[Author's Note: I'm taking a break from /r/WritingPrompts. Instead, I want to expand/combine a couple of the existing posts. This will continue from from where the last post (Mo Remembers the Crash) left off.]
After explaining the crash, or most of it, to Lisp, Mo asked him for some time to just pick lettuce. Now that she had the rhythm, Mo was finding a meditative quality to the action. It took up just enough of her brain power to keep her occupied but not enough to keep her from letting her mind drift. To focus on not focusing. What is the sound of one head sliced? If lettuce grows in a forest and there's no one to eat it, does it matter?[1]
Despite the Zen of lettuce picking, Mo was decidedly happy when the low crops supervisor called it a day. Mo pushed both of her fists into the small of her back and stretched backward, hoping that this little bit would keep her from being a ball of pain in the morning. It was unlikely.
She followed the rest of the crew to the hose by the Club House, soaked her head and back, washed her hands and was thankful when someone threw her a towel. She piled into the Club House and sat, waiting for whatever came next, hopefully dinner, and was happy to simply be: be wet, be smelly, be stiff, be hungry. Be a part. Be a daughter. Be (alive?).
Lisp came and sat next to her. Using his mouth and throat and vocal cords, he said, "Thank you for sharing with me today."
"You're welcome. It's been a while since I've thought about much of that."
"I can imagine."
"My turn," Mo said, turning to look at him. "What's with the long, educated speech when connected and the short, choppy stuff out loud?"
"I lishp."
"I got that. So?"
"Shpeech is shloppy for me. Impreshishe."
"And it that the reason for 'Lisp' being your self-identity?"
"Short of. Alsho an old programming language. Elegant. Flowing."
"And you're not talking to me over the connection now because?"
"Your mother is watching." Mo looked where he pointed. Her mother was standing with some of the older members of the commune. However, she had positioned herself in such a way that she could see them both. Not all of the old mother had left the new Mom.
"Ahh. And if the two of us were sitting here not talking with our mouths, she would assume that you were connected to me and throw a fit, right?"
"Yesh."
Then there were some announcements: upcoming events, status on the crops and other projects. New members and guests were asked to stand and introduce themselves. Mo stood, said she was Ms. Carmichael's daughter and did not know how long she would be staying. Then dinner (sheep stew and salad). Then two hours of free time before lights-out. Mo discovered that most of the members had some hobby that they did during this time, most of which were some craft that could help benefit the community. Some knitted. Some quilted. Some carved wood. A small group in the kitchen brewed a batch of beer.
Mo, at loose ends, joined her mother who was making paper. She helped squeeze the wood pulp onto the screens and hang them to dry, then trimmed the edges of the dried pages. It was not the pristine white of laser paper or of the default PDF settings, instead being rough, off white with occasional bits of leaf or bark. Her mother explained that to get the pure, smooth white of commercial bond, they would need to use heavy steel rollers running on a conveyor belt and also a lot bleach. Neither were available, easy to work with or positive for the commune. The imperfections were seen by the members as a sign of their purity of purpose and the resulting pages were more than good enough for the internal record keeping of the place.
Then bed. And sleep. But not dreams.
Mo awoke at some dark hour of the night, her back and thighs a mess of pain. She tried different positions in the bed, but nothing was comfortable. Sitting up helped her back some, so she slowly got dressed and went back to the Club House to sit on the porch. She knew that she would regret the sleep loss later, but there was nothing for it, not with the pain keeping her awake. So she rested and thought. Thought about her time at the Institute.
Now, viewed from a distance, she saw that the place had been nice. Restful, if she had needed rest. Peaceful, if she had needed peace. All those things that people who are troubled are supposed to need. But, at that time, need was not want for Mo. What she had wanted was to be dead. For others to acknowledge that she was dead. Not to continue this farce that life was continuing without her father. That she was not at fault. That if she had done better at the competition (or worse), then they might not have been on the road at that time and then whatever had caused the crash would not have been there to kill her father. That if she had just spoken to him more (said 'I love you' one more time), been a better daughter, been a better person, he might still be alive (to tell her than he loved her).
