text: Chapter 1 2001: I pushed open the heavy door to her room, mostly white, with an ugly pink wall. A TV surveilled us from its perch. She was under a single white sheet, mouth draped open, in a half dream, her bare feet out in the air. She had a mitten covering one hand. It was tied to the bed rail. The silence was thick. "Hey Mom." I touched her arm. "Oh..." She paused and looked toward me, sort of a blank stare. Her gaze passed over my shoulder. "Johnny Pie Pie.” Her words were just above a whisper. "I've been working.” She coughed and shifted in bed. Her mouth sort of formed circles as if she were smoking. Over and over, she looked off into the distance and smoked imaginary cigarettes. "Now everyone comes to visit," she sighed, "They’re afraid I’ll die", she said with a satisfying grin. "Yeah, they feel guilty.... Ha!" "Nangana." she looked away. "John Travolta was here." knowing I wouldn't believe her. "What? John Travolta?" I paused. "Nah... I think it was just someone who looks like John Travolta." "Oh no, no... No, it was John Travolta". The nurses were talking to him." "Wow, so what was he doing here?" "How should I know?" "Was he a patient, or visiting someone?” "Well he didn't come to see me". We both laughed, and then were silent for while, observing each other, glancing at the TV. She kept on smoking those imaginary cigarettes and looking off into space. Then she looked directly at me, and paused. She sighed, and asked, "How did I get here?" "Well mom... ", I paused, "you had a stroke." She was quiet, looking up, out toward the small window. She nodded a little. I knew it wasn't the answer she wanted. She wanted more but I couldn't give it. All I could come up with was, "you had a stroke". What a stupid answer. Surely she knew she had a stroke, but what was she asking? Then I remembered that she asked me that question before, "How did I get here?" The first time she asked that question was a long time ago. It brought back a very specific memory of something I had long forgotten. 1963: When I was a kid it was easy to skip school. I didn't even have to pretend to be sick. Every once in a while staying home was more important than going to school. I guess I had more sick days than most kids but that didn’t bother me. I knew I had to go to school but in my own little brain I knew that home was more important than school. All I had to do was stay in bed, and when Mom came to check on me, it was easy! “I don’t feel like going to school today”. “What wrong Johnny?” she touched my shoulder. “Okay, stay with me today then.” It was as easy as that. No pretending, no faking a stomach ache like my friends had to do. All I had to say was “I don’t feel like it” and that was it - a day off. A whole day away from all the little nastiness that happens in primary school. Mom knew I didn’t need to be sick to spend a day with her, she wanted company. So I waited in bed until the house was quiet, until everyone had gone, and then when I heard her alone in the kitchen I jumped up and headed straight out the front door. It was already hot outside. The street was empty and dry, and silent. The air was hot, and moved in from Mr. Duke's pasture, bringing with it the fragrances of cut grass and wild flowers. Our house was at the edge of town, in one of those new neighborhoods out on highway 90. It was small but respectful, white with black shutters and a small front porch. Located on a small lot, it was a 60's ranch with just a few young trees to protect it from the harsh Texas sun. We had all types of plant life: Red Buds and Azaleas, a fig tree and Honey Suckle, roses along the side fence. On summer evenings a warm breeze would come up and dance with the trees for a while before moving on into town. I used to go out under those trees and play in the shade. While the sun angrily beat down on the asphalt road I could sit in the shade and let my mind wander. I built roads and bridges for my little cars and trucks. I would bring bricks from the side of the house and pile them up in the dirt. I had a whole little city built with my bricks and dirt: a court house, a gas station, a Weingarten’s. Sometimes I would leave out the cars and play with little plastic Cowboys and Indians, and my city would become an Indian village. I always felt protected under those trees. They were like soldiers at attention, sentinels with outstretched arms, and they listened to my dreams. That summer "Eleanor Rigby" was on the radio. I was dark and skinny, with straw colored hair and cutoff blue jeans. My bicycle was made for popping wheelies and jumping curbs. I had a new pair of white sneakers from The Globe that glistened when I walked. "Johnny" Mom called, "Come in for a while. The sun will leave you with an awful headache... Johnny?" She never quite lost her accent, even after so many years. "Come on now; find your shoes so we can go to the market." I could hear her, but her words sounded distant and dreamlike. I was in another world, another time and place, concentrating on my Indian village. In my mind I cautiously approached the village, walking through the forest, along a stone lined pathway, getting lost in my imagination but then my illusion evaporated. "Johnny!" She was becoming irritated. Her impatient tone brought me out of my haze and back our little house in