Lost Woman

“As the holidays approach, I'm filled with sadness over the loss of a friendship, the loss of a loved one, and the loss of self. Everyone around me seems to be of good cheer. I remember being one of those people. It wasn't too long ago..."

What am I thinking? What was I saying?

Staring into the mirror I see a purple face turning green. That’s not me. I’m a pretty blond teenager from North Dakota. This hotel room is a stop on my way to Oregon.

Glancing down, I notice the mirror is attached to an oak bureau. I know this bureau. My husband refinished it when the kids were in their teens. . . .

Startled, I look up. An old woman with a badly bruised face is staring at me. Reaching my hand toward her, my knuckles hit the cool glass of the mirror.

A rattle of keys and “Mom?” comes from behind the opening door.

I know this woman. Groping for her name, I search, and come up with - nothing. Smiling, she gives me a gentle hug, smooths my hair, takes my hand in hers.

“How are you today, Mom? It’s Christmas Eve. Let me help you get ready. We’ll pick out something festive to wear. Your bruises are looking better. You’re remembering to use your walker, right?”

There’s nothing for me to say. I don’t know how I am. I don’t even know who I am. What bruises?

The woman, my daughter, lays a bright red sweater and black slacks out on the bed. “C’mon, Mom, we’ll go in the bathroom and I’ll do your hair.” She pulls a walker out from beside the bureau, places it in front of me, then frowns.

“Where’s your name tag? Where’s your directions card?”

I have no idea what she is talking about. If I had those things, I’m sure someone took them away from me. It seems everything is being taken away from me.

Finally, a name comes to me “Marvin—”

“No, Mom, Dad’s been gone 15 years. He didn’t take your name tag or your directions —”

I stamp my foot and set my jaw. I’m not a fool. I know he didn’t. Marvin, my husband, he should be here. This woman is trying to do my thinking for me. I hate her. Who is she, anyway?

With a sigh, the woman, my daughter—she says—picks up a small card from the floor. She ties its plaid ribbons onto the front of the walker. Crossing the room in two quick steps, she takes something off the phone stand.

“Mom? How did you get this off?” She’s holding out a clear plastic rectangle on a ring. ‘Thelma’ is spelled out in white plastic letters.

Thelma? Why would Thelma leave that on my night stand? It doesn’t matter, so I shake my head.


***********************************************************************

It’s dark. Snow falls softly around us. Grasping his arm, I turn to my father. "Should I go to the barn to check the cows?"

Warmly smiling, he squeezes my hand. “No, Mom, you’re home now. Let’s get your gifts inside and get you ready for bed.”

My key won’t fit into the lock. He takes my key ring. “That’s right, Mom, your room number is 217, that’s what this fob says. Let me help you with the key.”

“Merry Christmas Eve, Thelma,” chirps the young gal wearing a pastel uniform.

“Oh . . . is it Christmas?”


An edited version of this tale placed third on the Dabbling Mum website. It is no longer viewable online. All entries began with the same first paragraph. The prize was two books. Toxic Feedback - Helping Writers Survive and Thrive by Joni B. Cole is my favorite. It will be my constant companion!