Flashage to India

Desi stood in the foyer to the nursing home. She stared at the plush leather chairs and settee. She glanced at the small coffee and tea service on a corner table. She read the large print message board relaying the date, the weather, the next holiday and the names and ages of residents who had birthdays this week. She returned her attention to the sign-in sheet that requested DATE and TIME, VISITOR'S and RESIDENT"S NAME. But there was no pen. Not even a pencil. How did they expect you to fill this out without a pen? She began to rummage in the green canvas bag she used as a pocketbook.

"Nervous?" Daniel Percy stood before her, holding a pen. Not a cheap Bic, but a metal cased job like you'd get for graduation or your own special birthday.

"A little," she replied.

"Thank you for coming. Would you like to sit? I need to speak with you before you see my father," he blurted out in a rush, before she even had time to complete the form.

Desi handed him the pen. "Sure."

"Desdemona…" he started.

"Call me Desi." She dressed in black, with a crescent moon belt about her middle. Straight black hair hung down about her shoulders, and matching polish colored her nails.

"Desi. My father, Regis, has Alzheimer's. That's him today, not the father I recall. Or even," he paused, "the man he was. My father was a quartermaster at an Army Air Corps base in India. You know, World War II?"

I saw the Ken Burns' documentary, she thought sarcastically. "Go on."

"When I talk to him, he thinks I'm still in college. He doesn't recognize his grandchildren. But when he speaks of his time in India – it's so vivid, so real. I can't grasp what he feels, but I want him to have it again. To relive it. To go to India again!"

"Have you seen a psychotherapist or a hypnotist?"

"I wanted to try something a little unorthodox. Jared tells me you're into Wicca."

I'll kill him, she thinks. He tells his boss! Did he take out an ad in the free weekly paper? "It's a religion. Not superpowers."

"If you could try something, anything."

"Maybe a guided meditation."

A tall and skinny black man came into the foyer. A stethoscope perched upon his neck. He glanced about the room nervously, then waved someone closer. Two EMTs rolled by a body with its head carefully covered. How many residents here were just waiting out the Grim Reaper? pondered Desi.

They had to be buzzed into Daniel's father's ward. A nurse opened the door for them. Regis was in one of the family lounges. He had his head bowed, but he was speaking to someone. Desi could see no one else in the room. A Yankees cap covered the man's head.

"They sent us supplies by pack mule. One of them kicked me. The doctors wired my shoulder. The wire's still there. One of those docs works here in the kitchen. Kicked by a gov't mule I was." Regis laughed.

Desi smiled.

"You know I got a metal, too. They gave one to everyone at the base because of the missions the pilots flew. They gave everyone one 'cause the brass didn't want the mechanics to get jealous and sabotage the planes. Don't you know!"

"Dad. Father, we're here to see you."

"Oh, oh. Nice to see you again." He held out his hand to shake. "I'll say I'm tolerable today. And how is this nice lady doing this lovely day?"

Desi took his offered palm. "Very well," she said.

Desi began her meditation, asking Regis to breathe with her, to visualize calming things. She didn't think he payed her much heed. She pushed forward, hoping something would work. And then she was no longer in the rest home. She felt naked, vulnerable. She searched about her surroundings.

Desi saw her reflection in the cracked mirror of the armoire. She had coffee and cream skin, like a latte at work. Dark eyes, unlike her own, stared back at her. Grey bed linens were wrapped about her bosom. A large key-chain with a number printed on it sat on the wardrobe's top. And she was smoking, though she didn't. Unfiltered, or was that before filtering, Camels. The smoke drifted visibly to the ceiling and the bare light bulb that burned there. Desi shivered: the hotel room was a bedbug's playground.

Regis stood by the window. He was younger, younger than his son, Daniel. He also had a cigarette between his lips. Twin streams of white smoke blew from his nostrils like a train on the Punjab rails.

"Oh Christ! It's the Military Police."

Desi's image moved at quick speed, like a DVD on fast forward. She gathered up her clothes. "You must pay me now."

Regis came to her, grabbed her shoulders. "No, you can't leave. They can't see you. They can't know you're, you're, I'm —" He pushed her down. "Please." Desi struggled, trying to push him away. His hands were about her. Here, there, everywhere. The pillow was upon her face. She tasted the stale cloth in her mouth. She struggled for air. She struggled for air; she struggled for life.

Suddenly and confusingly, Desi was at the window. The M.P.s walked down the street below her. White helmets graced their heads and they carried billy clubs as well as their Government issue Colt .45s. She glanced back to see Regis holding the pillow on her face. She saw herself struggle. Then her arms fail. Her body fall limp. She pounded silently on the glass, attempting to grab the soldiers' attention. One M.P. in a white helmet filled the window, filled her vision, filled – for just an instant, it was Daniel's face.

"Are you alright?" asked Daniel.

Desi looked up to see a dusky woman in a sari standing behind Regis. She felt he would be haunted by India for some time.

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