Concentration

Concentration
By J. Glenn Eugster
May 29, 2013

My Aunt Lucy was abucted, following a fall and emergency ride, by two seemingly friendly relatives over one-year ago in broad daylight.  She was taken by car, wheel chair, and jet to a remote outpost in the southeastern US. Her abductors waited until she couldn’t stand her temporary rehabilitation residence in Glen Cove, NY any longer before they whisked her away from where she lived all her life.  Small talk about cloud formations and cocktails helped soothe her apprehensions on the flight south.

Since her arrival she has been kept in a loving-type of elderly lockdown.  Over the course of her abduction she has been moved about, first from room to room, and then from location to location.  Along with the various drugs that medical staff seem intent on giving her, this movement of body and mind keeps her constantly wondering where she was, is and will be.  As she continues to adjust to her incarceration one thing she clearly understand is that this isn’t NY.

Talking with Aunt Lucy is often entertaining and reflective of the changes she is going through.  On a good day “it’s okay”.  On a bad day “it’s like a concentration camp”.  As I talk to her I try to take my cue from her, not deciding what we should or could talk about, or whether what we are talking about is real or imaginary.  Some days the conversations  are wonderful and other days they a bizarre.

For example, my aunt will occasionally tell me that “these are not my pants”, “there are Gypsies living upstairs at  night in my house”,  and “they were doing construction across the hall last night”.  I checked on the Gypsies half-wondering if the reports on her pants and construction might be true.   One night while working inside her home I heard a radio playing upstairs but decided I wouldn’t  check upstairs or mention it to her.  Frankly it was nice to have someone in the house again.

The inmates at the place she stays in now are reportedly mistreated during meal-time, according to my aunt.  “The oatmeal is watery”, “there’s no butter for the grits”, “they give us different color plates” and “they only have corn flakes”.  Her mealtime stories break my heart and I regularly mail her pats-of-butter and bags of Lucky Charms not knowing whether or not her mail is screened for contraband, melted or crushed.

My aunt regularly gives me lists of items that she wants smuggled into her compound.  “I don’t have any white blouses, black slacks, sunglasses, sun visors, sandals, nightgowns, or multi-colored vests”, she says repeatedly to make sure I understand.  “Where is the watch with the big numbers I gave you to hold for me?”  “Where is my jewelry?” “Where is the notebook that I use to record my bill payments?”

Her lists are wonderful as they describe items, their appearance, the rooms they are in, and helpful hints.  They are exact and serve as a treasure hunt taking me through closets, the basement, upstairs, behind couches, into cupboards, under tables, and beneath layers of family archaeology.  “It’s behind the couch”.  It’s in a plastic bag under the kitchen table”. “Just go in the basement and it’s on the right”.    Most places are accessible except for the basement which makes the movie “Silence of the Lambs” seem like a fairy-tale.

More often than not I find what she wants.  Sometimes there are fourteen blouses and twenty-three watches to choose from but after telephone consultation I usually narrow the search and find something close to what she was looking for.  Not that this work isn’t without its hazards.  The clothes are dusty and there is black mold in the basement.  Unhealthy conditions don’t concern my aunt and once she berates me for being a wuss and throws down the challenge of returning to NY to look for things herself I put my mask and doo-rag on and search-on.

She often asks me to care for her yard as well.  “Just snip the English Ivy so you can mow the lawn”  not realizing that the lawn went to old field the shortly after she arrived in the South. Gutters have fallen down, adding more water to the toxic concoction in the basement.  Trees and shrubs are overgrown and the grape arbor came down during Hurricane Sandy.  More than the vitality of the plant life all of the yard speaks to how diligent she was maintaining her property.  

Despite the efforts of other abductors to get her to wear the clothes she has, or those they have purchased for her, she is steadfast on shopping herself.  “The clothes they buy me don’t fit”.  She called the Orvis Store on her block in NY and arranged for her own credit card, ordering two more white blouses to go with the fourteen I sent her.  Her complaint about her clothes has some merit.  “I need new clothes, my body has changed”.  No doubt the pats of butter never made it to her grits.

Aunt Lucy struggles in her confinement to be entertained.  Cable TV and unlimited phone calls only go so far with her.  “There is no NY news on television here.  I don’t know these channels.  We are in a different time zone. The people here are all either crazy, sleeping or boring”.  She continues to believe that access to her savings would cure this problem.  “Why can’t I have money?” she repeatedly chants.  Fortunately, of late, she met a man who she likes.  She enjoys their time together but can’t understand why he has so many clothes.  She thinks he might have money and recently asked me to Google his finances.  I told her that her nose has grown since she moved south and not to snoop.

Surprisingly she doesn’t seem to realize, yet, that all she needs to do is call a cab and she can leave anytime she wants to.  The security in the compound is erratic and she still has a fairly quick step to her.  Incarceration may be weighing to heavy on her these days.  On occasion she will ask me, “Is this it?”.  I don’t believe it is and I tell her that it is still her life and she decides how she wants to live it.  I ask her if she wants to leave and she says, “Oh no, it would be too expensive to go somewhere else.  This is okay”.  Obviously the Gypsy life isn’t for everyone.