Dry Grass

         Outside the car passed the barren landscapes of winter, and Stephen watched the faded country fields spread out, plots partitioned by rows of skeletal trees. Blades of dead grass stood jagged from the ground, foreboding. The sky was concealed by a thick layer of bulbous clouds, floating like a sea of bloated corpses, reflecting the hue of dead gray mingled with tarnished gold found in the grasses and fields. In the back seat Stephen looked to these relics of spring and summer and thought of his mother. He thought about his mother because he was visiting her today. Looking out the window as he thought he imagined the image of her bright blue eyes framed by locks of summer auburn hair superimposed on the bleak landscape. The ethereal visage of her face comforted him and eased the fear and loneliness he felt.
         Today would be the first day he would see her in almost two weeks. He thought back two weeks, and he remembered very little about the circumstances surrounding her leaving. He remembered that she wasn't happy, and that she wouldn't leave her room. She had stopped coming to kiss him goodnight. She had stopped coming to dinner. And there was yelling. The yelling had frightened him terribly. When Mother began yelling Daddy had told him that his friends were outside and shooed him out. Then one day Daddy had told him he was going to live with Aunt Marie and Uncle Percy for a little while, like he would often do in the summer, for a few days at a time. That had been two weeks ago.
         Neither Uncle Percy nor Aunt Marie would talk to him about his mother, and he was afraid to ask. Only once when he was restless at night and snuck downstairs, he heard the soft sobs of Aunt Marie, and the muffled words of consolation coming from Uncle Percy. but he only understood intermittent phrases:
         "... she isn't the same......................What happened?...............why did this happen to her?...........does Stevey know?..............what now.................I don't know..........I don't know."
         He then snuck back upstairs, still unable to sleep, and more uneasy than before.
         They were changing direction, and Stephen noticed his uncle had turned down a private lane lined with oaks on either side.
         "We're almost there," said Uncle Percy. This comment was a concession of defeated, the last in a series of awkward and failed attempts at conversation with Stephen. Aunt Marie and Uncle Percy had their conversation, punctuating the silence between attempts with her soft mumbles and his apathetic responses. Their mumbling reminded Stephen of the night when he had heard Aunt Marie sobbing. He wondered what they were talking about now. He did not ask, however. There was something foreboding about it, something that he only half-wished to know. They didn't talk to Stephen about anything. Maybe they thought he already knew what was happening, or didn't want to know.
         The large oaks went by, two by two, and Stephen realized they were approaching a large building. The building was generally uniform, the shape of a rectangle with two wings on either side. The rows of windows made the building look like an apartment complex. Stephen looked at the large monolithic structure, wondering what it could be and why mother might be in there. As the car got closer, Stephen realized that the building was made of brick. He also noticed the bars on the upper windows; and an unsettled feeling developed in his abdomen.
         "What is this place?" asked Stephen.
         Silence. Aunt Marie slowly answered, "It's a kind of hospital."
         "Is she sick?" inquired Stephen.
         nother silence, this one somewhat akward. Moments passed before Aunt Marie said, "Your mother is sick, but not like when you get a cold or the flu. It's not in her stomach. It's in her head."
         "Like a tumor or something?"
         "No, not really. It's hard to explain."
         Stephen let the conversation end. He didn't want to talk about it anymore.
         Uncle Percy stopped the car in a parking lot, and they got out, heading inside. The inside, in direct contrast to the streamlined uniformity of the outside, was much like a maze. The maze began with a large room, not quite white, and then continued through various corridors and hallways into rooms, each an end in itself to the maze. Uncle Percy walked forward, leaving Stephen with Aunt Marie. He talked to the lady at the front desk, exchanging words and hand gestures. The lady gestured upward, then towards one of the many corridors. Uncle Percy then thanked the kind lady for her help, and returned to Aunt Marie and Stephen.
         "We need to go to the seventh floor," Uncle Percy said, motioning towards an elevator.
         "Do we have to take the elevator?" asked Stephen.
         "Yes," said Uncle Percy.
         "But can't we walk up the stairs?" Stephen implored.
         "We are going to the seventh floor, and we're taking the elevator." He was tired, and he no longer had the energy to romp up seven flights of stairs after a young boy. "If we go on the elevator now, we can use the stairs on the way back down." He did, however, still have the energy to go down seven flights of stairs.
         "I don't want to go on the elevator," Stephen pouted, thinking about how small it would be, and the lack of windows.
         "We are taking the elevator," Uncle Percy said in a firm, even voice that silenced Stephen's contention. The great sheet of brushed metal separated down the middle, and they entered.

         The elevator was small, suffocating. The fluorescent lights were harsh, isolating, making Stephen feel alone. The slate blue color of the walls of the elevator made Stephen think of a hospital, which made him feel sick. Uncle Percy pushed the round '7' and stood back, waiting. For a brief moment there was nothing, and then the moment of movement Stephen had anticipated occurred, then nothing again. Stephen felt sicker. There was no music, only the rhythmic undulations of of the elevator climbing its cables just beyond the walls, pulsating with the sensations of fear and nausea running through his body. Stephen watched the red digit floor indicator, already wishing it was over.