Texas. "All right Mom, I'm coming". I stood up, dusted off the dirt, and tilted my head to try to listen to one more moment of my imaginative vision. I wasn't ready to let it go, and tried to get back into it, but once interrupted I could not regain the concentration to return. Aggravated that my trance was broken, my inner world momentarily shattered, I slowly walked toward the house, looking back at my bricks and dirt. "I heard you the first time", I complained, "and anyway, I don't know where my shoes are. I left them right there next to the table, but you're always moving things around and I can never find anything! If you'd just leave things alone for...." "Yes, and if I don't pick up the mess, who will, Mr. Rockefeller? Now let's go to the market, I need a few things for lunch." Actually, what she needed was a pack of cigarettes, but that was all right. I used to enjoy walking with her to the store. She called it "the market", but actually it was just a convenience store, a 7-Eleven I think. By the time I'd found my shoes, she was already outside and headed toward that little store. I slipped on the shoes, grabbed an empty coke bottle, ran to catch up to her, and tried to scare her with a quick jab to her ribs, but she didn't crack a smile. I bounced around in front of her, but she strode directly on, head up, khaki shorts, white canvas shoes, no socks; proper British walk­ing posture. "Mom, were there Indians living here a long time ago?" "Well how should I know, I'm not that old, am I?" "But there must have been. Miss Williams said this area was full of um before the pioneers came." "Well, miss Williams must have a keen memory". She smiled. As we approached the store, I noticed the hundreds of bottle caps encrusted in the black asphalt parking. It was a random collection of colors and textures, like stars, or perhaps like people, each one hanging on to its own little piece of the earth. A bell hanging from to the frame above the door rang as we entered the small store. "Good morning mam." the man from behind the counter said. She just nodded and went to the back of the store for a loaf of bread and a can of tuna fish. I dropped my empty bottle in a wire basket and opened the "Cold Sodas" chest. All the bottles floating in dark ice water were so enticing. I fished out an orange soda, then returned it and retrieved a 7-Up. I decided on an RC cola. For the same price of regular coke I could get four extra ounces. Mom placed her tuna and bread on the counter and then at the last minute, as if she had not really thought of it, picked up a bag of pig skins and placed them next to the bread. I popped off the cap of my RC, walked over, and placed it on the counter next to the other items. "And a pack of Benson & Hedges." she said before he had a chance to ask. The man totaled up the items and Mom paid from a small coin purse she had been holding. He placed the items in a paper sack, wrapped a thin paper napkin around the RC and handed it to me. We said our “thank you’s” and “have a nice day’s”, and stepped out into the morning heat. The old door squeaked and the bell jingled once again before it slammed shut. We were off across the barren suburbia. We arrived home went into the kitchen. I sat and watched as Mom prepared our lunch: tuna fish sandwiches. While she was opening the can I noticed her nails, long with cracked red paint. One nail was broken off. Her cigarette smoldered in the full ash tray. I loved tuna fish. Sometimes we had deviled ham but that day was tuna. “Hey Mom, did you have any pets when you were a little kid?" “Oh yes, we had lots of animals. We had a German Sheppard - a beautiful animal named rusty. Then there was Don Pedo. Un perro ordinario. That was your uncle Claudio’s dog. Claudio taught Don Pedo to pee on the nuns habit when they came to visit.” “Ha ha ha.” I laughed and slapped the table as if I had never heard the story. “Oh yes, he would sneak up behind them and lift his little leg against their long robes.... And Tio Claudio would laugh like it was the greatest thing on earth." I continued to laugh. I loved her stories of Paraguay. It was another world - a land of mango trees and siestas, gauchos and Indians, Jaguars and caiman. It was also a world of revolution and political upheaval. "Once my father brought home an ostrich from the Chaco. That animal was very loyal and I think he loved me but he couldn't stand Tia Tinkle. Tinkle had a little cut on her ankle and every time she went outside the ostrich would head straight for the wound". Mom shook her head a little to pry loose the distant memory, "When I was a girl I lived in a big house with lots of servants and tutors and such. I had a woman to wash my hair. She took a long deep drag from her smoke. Oh yes, we had stables in the back for the horses and an orchard out beyond the stables. Then she paused, looked out the window and took a deep drag from her cigarette. She looked straight into my eyes and asked, "Johnny pie pie". She sighed, "How did I get here?" She turned away and looked out the window. I said, "I thought you came on the niña, the pinta, and the Santa Maria". Ha! After a brief moment of silence, she smiled and said, " y si pues". and continued to look out the window. "It's very quiet during the day time, isn't it. What a strange way to live".