Ready to Rumble
It is the first day of the new year, 2024, and my mother’s most frequent hallucinations are Donald Trump and the Wolfman. She has many other visions—unsupervised children thread her bent legs, tangled-up sheets become flags she can’t put down, and when my father and I hoist her onto the wheelchair, the entire couch comes with her—but somehow former president Donald Trump is the one who materializes from the mist to lend a hand. One evening, he gave her a new pair of sneakers; another time, he walked with her to Dollar Tree. Before the brain cancer diagnosis and the fungal infection that stole her sight and began her sudden decline, my mother was a purple-haired potty-mouthed liberal who loved going toe-to-toe with every good ole’ boy who stopped by the front desk of the physical therapy clinic and mistook her Boomer wrinkles for solidarity, not caring that her 5’1’’ 115-pound frame was no match for even a stiff wind. And yet, despite Trump representing everything she hates, he is now a beacon of quiet hospitality. The third time she mentions something he’s done for her in front of Grace, the part-time aide from South Africa, my father and I twist ourselves in knots to convey how out-of-character this celebrity appearance is, that we aren’t one of those white middle-class suburban families, engaging in a rather performative discussion of Trump’s attempt to dismantle our democracy. Grace uses the same patient voice of acquiescence with us as she does for my mother. And still, the references to Trump continue. Perhaps my mother’s subconscious is tired of the battle and is calling for a truce, or maybe his charismatic Queens persona has finally won her over. But I suspect even a face she loves to hate has become a source of comfort amid the dizzying array of surreal imagery behind her sightless eyes, a bit of mental detritus that will bear her weight.
And then, as the sun lips the edge of the afternoon, lurking in the corner is the Wolfman. Unlike Trump, the Wolfman does not provide aid. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. He just watches her. Sometimes she can convince herself he isn’t real. Most of the time, she doesn’t like to talk about him. My father and I do what we can to orient her to the soft, carpeted living room with her favorite recliner and the Great British Baking Competition murmuring in the background, but eventually, visiting hours are over and her mind is a locked door that neither of us can open. What do I hope for in those obliterating hours? The kindness of an easy night? A refreshing dip in the waters of Lethe? Or maybe that orange-faced weirdo locked in an epic battle of good and evil, tiny hands gripping oversized claws, flabby arms concealing surprising muscles, a three-period wrestling match that ends with the Wolfman pinned, permanently disabled, a victory beyond recall, beyond recount, so yuuuge that no one could deny it.
Melissa Reddish—”I am the author of three full-length works, most recently The Lives We’ve Yet to Live (Tailwinds Press, 2022). I have received residencies at Soaring Gardens and Rensing Center.”