’s like this, like this. She’s lying on the bed. Can’t get up, I guess. I don’t know. I talk to her, because I’m not rude. I know I’m not getting any kind of tip from her, but nobody gets tips here, so that’s fine. I ask her how her day is even though I know she hasn’t gotten out of bed. Does she eat? I don’t know. You think I’m going to ask her if she eats? How is that my business? She’s got a strange illness, I think. I’ve heard about that. People with strange illnesses. They go catatonic almost, but not really, because when you’re catatonic, you can’t talk. She can talk. She tells me about being a kid and setting her house on fire. Who sets houses on fire? Kids don’t do that. I raised two kids. Neither one of them ever lit a house on fire. But this woman? She did it. That’s what she says. She could be lying, but I don’t know. Why would she lie about so bad? You lie about something good. You say something’s good when it’s not. You don’t lie and make yourself look bad. Who does that?

. . . . .

I wouldn’t expect her to remember me. I thought when she heard my voice, it would jog something loose from her mind, but clearly, it didn’t. She thinks I stay in bed all day. I don’t know why, but I know that’s what she thinks. She brings me little snacks. Things I can’t eat, but I thank her. Chips and things. Under the covers, I’m just wearing a bra and these shorts I brought with me that my husband used to wear when he played basketball. She offered to brush my hair once, and I told her that it wasn’t necessary. I tried to say “No” as nicely as possible. Is that the way to do it? It’s not necessary. Talking about necessity. Is that the way to go?

. . . . . .

I raised two kids. Two of them. Two kids who never did a thing wrong. Never started one fire.

. . . . .

What did she tell you? About the fire? About how it started?

. . . . .

Don’t go getting short now. You have to let it roll slowly. You have to unfurl it. Don’t you know? Don’t you know how to do it? You had me say all that, and now you want me to say one or two words and have that be it? And you wanted me to come back here. You asked me to step back in and talk about her in the bed. Lying in the bed. Seeing it everyday. And she told you I brought her snacks, and she wasn’t supposed to say that. I don’t care whether it’s true or not. It’s not for you to know. Not everything is for you to know.

. . . . .

I’m not surprised. She’s always been like that. We had to keep things secret that weren’t even secrets. Just things about…Things that weren’t scandalous. Nothing shameful. And her trying to control the amount of space she has. I’m not shocked at that. She would come into my room when I was a child and talk about how much space I had. So much room you get. As though I, the child, had chosen the room. As though I were making it bigger somehow. When she couldn’t blame me for something, she would assign these powers to me. Illogical things. And she would say, and I bet she would still say, that I never got out of bed. I bet my life she would tell you that.

. . . . .

Uh, uh, uh, I get flustered. I get flustered, yes, and what does that prove? What does it mean to you that I get flustered? I’m upset. Do you expect me to not be upset? She won’t get out of bed. And she’s acting like I know her, and I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. And she’s trying to make it sound like she’s my kid or something? I have sons. Two sons. So who is she meant to be then? Not a child of mine. I don’t have any other children, and I don’t have any daughters. I would never have a daughter. Somebody tried to give me a daughter once, and I gave that girl right back. I don’t know how to raise girls. I never knew what to say to them, uh, to, uh, girls. I never knew. Why are you asking me about this? Why are you trying to upset me?

. . . . .

Has she cut you down yet? Cut you off, I should say. I don’t know how this works. I’m just trying to catch up on my sleep. If I had a crystal ball, I’d tell you everything, but I only know what’s on the nightstand and in the drawer. There’s a Bible. I opened it up and I read the first line I saw. Something about chaff, I think. I heard her telling you that I have a strange illness. I’m not saying she’s wrong about that. There is something wrong with me, and it isn’t easily diagnosed. I went to a doctor last year when my hair started falling out, and he was flummoxed. No idea what was going on. Told me to take a nice vacation and try to relax. So I booked a room in a cheap motel, and who should be my maid but her? Maids aren’t allowed to talk to guests though, are they? I knew she would break the rules. I don’t know why I expected any different

. . . . .

You can believe what you want, but I need to get back to work. I can’t stand around gabbing. If I see her in bed this time, I’ll tell her she has to get up. Has to get up and get out. Can’t just lay there until the motel burns down around her. I’m not saying it will burn down, but I’m saying eventually all of us come to fire, you know? Uh, uh, she’ll find her end somehow. We all will. By fire or by some other way, but I bet it’ll be fire. Once you play with fire, it never forgets you. That smell of smoke stays in your hair, under your skin, and all over. Everywhere. You can never get it out.