LJ Idol Week 25: Shibusa
Oct. 16th, 2014 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jexiaThe sunshine splashed scarlet against Jean's eyelids as she gently rocked her chair. Her gnarled hands, with swollen knuckles and papery skin, lay limply in her lap. She ignored the staff bustling to and fro, answering the impatient demands of distant bells; she ignored the crochet blanket slipping off her lap; she ignored the wafting scent of cabbage that suggested it was nearly time for what passed as dinner here at The Golden Oaks.
She was too busy for any of that.
Deep in reverie, Jean remembered. Her memories took the form of a house, her childhood house. Jean wandered through it, her gaze sliding over the cluttered knick-knacks and minutiae of 92 years of life. She mentally picked up a snowglobe and shook it; she smiled as tiny flakes settled over the squat brick building of the Moore School of Electrical Engineering. She'd never admitted it to anyone, but the war years had been the happiest of her life. It had always felt wrong to be happy in war, but the challenges she'd faced, the problems she'd solved, and the complexities she'd mastered while working on ENIAC had fed something deep in her soul.
And the friends she'd made, oh, the friends. A whole group of women who loved maths and spent hours working on solutions to problems they didn't even have words for. It was Evelyn who had taught her the "memory house" technique, a way to visualise and memorise complex information. Evelyn had taught Jean other things, too, that made her blush even now. Jean put the snow-globe back on the mantelpiece, smiling to herself.
"Computers", they'd been called. Just like the grey plastic boxes her grandson was so obsessed with. She gripped the handle of the drawer labelled "James" and slid it open, keen to replay her first cuddle, his first steps, his high-school graduation.
The drawer was empty.
Jean frowned. It had been happening more and more lately; things weren't where she expected, or just looked strange. Too often, it was only an empty space that told her something was wrong.
It was those gaps that had sent her here, to The Golden Oaks. Things had gone missing from what she called "her running memory", a joking reference to the fact that she stored short-term tasks as pictures stuck on her virtual refrigerator. Three burned dinners in a row, three fire engine call-outs, and she'd ended up here, tucked up with blankets and cabbage-smell. Her grandson had brought her here... what was his name? It started with a "J", she was sure of it. She looked for the drawer, but it was gone. A blurry discolouration on the wall was the only sign that something of import had once been there.
Things seemed to disappear so fast, these days. It's why she was spending so much time here, in her memory house. Reinforcing, remembering... defending.
Jean reached for a silvery silk scarf, draped next to the snowglobe. She started to bring it to her face, to inhale the scent on it, Evelyn's scent, but a hand on her shoulder and a repeated "Mrs Gabouldi? Jean? Mrs Gabouldi?" brought her back to reality.
One of the staff was crouching next to her, watching her face with professional concern. "Are you alright, Mrs Gabouldi?" She reached for the slipping blanket and pulled it back onto Jean's knee, without waiting for an answer.
"I'm fine," Jean answered, crossly. "Call me Jean. Gabouldi was my husband's name, and I didn't like him much."
The staff member laughed, not quite concealing a patronising tone. "All right then, Jean. I'll remember that. It's dinner soon, won't that be nice?" She stood up. "Oh, I'm Sue. I'm here most nights." Sue turned and bustled away, summoned by a bell, but Jean still caught the muttered "Not that you'll remember."
Defiantly, Jean returned to her memory house, with an image of Sue gripped in her fist. She looked around. So cluttered, so full, so many memories... yet gaps glared at her, painful and raw, like the hole where a tooth should be.
There was a space on the wall, faintly discoloured. Something tugged at her memory- a snowy-blonde head of hair? A boy at the beach? No, it was gone. She filled the gap with the picture of Sue, taking pleasure in using a ridiculously large nail to fix it in place, before scrawling "Sue" across it in red ink.
She'd always used red as a warning, for people and things to be careful of. Funny how none of the red things seemed to be missing. They glowered at her, garish and unharmonious, dominating the room. Reds were like that.
She reached for the nearest one. A shoe, in a shade of burgundy that almost looked attractive until you realised how odd it looked on a penny loafer. She'd stuck it here in her memory house, as a reminder not to get distracted by theorems while cooking. Vincent had beaten her with it, holding her down like a three-year-old, punctuating each of his words with a painful thwap. "All - I - want - is - meatloaf," he'd panted, before making her eat the blackened lump that remained.
Jean contemplated the shoe. A thought occurred; if things were disappearing... could she make them disappear? She threw the shoe at the wall. It bounced off and lay stubbornly on the floor. Hmm.
