Playing Out The Hand
brian mcnabb
The heaters predictably pumped a constant temperature of sleep into Paul and Anne’s master bedroom. Coffee brandy seeped into pink pearl colored carpet from a toppled glass. Dripping from the mahogany nightstand to the floor with an unfaltering frequency, it culminated in a brown muddy puddle. Anne didn’t notice her bedroom blemish. Music videos flared across the muted T.V. screen. Hunched forward, near the end of her king sized bed, she dreamedly stroked her foot on the calming feel of the carpet. Slowly, seduced to sleep, she leaned back, absorbed by the mattresses willingness to give. Her three daughters: Amy, Kimmie, and Bethy huddled on the floor, at the edge of the bed, building a future civilization out of wooden blocks, discarded blankets, and five dolls. Sadly, one of Bethy’s dolls had lost its head due to unforeseen circumstances: a lapse in responsibility and a slammed door. She learned early one can never care too much about one’s property.
Night wore on. Below the bed, the children continually constructed cities from blocks; these paradises inevitably crumbled whenever an architect frowned on a design. After a few seconds of screaming, a new agreement between the participants was reached and a new model built. Awoke by the last outburst, Anne feeling drained, rose then teetered back onto the bed, slipping into her beige pillows. She couldn’t discipline herself or her children. With a familiar movement, her arm pinpointed and spun the light dial, dimming the overhead light to twilight.
Anne’s mind buzzed in and out as her body lay heaped on the bed. Sweat soaked her bangs; the excess pooled around her lower neck. Startled by something, her head rose, straining to focus. Her hazel eyes, which battled between blue, green, and grey, wavered towards the night stand. Her vision became a blare of black and white static interrupted by a bright yellow beacon. Her eye lids blinked and then sealed.
After ten seconds, she raised her lids. A vision of a deep black robed figure silhouetted the darkness. He stood beside her and spoke. His tone comforted her, but the meaning of the words wasn’t clear. Anne snapped into an awakened state, yet could not recall the words. Details fell through holes in her memory. “Christ, that Jesus vision again, I must he losing it.”
Years ago at age seventeen, Anne had seen this Jesus vision before, after coming off a two day tear of pink heart (amphetamines) and beer. Already in therapy, Anne that week confessed this vision to her psychiatrist. He explained it as a Christ like hallucination caused by a chemical imbalance; bipolar disorder. He recommended that she be put on medication. To this, she responded, “You stay up for two days out of it, and see if you don’t see things!” In spite of these reoccurring visions, she never took anything. Anne felt she had been nurtured in hell and deduced, “God had not saved her then and wasn’t saving her now.”
Anne lay back down, passing out. Battling her subconscious as she went under, she reluctantly rummaged deeper into her memory. As a little girl going to kindergarten, she feared going off to school. Mommy taught her that when the two black lines pointed to the top of the clock, it was time for school. Just make it between the kitchen table and Mommy, then shut the door behind her. Then, walk alone to the brick building: kindergarten. My mom, my idol, sprawled out in a pile of puke. Broken bottles everyday, everywherehelter skelter. My Dad off at work. At six, my father entered my childhood and the house for about two hours, washed Mom up, and paraded off into society. He often brought presents, little more. On weekends, at least, the baby sitter didn’t fall down and hurt herself. My older brother and sister didn’t have to repolish the house. Anne remembered other family events. The seasonal family reunions. She treated them like a trip to the dentist, with displeasure, often experiencing pre-visit psychosomatic pain. Now-a-days, adding emotional insult to emotional injury, her family expertly quick-edited their past; the more unpleasant sections were scrapped. No sour incidents existed or ever had existed. Anne’s growing up was limited largely to five family vacations, six birthdays, two Thanksgivings, one slumber party, one sweet sixteen party, and three Christmases. Nothing else. Present talk consisted of money, new cars, visiting stars, money, houses, money, kids: future schools and pre-planned employment, and especially money. At these gatherings, there was never a shortage of new outfits, jewelry, or expense. Complete imported bullshit.
“What is the point,” Anne mumbled, coming to. “It amounts to nothing. It is one big facade.” Anne knew that commenting “I don’t want to live any more”, gets old after about the one thousandth confession. Disturbing Anne’s recollections and rationalizations, Bethy cried out like a young blue jay calling for food. Her child’s call ripped away Anne’s outer cocoon of self pity. Children, in life, perhaps, are the great equalizer; after having kids, can you care about yourself as much?
Anne rose and lumbered across the room. She snatched a luke warm baby bottle from her bureau. Returning to Beth, she pacified the child, then hugged her. Tears plummeted down Anne’s face. She noticed Amy and Kim curled up like kittens around the bedposts; protected by their blankets. Further, slipping out of her numbness, Anne realized that she could never leave her children. She put Beth, Kim, and Amy into her bed; each cooed in delight then fell back to sleep. Anne admired her children. Her head turned for a moment and she blankly stared into space. Suddenly, her years of discontent solidified into what they werethe past. Life, I have life. She saw belonging in her children’s faces and understood. Anne capped the bottle of brandy, laid beside her daughters, and waited for her husband’s arrival.