They had assigned her a room. Small with a desk, a bed and a window that did not open. It looked out on pine and mountain meadow and sometimes a deer. She was responsible for keeping it neat and clean and there was a bed check every night to ensure that she was getting sleep (and to lock her in at first). There was an intercom which she had never used except to go to the bathroom. After a while, she had been allowed some decorations: cat posters, paintings that she had done.
They, Doctor Rex and the nurses, had presented her with opportunities for engagement. Game night where everyone played team games. Pictionairy. Balderdash. Mo was assigned a team, but did not help. Not at the beginning. There were painting and music sessions where Mo could have put her piano lessons to use. But no. She would listen. She would watch. She could not leave. It would have been noticed.
Of course, there had been therapy sessions as well, both group and private. She answered questions with the bare minimum. And only because there were consequences if she did not: more questions, more sessions. It took her a few months, but she had learned how to respond to minimize her time with others. Not all had been avoidable. Not the morning or afternoon group. Not the twice a week privates. But responding reduced it to just those. Not additional ones because they were 'concerned.'
Again, from four years out, Mo could see that the staff, doctors and nurses, had been genuinely concerned. It had not been an act. Mo had been the one acting, putting a living mask on her dead face. Pretending to live so that the living would let her be dead. A mask that had taken her five years to perfect. To wander the wastelands of trail and error as each aspect of the mask was reviewed by the staff. Picked apart. Found out. Then she would back up to the last success and work forward again. This smile at this time worked. This 'emotional breakthrough' kept them all at bay for one more week. But too many and she would get accused of not being genuine. The worst of crimes at the Institute.
She would get suffocated by the mask. Often, masks. Once she had confessed in a private session that she felt that the accident had been her fault. But that had been a breakthrough mask sitting on top of a calculating mask sitting on top of her dead mask sitting on top of her real, pained face (which happened to be the same as her breakthrough mask). If she had listened to how Doctor Rex had dealt with her survivor guilt, instead of using his response to plot her next session-minimization move, then she might have been released sooner[2]. But getting released had not been on her end game. That had been interaction reduction. Short term thinking. Dead thinking.
Mo remembers one session where Doctor Rex tried to call her out on her layers of (self) deception. "Mo," he had said, using her real name instead of her given name in an attempt to break the doctor-patient barrier. "Mo, why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you resisting our help?"
"Am I? Aren't I answering your questions? Two days ago you told me that you thought our session went well. When I told you that I felt responsible for my Dad's death."
"Yes. That was important, but I'm not sure that you were being completely open. I get the feeling that you are giving us, myself and the rest of the staff here, the answers that you think we want to hear and not what's actually going on in your head."
"I'm trying," she had said. Mo remembers bowing her head, letting her hair fall over her face, trying to look fragile and hiding at the same time. "I'm not sure what else I can do."
"Well, answer me this," he had said. "Do you think you're still dead?"
Mo had raised her head, looked him in the eyes. "No. I don't think I'm still dead."
Doctor Rex had pursed his lips and held her gaze for a few seconds. He scribbled something on his notepad. "I know a rehearsed line when I hear one. How often have you practiced that one?"
Mo had not said that she tried it out every night in her window's reflection, trying different expressions and stressing different words, trying to sound believable (to herself). She had said, "Does it matter? I really don't believe I'm dead."
"I'm afraid that I don't find you convincing. I'm going to need something more."
Mo had signed, internally and externally. While she did not know the specifics, she knew that what was coming next was more. More therapy. More sessions. More questions. Less being dead. "What?" she asked.
"I want you to join the hiking sessions. Get out of here and into the world. See some of what these mountains have to offer. I'll expect to talk with you about them next week."
And so Mo had gone hiking. Sun dappled trails. The scent of pine. Startled wildlife. Majestic mountain views. It did not make her feel less dead, but that may have been her own stubbornness. She had been too buried in masks to know.
All of that had happened in her second year. Her masks would keep her in there until she was eighteen and legally allowed to discharge herself. Over three years past that conversation. Stupid masks.
It was with those thoughts that the sun found Mo, sitting on the porch of the Club House, letting her back remind her of how much exercise she was not getting. She groaned herself upright and stumbled into the kitchen where she harassed the breakfast crew into letting her make the coffee. Two mugs later, and she was almost ready to face the low crops again. Almost.
[1] Only to the head of lettuce.