She concentrated for a moment, with a knack made easy by years of practice. A rubbish bin appeared, a replica of the foot-pedal one her daughter, Barbara, had bought her for Christmas one year, after carefully saving her pennies. How Vincent had laughed. She stepped on the pedal, amused as always by the way the lid flopped upwards, and dropped the shoe in. She let the lid close, then opened it again. The shoe was gone.
She felt better already.
What else could she get rid of? She found the strawberry jam jar she'd carefully stored pennies and dimes in, saving for a trip back to Pennsylvania, where Evelyn and several of the other girls had settled. It had disappeared after Vincent came in ranting one night; she'd started to ask him about it, but quickly changed her mind. Into the bin it went.
Jean picked up a carmine-covered book, "What Men Don't Like About Women". Vincent had thrown it at her one night. The corner had nicked her forehead, and the sight of blood, as always, had made him apologetic and charming again. Barbara had been conceived that week. Jean laughed bitterly at the reminder that she'd thought things would get better.
As she dropped the book in the bin, a playing card slipped out from between the pages and tumbled to the floor. The two-faced king of diamonds stared up at her, both heads grimacing and grotesque. She'd put it there the day after Vincent's funeral, when a pale, sweating lawyer had revealed that Vincent had left her nothing but gambling debts.
There were more, many more, mostly to do with Vincent and the things that made him angry. She'd spent a lifetime cataloging them. Jean scooped up armfuls and dumped them into the bin. He was gone, and she didn't need them any more.
She reached for the next red that caught her eye, and found herself holding a faded rose. It wasn't red with warning, though perhaps it should have been; it was the rose that Vincent had brought her, the first time she went out with him. She'd been happy then, flattered by his attentions and his smooth words.
The rose went in the bin. The only red remaining was the fresh "Sue" scrawled over the picture of the rude nurse. Jean snorted and snatched it off the wall. Sue didn't deserve a space here. Into the bin she went. A patch on the wall wavered and firmed, shaping a drawer with a label on it. "James," that was his name, of course it was!
The room was much emptier now, spacious, clean, tranquil. Jean was drawn to the silvery silk scarf on the mantelpiece, lying next to the snowglobe. She caught it up, held it to her face, breathed in its sweet scent. Evelyn, oh, Evelyn.
A hand brushed down her arm. Jean turned, and smiled.
====
"Mrs Gabouldi? Mrs Gabouldi? Jean?" Sue shook her shoulder. No response. She reached to check Jean's pulse, but without much urgency. She'd seen that smile before.
She was too busy for any of that.
Deep in reverie, Jean remembered. Her memories took the form of a house, her childhood house. Jean wandered through it, her gaze sliding over the cluttered knick-knacks and minutiae of 92 years of life. She mentally picked up a snowglobe and shook it; she smiled as tiny flakes settled over the squat brick building of the Moore School of Electrical Engineering. She'd never admitted it to anyone, but the war years had been the happiest of her life. It had always felt wrong to be happy in war, but the challenges she'd faced, the problems she'd solved, and the complexities she'd mastered while working on ENIAC had fed something deep in her soul.
And the friends she'd made, oh, the friends. A whole group of women who loved maths and spent hours working on solutions to problems they didn't even have words for. It was Evelyn who had taught her the "memory house" technique, a way to visualise and memorise complex information. Evelyn had taught Jean other things, too, that made her blush even now. Jean put the snow-globe back on the mantelpiece, smiling to herself.
"Computers", they'd been called. Just like the grey plastic boxes her grandson was so obsessed with. She gripped the handle of the drawer labelled "James" and slid it open, keen to replay her first cuddle, his first steps, his high-school graduation.
The drawer was empty.
Jean frowned. It had been happening more and more lately; things weren't where she expected, or just looked strange. Too often, it was only an empty space that told her something was wrong.
It was those gaps that had sent her here, to The Golden Oaks. Things had gone missing from what she called "her running memory", a joking reference to the fact that she stored short-term tasks as pictures stuck on her virtual refrigerator. Three burned dinners in a row, three fire engine call-outs, and she'd ended up here, tucked up with blankets and cabbage-smell. Her grandson had brought her here... what was his name? It started with a "J", she was sure of it. She looked for the drawer, but it was gone. A blurry discolouration on the wall was the only sign that something of import had once been there.
Things seemed to disappear so fast, these days. It's why she was spending so much time here, in her memory house. Reinforcing, remembering... defending.
Jean reached for a silvery silk scarf, draped next to the snowglobe. She started to bring it to her face, to inhale the scent on it, Evelyn's scent, but a hand on her shoulder and a repeated "Mrs Gabouldi? Jean? Mrs Gabouldi?" brought her back to reality.
