Mary’s Bio:

Mary B. Blalock is a sixty-three year old great-grandmother who enjoys gardening, yard work, and writing. With a sixth grade education, she has taught herself to type and has spent many hours pursuing her passion for storytelling. To date, she has two self-published novellas and is seeking representation for a third manuscript. She was raised in the mountains of Blackwater, Virginia, and now resides in Cowpens, South Carolina.

Time Standing Still

By Mary Blalock

 

On a bedside table, a cup of caffeine cools, the third one of the morning, and next to the stand, the sound of a magazine rustles from a straight-backed chair.

The pillows propped behind me offer little support, my head leaning to the edge of the bed, and I wonder how long it will take for anyone to notice. Or care. I force my eyes to the clock, the time displaying nine-thirty-two, and I count each movement of the hand as it makes a sweeping circle to inch one laborious minute at a time. The hour hand struggles with the minute hand, and the minute battles with the seconds, and in spite of their exertion to move forward, it is only one minute later than it was sixty counts ago. I am witnessing a literal lesson in time standing still.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. I start my count again.

A nurse pops her head through the doorway. “Are you comfortable, Mr. Markus? Can I get you anything?”

Hell no, and hell yeah, respectively. Do I look comfortable? What I want is oblivion. Oblivion and a six pack.

But, I didn’t say anything aloud. They wouldn’t listen, anyway. They never did. I stared at the ceiling to ignore her.

“He’s resting, thank you,” came a young man’s voice from the straight-backed chair.

Hmm. Now you look up from your paper. Resting? What would I know about resting? I fall asleep, they wake me up. I finally get to that fuzzy place inside my head, and they decide it’s time to change the sheets. They poke, probe and pry ... oh, alright ... I won’t bring that up. I’m resting. Yeah, resting.

One two, three-four, five-six. Fifty-four counts later, it is nine-thirty-four. I grin to myself. In two hours and twenty-six minutes ... uh, twenty-five, twenty-four ... Betsy will bring in a dinner tray. I won’t eat it, but I do like the smell of it. I like the smell of Betsy, too.

The young man rose to stand over me. Today, it is Jacob, my youngest son. His eyes scared, he looks past me, not wanting to see what he may one day become. It’s hereditary, they say. First, the onset of dementia, then Alzheimer, and now, a semi-vegetable. That’s what the doctors told my children, Jacob, Nancy and Jeff. Funny, I don’t feel like a vegetable. Not even a semi one. Not inside. A wet noodle, maybe.

I’ve lost track of how long it's been since I've seen all my children together. They don’t keep calendars in here. Only clocks.

Oh, no, not you again!

Ms. Barton (not Clara, but that other one ... the one with the mustache she tries to hide, her hands rough and uncaring ... ) throws back the covers, a thermometer in her hand.

She finishes, and looks to Jacob. “Normal,” she says.

I want to scream. What’s normal about having objects shoved up your rear? Just once, I wished I could blow her to kingdom come when she did that. Now, we’re talking normal.

I doze. I awaken. I look at the clock. Noontime.

Betsy comes in with a tray. She adjusts the table, leaning forward to raise the bed to a sitting position. I sneak a peak down her shirt.

“Feel like eating today, Sweetheart?”

I didn’t answer. She didn’t expect me to.

“Try to see if he will eat,” she tells Jacob.

He rose from his chair, reluctantly marking the page in the book he’s reading. He sighs.

Betsy leaves the room.

Jacob fills the spoon with pudding. “Try a bite,” he offers.

I try, but the spoon is too far away. Just a little closer, I strain to tell him.

“It’s ok, Dad,” he says, pushing the tray away. “You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.”

He slumps in the straight-backed chair and returns to his reading.

I look at the clock. Five minutes past twelve. Six. Seven.

Betsy takes the tray away. “You didn’t want to eat, Mr. Markus?”

I feel tears stinging my eyes. I’m starving! Right now, I would eat a cat! A raw cat!

But, I don’t say that to her. It’s not her fault.

Just get through the day, I tell myself. Tomorrow will bring another morning, another sunrise, another chance at being me.

But, I already know that tomorrow will be the same as today ... and the day before ... and the day after.

I look at the clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

***