[2] And would have found some peace with her lot in life a bit faster, but let's not get carried away.
After explaining the crash, or most of it, to Lisp, Mo asked him for some time to just pick lettuce. Now that she had the rhythm, Mo was finding a meditative quality to the action. It took up just enough of her brain power to keep her occupied but not enough to keep her from letting her mind drift. To focus on not focusing. What is the sound of one head sliced? If lettuce grows in a forest and there's no one to eat it, does it matter?[1]
Despite the Zen of lettuce picking, Mo was decidedly happy when the low crops supervisor called it a day. Mo pushed both of her fists into the small of her back and stretched backward, hoping that this little bit would keep her from being a ball of pain in the morning. It was unlikely.
She followed the rest of the crew to the hose by the Club House, soaked her head and back, washed her hands and was thankful when someone threw her a towel. She piled into the Club House and sat, waiting for whatever came next, hopefully dinner, and was happy to simply be: be wet, be smelly, be stiff, be hungry. Be a part. Be a daughter. Be (alive?).
Lisp came and sat next to her. Using his mouth and throat and vocal cords, he said, "Thank you for sharing with me today."
"You're welcome. It's been a while since I've thought about much of that."
"I can imagine."
"My turn," Mo said, turning to look at him. "What's with the long, educated speech when connected and the short, choppy stuff out loud?"
"I lishp."
"I got that. So?"
"Shpeech is shloppy for me. Impreshishe."
"And it that the reason for 'Lisp' being your self-identity?"
"Short of. Alsho an old programming language. Elegant. Flowing."
"And you're not talking to me over the connection now because?"
"Your mother is watching." Mo looked where he pointed. Her mother was standing with some of the older members of the commune. However, she had positioned herself in such a way that she could see them both. Not all of the old mother had left the new Mom.
"Ahh. And if the two of us were sitting here not talking with our mouths, she would assume that you were connected to me and throw a fit, right?"
"Yesh."
Then there were some announcements: upcoming events, status on the crops and other projects. New members and guests were asked to stand and introduce themselves. Mo stood, said she was Ms. Carmichael's daughter and did not know how long she would be staying. Then dinner (sheep stew and salad). Then two hours of free time before lights-out. Mo discovered that most of the members had some hobby that they did during this time, most of which were some craft that could help benefit the community. Some knitted. Some quilted. Some carved wood. A small group in the kitchen brewed a batch of beer.
Mo, at loose ends, joined her mother who was making paper. She helped squeeze the wood pulp onto the screens and hang them to dry, then trimmed the edges of the dried pages. It was not the pristine white of laser paper or of the default PDF settings, instead being rough, off white with occasional bits of leaf or bark. Her mother explained that to get the pure, smooth white of commercial bond, they would need to use heavy steel rollers running on a conveyor belt and also a lot bleach. Neither were available, easy to work with or positive for the commune. The imperfections were seen by the members as a sign of their purity of purpose and the resulting pages were more than good enough for the internal record keeping of the place.
Then bed. And sleep. But not dreams.
Mo awoke at some dark hour of the night, her back and thighs a mess of pain. She tried different positions in the bed, but nothing was comfortable. Sitting up helped her back some, so she slowly got dressed and went back to the Club House to sit on the porch. She knew that she would regret the sleep loss later, but there was nothing for it, not with the pain keeping her awake. So she rested and thought. Thought about her time at the Institute.
Now, viewed from a distance, she saw that the place had been nice. Restful, if she had needed rest. Peaceful, if she had needed peace. All those things that people who are troubled are supposed to need. But, at that time, need was not want for Mo. What she had wanted was to be dead. For others to acknowledge that she was dead. Not to continue this farce that life was continuing without her father. That she was not at fault. That if she had done better at the competition (or worse), then they might not have been on the road at that time and then whatever had caused the crash would not have been there to kill her father. That if she had just spoken to him more (said 'I love you' one more time), been a better daughter, been a better person, he might still be alive (to tell her than he loved her).
They had assigned her a room. Small with a desk, a bed and a window that did not open. It looked out on pine and mountain meadow and sometimes a deer. She was responsible for keeping it neat and clean and there was a bed check every night to ensure that she was getting sleep (and to lock her in at first). There was an intercom which she had never used except to go to the bathroom. After a while, she had been allowed some decorations: cat posters, paintings that she had done.
