Nancie's Back Bedroom

When Nancie was at Grandma's, my brothers and I always went up to see her. Her room, filled with pictures of foreign landscapes, dream catchers, Steven King books, and bizarre beaded jewelry hanging off every lamp, doorknob, and drawer handle, made the room slightly more exciting than the rest of the house. MTV was usually on, or a recent movie--and never a game show. Like our own rooms, her's was messy, and her carefree attitude made us feel like she was one of us. We got our fill when she was around.

She liked it when we were around, "That picture there," she laughed, looking at an old wrinkled up fellow on a horse drawn carriage. "That was in Ireland. We rode with him for a while before I asked if I could take his picture."

Ireland wasn't the only place she went to, her and Uncle Ken also went to Holland and ... Every time she came back she had new stories to tell.

Nick and Jay stood around and followed their Aunt Nancie's movements with their big heads, barely balancing them on their little frames.

"How do you read so much?" Jason asked in his three year old accent, noticing a three inch thick book marked with a bookmark in the center.

Nancie told him that it was easy when you like reading. Jason did have a valid point, Nancie's room was filled with books, under the bed, a book shelf near the window, stacks beside her bed. She always had a book, and it wasn't just easy reading, it seemed as if she went through a book every other day.

When she wasn't around Grandma and Pop Pop didn't want anyone going in Nancie's room when she wasn't around--and we agreed, for the most part, because of how spiritually active it was. Nick and Jay snuck in one or two times before they were old enough to care about 'foot of the bed ghosts' or Bloody Mary, and were quickly led out of the room.

"You don't want to mess anything up in there," Grandma would say. "Your Aunt Nancie will get mad."

I never saw my Aunt Nancie get mad, except maybe when she relayed one of her stories of karate chopping some guy in the neck or arguing with patients at work.

It Starts, Continued...

...

By the time we got to Curtis Street it was completely dark. Ken's vehicle wasn't in the driveway. Hands on the glass, I peered into the garage door window and could only see Nancie's car inside.

"Nancie said something about Ken not being home all day," my mom said, making her way to the front walkway. "Who knows, maybe he talked to Nancie at some point and made up his mind he wasn't coming home right away."

The lights in the living room and back bedroom were on, the television was too, reflecting repeated off the top of the casement window frames. We rang the doorbell and quickly got an answer from the dogs.

"Shutup!" a shrill voice echoed from behind the door.

A second later a shadow took up space in the tall decorative window beside the door.

"Oh, what are you guys doing here?" Nancie slurred as she opened the door.

My mom moved passed her and made her way up the steps, "We want to know what's going on."

"Why'd bring Jonathan?" I think she said, looking down at her own outfit. She was wearing lose fitting sweatpants and a stained white tee shirt hanging off one shoulder. "Don't him to see me like this."

"Don't worry about it," I smiled at her. The situation was more awkward than I thought it would be. Her hair was down and stood up in spots like spider webs bending in a light breeze. Her eyelids drooped and opened half way when she attempted to blink, revealing her beady, bloodshot eyes.

Nancie looked up to me with veneration, quickly blinking and nodding her head. Her lips quivered but remained silent. Unsure how to react, I turned and made my way up the steps.

"My god, Nancie," my mom said, with the same shocked tone she would give to show her disappointment when she discovered I ran through mud with my new shoes or broke a fifty dollar wine glass because it had to be used as part of a Lego tower.

Nancie came up the steps without shutting the door, "Jonathan, you're so handsome. Just loo at you." She continued her stare.

What could I say to her? What could I do? Did my mom want me to say something? She was more of an adult than I was, she knew Nancie far longer than I did. I wasn't even that comfortable around my godmother, especially after her midnight phone calls, definitely not now.

For the next twenty minutes my mom and I (mostly my mom) attempted to talk with Nancie--all to no avail. After a short while it was clear we were getting nowhere. Not only could she not comprehend our pleas to find out why she was depressed and threatening suicide, she stopped attempting to talk with us and got easily caught up with imaginary friends (it seemed) and mumbled conversations with herself.

My mom sighed and whispered to me, "Let's go, she's too far gone. She just wanted attention."

She told Nancie goodbye and went down the steps to the front door. I stayed behind and took another look at my godmother, mouth open, lightly moaning. I touched her arms and hugged her, "Maybe you should try and lay down or something, go to sleep."

Nancie looked up at me with the same dumb look of reverence she had moments before. I left her frozen in her pose and walked out the front door, closing it behind me.

It Starts

In the spring of 2007 my Mom got a phone call from Nancie.

"Hello," she answered, opening the back door to the deck, her favorite spot to retreat to when she talked on the phone. I followed her outside and into the abnormally warm evening. The sun, through the trees to the west, floated on the crest of Southington Mountain, casting an orange plasma-like glow through the trees.

"Nancie?" my Mom said, half asking a question. I saw her curious expression turn quizzical. "What's wrong with you?"

A few more questions were asked with no apparent answers. I turned from the setting sun and leaned on the white-washed deck railing, now listening intently to the conversation taking place on the lower half of the deck.

My Mom turned and stared through me, as if letting me know something was up. "Don't talk like that."

I didn't know what to expect, except maybe one of Nancie's 'drunk or drugged up' phone calls, the kind I got in the middle of the night a few years prior.

"Nancie," my Mom sighed heavily. "What's going on?"

My Mom's questioning wasn't getting her anywhere. Long silences were broken up by asking Nancie if she was still on the other line. My Mom sighed again when she lowered the phone from her ear. My eyebrows rose in anticipation.