         1... Stephen's mind drifted to the bits of conversation he overheard that one sleepless night. What is this place? Stephen thought. Why is Mother here? Stephen didn't like this place. He didn't like the not quite white room, and he didn't like the elevator. He didn't think he would like the rest of it, either.
         2... The elevator continued upward. Stephen fidgeted a little, but his movements only made him realize how small the elevator was. He thought about his mother again, and wondered what she would be like. Something in him didn't want to know.
         3... What were Aunt Marie and Uncler Percy saying about mother all of those nights? What's wrong with her? What if she has really changed? (What if she doesn't want me anymore?)
         4... Only 4? Why is it taking so long? A small tingling feeling ran up his back and caressed his neck. Why couldn't we take the stairs? I don't like this elevator. It is too small. (What if the cables are weak?)
         5... Stephen could feel the walls of the elevator, every cubic inch of the elevator pressing on him. (What if it fell?) I want it to be over. The world began to become fuzzy, and Stephen's head became weak. He closed his eyes.
         6... Stephen grasped the hand of his aunt, squeezing tightly, pulling himself closer to her.
         "We're almost there," she said. But he didn't think so. It wouldn't be in a moment, or an hour, or a day. It would be forever. Stephen almost collapsed from nausea and fear and claustrophobia.
         7. There was a small ring of a bell as the doors separated and a rush of cool air enters the stuffy box.
         They stepped out and into a large room that looked similar to the one they had come from, and Stephen, relieved to be in a larger room, softened his grip on his aunts hand. The fear did not leave, only changed. Now he would be seeing his mother, but now didn't want to.
         "This way," said Uncle Percy, leading them into one of the numerous branches of the labyrinth. The bits of conversation during Stephen's odyssey to the downstairs of his Aunt and Uncle's house resaid themselves in his head: "....she isn't the same...what now.................I don't know....... I don't know...Idon't know." Idon'tknowIdon'tknow.
         I won't go, he thought, but his body, still walking, was oblivious to the workings of his mind.
         Further down the hall they walked, and near the end of the hallway Stephen heard yelling, half-muffled by a door door separating them and him. He hated the yelling. The nausea came back, and the sickly tingling feeling touching his neck. When Uncle stopped at that door, Stephen wanted to run. He didn't care about his mother. That woman in there wasn't his mother. He didn't know who she was, but she wasn't his mother.
         "Stay out here with Stevey while I go inside," said Uncle Percy. "Don't worry, I'll be back in a minute." As the door opened Stephen heard his mother's voice, edged in bitterness and in a tone that made the tight knot of fear and anxiety in his stomach worse. The words "Don't worry" had a null effect on Stephen's fears.
         That isn't her, he thought. It isn't her. It isn't her. He repeated again and again in his mind this maxim, hoping to make it true through redundancy. His hand grew tight around Aunt Marie's hand and he pulled close to her. She rubbed his head with a mother's touch, although she had no children of her own. He closed his eyes again, and heard the voice in the room say,
         "... don't listen to him, Gary. He can deceive, yes he can. Watch it. He won't change. He hasn't and he won't. He tells lies, he does. He'll lie to you too. He has said it before. He lied to me, he'll lie to you. He lies. Don't listen to him. He lies..."
         Who lies? thought Stephen. Who is Gary? Why did she say those things? He gripped Aunt Marie's hand harder. She pulled him closer and rubbed his head the way his mother used to, saying nothing. The yelling stopped and the door opened. Uncle Percy came out, and made a quick gesture, motioning them to go in.
         The room was filled with soft, ambient light. He saw his uncle, a man about his Father's age who must be Gary, and Daddy, who he hadn't known was in there. His eyes traveled the room, skipping from one person to the next. And then he saw Mother. She didn't look like his mother at all. He looked at her eyes, deeply sunk into her skull with dark half circles underlining them. They were blue, but with a shade of gray underneath them. They looked empty and numb, showing no emotion. Her face was ivory like porcelain, and her hair, once billowy and soft, was now wiry and faded, flat against her head. And she was tired. He could see that. Even as she motioned for him to sit next to her, he saw that the motion was labored. He obeyed her beckoning and sat next to her on the bed.
         "Hello, my little towhead." She embraced him. "I missed you."
         "Hello," he said; then, after a moment, "I missed you too."
         "Would you like a drink?"
         "I guess." He looked at the floor tiles, gray speckled white. They reminded him of the color of her face. He didn't want to look at her face. "Apple juice. You want apple juice? We have apple juice." "Okay." He couldn't get the dark sunken eyes out of his mind.
         "Would somebody get some apple juice?" she asked. Uncle Percy affirmed that he would. He left the room, and he was followed by Aunt Marie, Daddy, and the man who must be Gary.
