Baby's Breath

by Patricia Gomes

 

"You have no
Manners, no breeding.
What do you
Know of how
We think, how we live?
You are not
From the South …
Are you, dear?"

She takes my hand in both of hers
before I even offer it.
"So very lovely to meet you!" she says girlishly.
She is wearing a tea dress: cherry-pink, swishy, and unbelted;
they do not allow her belts.
She stares boldly — grey eyes so light
they are bereft
of color, glaciers
in this climate.
I think global warning; I think natural disaster.
"You are not from the South, are you dear?"
Turning my hand, glances
at my palm,
runs a clipped-nailed finger along its lifeline.
"You have had many gentlemen friends,"
I try to snatch it back, but she holds fast.
"Be careful you're not labeled a whore."
She says whore with two syllables,
closing my fingers into a fist.
Ho-wah;
the word floats between us like a broken cobweb.
"Sit by me." She pats the floral cushion
on the rattan love seat.
I choose the rocker opposite.
Her lips curl in a snake oil smile.
It is nice here. Not a prison but a home.
A rest home — and all its residents
are damned. Still, it is nice here.
Munchausen By Proxy. The doctors warn
that one practices the condition.
One does not "suffer from" it,
one does not "have" it;
one perpetrates
it. She perpetrates
lies, deceptions, duplicity.
She is manipulative,
convincing, cunning,
and has perfectly logical reasons
for her seemingly selfish crimes.
Seven. She killed seven
of her own babies.
I have conversed with many a monster
within these moss-banked walls,
but she is my very own Boogeyman.
She is the Thing
in the closet,
under the bed,
behind the bathroom door.
She is the Thing
that brings the extra pillow
to smother the smallest breaths.
The rose of her perfume chokes me;
her teeth are pointy — only a bit, but enough
to frighten me.
This is one interview I cannot finish,
one monster I must leave
to someone with more stamina, a stronger heart,
a stouter constitution.
I stand abruptly — catch her by surprise.
Those glacial eyes darken;
they are tornado funnels and I will not
allow myself to get sucked in.
"Tell me, sister girl, do you have children?"
Summoning the attendant, I make the Sign of the Cross,
behind me, she laughs
and laughs
and laughs.

"You have no
Manners, no breeding.
What do you
Know of how
We think, how we live?
You are not
From the South …
Are you, dear?"

© 2006 copyright Patricia Gomes