One of the staff was crouching next to her, watching her face with professional concern. "Are you alright, Mrs Gabouldi?" She reached for the slipping blanket and pulled it back onto Jean's knee, without waiting for an answer.
"I'm fine," Jean answered, crossly. "Call me Jean. Gabouldi was my husband's name, and I didn't like him much."
The staff member laughed, not quite concealing a patronising tone. "All right then, Jean. I'll remember that. It's dinner soon, won't that be nice?" She stood up. "Oh, I'm Sue. I'm here most nights." Sue turned and bustled away, summoned by a bell, but Jean still caught the muttered "Not that you'll remember."
Defiantly, Jean returned to her memory house, with an image of Sue gripped in her fist. She looked around. So cluttered, so full, so many memories... yet gaps glared at her, painful and raw, like the hole where a tooth should be.
There was a space on the wall, faintly discoloured. Something tugged at her memory- a snowy-blonde head of hair? A boy at the beach? No, it was gone. She filled the gap with the picture of Sue, taking pleasure in using a ridiculously large nail to fix it in place, before scrawling "Sue" across it in red ink.
She'd always used red as a warning, for people and things to be careful of. Funny how none of the red things seemed to be missing. They glowered at her, garish and unharmonious, dominating the room. Reds were like that.
She reached for the nearest one. A shoe, in a shade of burgundy that almost looked attractive until you realised how odd it looked on a penny loafer. She'd stuck it here in her memory house, as a reminder not to get distracted by theorems while cooking. Vincent had beaten her with it, holding her down like a three-year-old, punctuating each of his words with a painful thwap. "All - I - want - is - meatloaf," he'd panted, before making her eat the blackened lump that remained.
Jean contemplated the shoe. A thought occurred; if things were disappearing... could she make them disappear? She threw the shoe at the wall. It bounced off and lay stubbornly on the floor. Hmm.
She concentrated for a moment, with a knack made easy by years of practice. A rubbish bin appeared, a replica of the foot-pedal one her daughter, Barbara, had bought her for Christmas one year, after carefully saving her pennies. How Vincent had laughed. She stepped on the pedal, amused as always by the way the lid flopped upwards, and dropped the shoe in. She let the lid close, then opened it again. The shoe was gone.
She felt better already.
What else could she get rid of? She found the strawberry jam jar she'd carefully stored pennies and dimes in, saving for a trip back to Pennsylvania, where Evelyn and several of the other girls had settled. It had disappeared after Vincent came in ranting one night; she'd started to ask him about it, but quickly changed her mind. Into the bin it went.
Jean picked up a carmine-covered book, "What Men Don't Like About Women". Vincent had thrown it at her one night. The corner had nicked her forehead, and the sight of blood, as always, had made him apologetic and charming again. Barbara had been conceived that week. Jean laughed bitterly at the reminder that she'd thought things would get better.
As she dropped the book in the bin, a playing card slipped out from between the pages and tumbled to the floor. The two-faced king of diamonds stared up at her, both heads grimacing and grotesque. She'd put it there the day after Vincent's funeral, when a pale, sweating lawyer had revealed that Vincent had left her nothing but gambling debts.
There were more, many more, mostly to do with Vincent and the things that made him angry. She'd spent a lifetime cataloging them. Jean scooped up armfuls and dumped them into the bin. He was gone, and she didn't need them any more.
She reached for the next red that caught her eye, and found herself holding a faded rose. It wasn't red with warning, though perhaps it should have been; it was the rose that Vincent had brought her, the first time she went out with him. She'd been happy then, flattered by his attentions and his smooth words.
The rose went in the bin. The only red remaining was the fresh "Sue" scrawled over the picture of the rude nurse. Jean snorted and snatched it off the wall. Sue didn't deserve a space here. Into the bin she went. A patch on the wall wavered and firmed, shaping a drawer with a label on it. "James," that was his name, of course it was!
The room was much emptier now, spacious, clean, tranquil. Jean was drawn to the silvery silk scarf on the mantelpiece, lying next to the snowglobe. She caught it up, held it to her face, breathed in its sweet scent. Evelyn, oh, Evelyn.
A hand brushed down her arm. Jean turned, and smiled.
====
"Mrs Gabouldi? Mrs Gabouldi? Jean?" Sue shook her shoulder. No response. She reached to check Jean's pulse, but without much urgency. She'd seen that smile before.
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no subject
Date: 2014-10-22 09:01 am (UTC)