         Stephen surveyed his environment. The walls were a litght green with a small touch of yellow. There were three chairs-one easy chair and two wooden. The bars he had seen on the outsied were now much closer, covering the window. And there was a mirro above a sink in the middle of the wall opposite the windows. The mirror was odd; it wasn't made of glass. "Sheet metal," said Mother, noticing Stephen's perplexion with the mirror. "They make the mirrors out of sheet metal so we can't break them. The windows are made of plexiglass so we can't break them." This blatant clarification of the nature of the mirror and windows perturbed Stephen, and there was the nagging little notion in his mind of what people would do with shards of broken glass. He didn't want to think about it, but his mind would not wander. Broken glass is sharp, he thought. Stop thinking about it. Sharp things cut. Cut what? Stop. Don't think about it. Stop thinking about it.
         "What have you done in school lately, Stevey?" she asked in an even voice.
         "We went on a field trip on Tuesday," said Stephen.
         "A field trip? Where did you go?" she said indifferently.
         "An art musuem. We saw a lot of paintings."
         "I bet that was fun." Then quiet. Stephen stared at the floor, and she stared at nothing in particular. Then, as if a revelation had come upon her, she began to speak motherly.
         "You're turning into a handsome young man," said mother, pulling Stephen close, "such a handsome young man. Do you know that? You're my little man, aren't you?" She caressed his head as she spoke, running her gaunt fingers through his unkempt children's hair. She had always called him her "little man" when he had hurt himself playing or when he was afraid of the shadows in his bedroom or the noises at night, and it always made him feel better. He felt older, bolder. He mustered the gumption to ask, "When are you coming home?"
         "I don't know Stevey. Soon, I hope. I have to take care of some things here." With that she drifted off, staring once again at nothing at all. At that moment she seemed to Stephen a doll. Her face was made of porcelain, her body held together with thread, and her eyes nothing more than paint. Stephen just sat, not knowing what to do, when Uncle Percy and Aunt Marie returned, and they brought apple juice and a straw. Daddy was right behind them. Apparently Gary stayed in the hall.
         Mother soon became talkative again, and she talked to Uncle Percy and Aunt Marie about how Stephen was doing and said that he was such a handsome young man. Both Uncle Percy and Aunt Marie agreed. Then she turned to Stephen, kneeled down and looked at him. For the first time that day he saw his mother.
         "You're a good boy, Stephen," she said. "Remember that. Don't forget it. You're a good boy." She paused for a moment, then said blankly, "You have to go soon. Jonathon is going take you home."
         Jonathon was his father. Stephen didn't like how Mother had called Daddy Jonathon. Parents are not supposed to do that, he thought. They are supposed to call each other Mother and Daddy, or Momma and Poppa. Or cinammon and sugar. Not Jonathon.
         "Time to go, Stevey," said his father. This was the first time he had spoken since Stephen had arrived.
         "Goodbye, Gary. Thanks for coming. Goodbye, Jean." Mother did not return the farewell. Daddy led Stephen into the hall, where he saw Aunt Marie and Uncle Percy one more time. They hugged and said goodbye. Father thanked Uncle Percy and Aunt Marie for driving Stephen then he led Stephen down the hall back they way they had came, towards the great white room.
         "Can we take the stairs, Daddy?"
         "Sure. Let's take the stairs."

         In the stairway Stephen followed his father down the seven flights of stairs. Stephen was quiet and tired, content that he did not have to travel in the elevator again. He thought about his visit. He remembered the pale porcelain quality of her face, and how she had looked like a doll with her numb eyes and placid face. She had been tired. Every gesture, every action had been forced. He remembered the room, with the bars on the plexiglass window that could not be broken, and the mirror of sheet metal. The perturbed feeling returned. Cut what? The rest came back to him in waves: the uncertainty and the lack knowledge of the trip to the building, the twisting corridors jutting from the not quite white room, the elevator, the harsh neon lamps, his mother yelling. Her face could not be driven from his mind, and he didn't want to think about the metal mirror. Confused and tired, he began to cry. His father, also tired, picked him up and consoled him as best he could. They emerged from the stairwell into the not quite white room with the various branches leading to identical individual rooms. Stephen's father carried him into the parking lot, set him in the passenger seat, and began driving home.

         Traveling home, Stephen stared out of the car window, once again viewing the passing countryside. The sky was getting dark, and the sun was setting behind them. He watched the same fields of the country stretch out, partitioned by rows of skeletal trees. All of the fields, the clouds, the dead jagged grass, all is how he had remembered it before, but now more foreboding than before, with long shadows concealing. Even though he could not make out the details and the most of it was hidden, it was worse than seeing what he could see reminded him of what he couldn't; because he knew that all of the dead, dry grass and the wiry trees were still there, bearing witness that brighter months had taken place.
         He looked ahead, and saw mile after mile of the same dread, the same dead gray mingled with tarnished gold. There was no foreseeable end, only the anticipation of night, when nothing can be seen, and the memories are forgotten, if only for a little while.
         Stephen turned his head from the window and leaned on it, and slowly fell asleep to the repetitive thumping of the car against the road.