"Nancie's wacked out," she said, staring down at the phone. "I couldn't understand half the stuff she was trying to stay. She said something about slitting her wrists and how depressed she is."

"Really?" I asked in a monotone voice, concerned and not totally surprised.

"Who knows what kind of shit she's on right now," my Mom said, glancing at her watch. After a short silence she continued. "I don't know what to do."

The sun had now completely set and the blue sky above the horizon was quickly fading into vivid pastels of pink and red. Night time had already fallen on the woods behind the house, only the dark branches and their new foliage stood out against the dimming sky.

Finally she spoke, "If I go over there, would you come with me?"

"It's that bad?" I could hear it in my Mom's voice, it was.

"I don't know," she exhaled. "What if I don't go and something does happen?"

Now I paused. "Good point, I'll go if you really think it's a good idea...if it sounds that bad, we should."

"I think we should, and you coming might make her think twice about what's she's doing."

The thought was logical, especially trying to prevent anything from happening. I could think of nothing worse than the regret of not doing anything. The pros outweighed the cons. We left a few minutes later for the other side of town.

...

Paint

After Pop Pop went to live in the nursing home up the road, and it was clear he would not be coming back, my Mom made the last minute decision to go to an elder attorney. The Summit, the fine nursing home facility--complete with rancid hallways, sad pruned faces, and palpable depression--wanted the money that was due to them for the initial three months he spent there while he tried to recuperate. With little knowledge of the law in cases like these, the decision to seek help proved critically helpful. Grandma had to spend what she could, the attorney advised, bringing down the amount of money she had to her name. This helped with getting Pop Pop on state insurance.

I got a job out of the deal: painting the house. The new color had a hint more purple than the old slate gray that had clung so long to the cedar shingles that were finally starting to peel and chip, especially on the North side of the house, where the summer tomatoes sucked up most of the day's sun. I started the job on the opposite side, the South side, the smallest side. It wasn't half way into the first day that I realized the job would take a lot longer than I originally guessed. The job took even longer than my second estimate, and finally finished three weeks later.

Months later, when Grandma passed away, I got sick at the fact that the new paint job helped in selling the house. I felt like I had contributed in some way, unknowingly betrayed myself at a cost far greater than the price of the house. These emotions were the first thing that came to mind, and, right or wrong, I felt them. 

Knowledge of the Past Continued...

...

My Mom later told me about another incident, one that finally explained to me why my Aunt Norcie and Uncle Ernie were closer with my grandparents than with most of the other people in the family, or at least explain why they always stayed at their house when they came to town.

"It was not too long after they had been married there was a family get-together in one of the legion halls in town," she explained. "I don't know what it was for, maybe a birthday or Forth of July. Anyway, Norcie and Ernie were there, and because of the big deal Aunt Sophie made about the whole thing, nobody said more than a few words to them."

Her tone changed slightly as she continued, signaling the important part of the story, "Everyone was sitting at tables and made no effort to make room for them."

Everyone acted as if the giant elephant in the room wasn't there, my Mom explained. It reminded me of middle school, during quiet time in the cafeteria after we had finished eating. Everyone wanted to talk, strained not too, only able to shoot odd stares and anxious glances at one another under the carful watch of the faculty. Everybody had something to say, but nobody dare speak up.

"Grandma was the only one in the family that went up to them and told them to sit at their table," my Mom nodded her head slightly as she spoke. "She was the only one. Everyone else in the family was weird like that."

The story made me feel good, it's what anybody should do in a situation like that. Besides, who wouldn't want to converse with Norcie? She was the nicest person I ever met, smiled all the time, and never possessed anything resembling a bad mood for as long as I have known her. Ernie too, he was the type of guy people admired. Intelligent, serving in the air force, well-cultured and down to earth. He traveled the world. He had integrity. They weren't--or shouldn't have been--outcasts, they were jewels in the family.

"I'll never forget that story, " she said. "Grandma was the only one who did the right thing. I don't really have a memory of the whole thing, but that's what Grandma told me."

Knowledge of the Past

My Aunt Sophie didn't like the fact that my Aunt Norcie 'ran away' and married Ernest Yeager.

My Mom told me the story. "Aunt Sophie blamed her for leaving the family, especially her father, who was sick most of his life," she talked as if filling me in on some long kept secret. "Plus Uncle Ernie isn't catholic, and that made it one-hundred times worse, Aunt Sophie was always strict like that."

"But didn't they love each other?" I asked.

A short silence preceded her next thought, "Yeah but sometimes...that's how people are."

I didn't understand, and logged it away to 'learn the family at some point in the future' part of my brain, the same part that holds....[elaborate]

My Mom later told me about another incident, one that finally explained to me why my Aunt Norcie and Uncle Ernie were closer with my grandparents than with most of the other people in the family, or at less explain the reason why they always stayed at their house when they came to town.

...

Through the Window

Since the house was sold, visiting my Aunt Steffie never felt the same. I was visiting only half of what I should be. I looked out of my aunt's kitchen window--just as I looked up the hill from Grandma's kitchen--and laid eyes upon the house owned by a stranger.

It looked the same for the most part, save for the leaves neatly blown to the edges of the woods. Orange couches leaned against the house, probably a symptom of not being 'settled in' yet.

The dark brown swing frame still stood in it's spot, in front of the pear tree and above the pink bricks, now cracking into cement dust from years of weathering and use.

I never observed the house long, the thought of not being able to walk down the hill and into the thick zusha grass proved unsettling, and a deep, disturbing feeling crept over my body. It wasn't right, and the emotions that flowed from it didn't bode well with the truth of it all.

I have to turn away quick, or the memories have time to manifest themselves and try to bring me down into the depths of despair once again.