They, Doctor Rex and the nurses, had presented her with opportunities for engagement. Game night where everyone played team games. Pictionairy. Balderdash. Mo was assigned a team, but did not help. Not at the beginning. There were painting and music sessions where Mo could have put her piano lessons to use. But no. She would listen. She would watch. She could not leave. It would have been noticed.
Of course, there had been therapy sessions as well, both group and private. She answered questions with the bare minimum. And only because there were consequences if she did not: more questions, more sessions. It took her a few months, but she had learned how to respond to minimize her time with others. Not all had been avoidable. Not the morning or afternoon group. Not the twice a week privates. But responding reduced it to just those. Not additional ones because they were 'concerned.'
Again, from four years out, Mo could see that the staff, doctors and nurses, had been genuinely concerned. It had not been an act. Mo had been the one acting, putting a living mask on her dead face. Pretending to live so that the living would let her be dead. A mask that had taken her five years to perfect. To wander the wastelands of trail and error as each aspect of the mask was reviewed by the staff. Picked apart. Found out. Then she would back up to the last success and work forward again. This smile at this time worked. This 'emotional breakthrough' kept them all at bay for one more week. But too many and she would get accused of not being genuine. The worst of crimes at the Institute.
She would get suffocated by the mask. Often, masks. Once she had confessed in a private session that she felt that the accident had been her fault. But that had been a breakthrough mask sitting on top of a calculating mask sitting on top of her dead mask sitting on top of her real, pained face (which happened to be the same as her breakthrough mask). If she had listened to how Doctor Rex had dealt with her survivor guilt, instead of using his response to plot her next session-minimization move, then she might have been released sooner[2]. But getting released had not been on her end game. That had been interaction reduction. Short term thinking. Dead thinking.
Mo remembers one session where Doctor Rex tried to call her out on her layers of (self) deception. "Mo," he had said, using her real name instead of her given name in an attempt to break the doctor-patient barrier. "Mo, why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you resisting our help?"
"Am I? Aren't I answering your questions? Two days ago you told me that you thought our session went well. When I told you that I felt responsible for my Dad's death."
"Yes. That was important, but I'm not sure that you were being completely open. I get the feeling that you are giving us, myself and the rest of the staff here, the answers that you think we want to hear and not what's actually going on in your head."
"I'm trying," she had said. Mo remembers bowing her head, letting her hair fall over her face, trying to look fragile and hiding at the same time. "I'm not sure what else I can do."
"Well, answer me this," he had said. "Do you think you're still dead?"
Mo had raised her head, looked him in the eyes. "No. I don't think I'm still dead."
Doctor Rex had pursed his lips and held her gaze for a few seconds. He scribbled something on his notepad. "I know a rehearsed line when I hear one. How often have you practiced that one?"
Mo had not said that she tried it out every night in her window's reflection, trying different expressions and stressing different words, trying to sound believable (to herself). She had said, "Does it matter? I really don't believe I'm dead."
"I'm afraid that I don't find you convincing. I'm going to need something more."
Mo had signed, internally and externally. While she did not know the specifics, she knew that what was coming next was more. More therapy. More sessions. More questions. Less being dead. "What?" she asked.
"I want you to join the hiking sessions. Get out of here and into the world. See some of what these mountains have to offer. I'll expect to talk with you about them next week."
And so Mo had gone hiking. Sun dappled trails. The scent of pine. Startled wildlife. Majestic mountain views. It did not make her feel less dead, but that may have been her own stubbornness. She had been too buried in masks to know.
All of that had happened in her second year. Her masks would keep her in there until she was eighteen and legally allowed to discharge herself. Over three years past that conversation. Stupid masks.
It was with those thoughts that the sun found Mo, sitting on the porch of the Club House, letting her back remind her of how much exercise she was not getting. She groaned herself upright and stumbled into the kitchen where she harassed the breakfast crew into letting her make the coffee. Two mugs later, and she was almost ready to face the low crops again. Almost.
[1] Only to the head of lettuce.
[2] And would have found some peace with her lot in life a bit faster, but let's not get carried away.
